Page 101 of The Crush of Christmas Past
Questionable for the heart. Phenomenal for the body.
My dress and undergarments are folded on the counter. He’s offering me an out. No questions. No strings. It’s an opportunity I should take.
For some inexplicable reason, I do the opposite.
I clean myself up, brush my teeth with a dab of spearmint toothpaste on my fingertip, and adjust the hem of my new shirt.
Then I strut back out, pretending I’m not brainlessandbare-assed.
At least my knee-highs are still on.
Thirty
Theo
It’saftermidnight.Christmasmagic should’ve fizzled out by now.
Except when Isla reappears—still sporting my name front and center—the spell reignites.
If I had my way, she’d never take that damn shirt off.
She’d live in it. Sleep in it. Come in it.
Every fucking night.
But judging by her Olympic-worthy sprint to the bathroom, she’s still trapped in her own head. Which means I need to keep my mouth shut and my hands off.
“Onlythirty apps, Evie!” Graham bellows from the other side of the door. “Hardly counts as gluttony. The things were microscopic. A damn tease for the taste buds!”
Mom’s response is muffled. Something abouttastingandteasingthat has them both cracking up.
No—giggling.
There’s athumpagainst the wall, followed by a hushed squeal.
I scrub a hand over my face.
Really?!
Isla freezes, launching into full deer-in-the-headlights mode.
“They’re home!” she hisses. “What if they come in here?”
“Mom and I are a few years past the tucking-in phase,” I deadpan. “Plus, sounds like they’re too busy defiling our hallowed halls like a couple of horny teenagers.”
Her panic is adorable, and I waver between the urge to tease her and the need to soothe her.
The tremble in her chin convinces me to play nice.
“Don’t worry. They’re not coming this way. Graham is about to pass out from an hors d’oeuvres high and Mom will be ears-deep in herMerry Lane Murdersaudiobook in no time. Christmasandserial killers on the same cul-de-sac? Riveting stuff.”
“What about your horde of siblings? What if they—”
“Willow is back at her place,” I say. “She texted a cute shot of Jovie reading your book at bedtime. Felix and Rowan sleep through fire alarms, national disaster drills, and anything else that doesn’t directly involve their own asses.”
“And Asher?”
“You asking about the guy who held you hostage under fake mistletoe or the one planning to join his ex on her honeymoon?” I arch a brow. “Oh, right. Same idiot. He’s too busy fucking up his own life to worry about us…” Stepping closer, I drop my voice. “…fucking.”
