Page 79 of Merry Me
“Don’t play innocent, Elf Boy,” I muttered. “I see the glint in your eyes. This was not here last night.”
He laughed softly, the sound curling deliciously down my spine.
“You absolutely did this,” I said, crossing my arms. “This is like the third ambush in forty-eight hours. First the karaoke duet. Then the weirdly intimate hot cocoa moment. And now this.”
“First of all, I hit all my notes in that duet, so you’re welcome. Second, I did not plant this. I merely…noticed it. And appreciated its timing.”
I snorted. “You’re laying traps.”
“I’m improvising opportunities,” he said, inching a little closer. Not touching me. Just…hovering. Which somehow felt worse. Or better. Depending on whether you asked my brain or my hormones.
“What’s the endgame here?” I asked, chin lifting like I was preparing for battle. “Is this the part where I spontaneously fling myself into your arms?”
He shrugged with zero shame. “I wouldn’t say no to that.”
“You are ridiculous.”
“I’ve been called worse. Usually by you.”
I attempted to sidestep him and the cursed mistletoe. He mirrored me like we were doing a weird, sexy two-step.
“Easton,” I warned.
“Nat, if I’d known mistletoe worked this well at making you flustered, I’d have bought the entire stock at the craft store.”
“I’m not flustered,” I lied, casually clutching the front of my shirt like it was the only thing anchoring me to this dimension.
He raised one perfect eyebrow. “Your cheeks are literally the color of Rudolph’s nose right now.”
“It’s hot in here.”
“It's snowing outside.”
“Holiday stress.”
His mouth tilted in a grin that had no business being legal. “Or maybe it’s because you’re thinking about kissing me.”
“Actually,” I said primly, crossing my arms and hoping my armpits weren’t visibly sweating, “I was thinking about the fastest way to remove mistletoe without being noticed. Preferably with fire.”
His smirk widened. “Sorry, sweetheart. You’re stuck with tradition.”
“Tradition says kiss—not annoy—me into submission.”
He tilted his head, and his eyes darkened just enough to make my breath catch. “Submission, huh?” he echoed, voice rougher now. “Interesting word choice.”
Heat instantly swamped my entire existence. Face. Chest. Knees. Libido. All on high alert. Easton was too good at this—this teasing, magnetic I’m-too-hot-for-common-decency thing.
“Not what I meant,” I muttered, wishing a snow drift would conveniently appear inside the building and bury me.
Easton stepped closer. Not touching me—but the space between us had officially reached dangerously intimate territory. His voice dipped, low and coaxing. “Just one kiss,” he said. “For tradition’s sake.”
I glanced nervously down the hallway. Voices and laughter drifted from the kitchen and living room, the B&B filled with family, friends, and a whole host of people who didn’t need front-row seats to my emotional regression.
“One kiss?” I repeated skeptically, my voice laced with suspicion and not nearly enough resolve.
“Promise,” he said solemnly, placing a hand over his heart like we were signing a legal contract. “Scout’s honor.”
“You were never a Scout. That’s not even the Scout sign.”
