Page 9 of Mr. Mistletoe
“I don’t usually do things like this,” she admits, her voice softer now, edged with nerves.
“Me neither.” The grin totally takes over my mouth. “Must’ve been the mistletoe.”
Her lips twitch. “I think it was you.”
The air between us feels charged, dangerous. I step closer. She meets me halfway.
When her hands slide around my neck, I’m lost. The urge to claim, to keep, blazes through me. I shouldn’t feel this much for someone I don’t even know—but God, I do.
Her fingers tangle in my hair, yanking me down, and our mouths collide. She tastes like butter and salt, and the world shrinks like a snow globe around just us.
Until someone taps my shoulder.
I jerk back, ready to tear into Kyle—but it’s Ingrid.
“Everything alright?” I ask, instantly on edge as I take in the look on her face.
She closes her eyes, grimacing. “I don’t feel so good.”
Panic slices through me. “Is it the baby?”
She burps—loud, unapologetic. “I think it might be the nachos.”
Jess’s face flickers with amusement, then softens. “You should get her home.”
Ingrid looks like she might not make it the hour-long drive home without blowing chunks in my truck. Luckily, I have a strong stomach and an unlimited monthly membership at the local car wash.
“Sorry,” Ingrid says, her gaze darting between me and the gorgeous stranger I’ve just kissed twice. “I didn’t mean to ruin your night.”
“It’s okay.” The woman smiles, her eyes lingering on me. “My Uber is here anyway.”
”Wait.” I rush in front of her and open the glass door to exit the arena. “Can I get your number?”
She hesitates. “Maybe we should just leave this as a great holiday experience.”
“I’d like another experience with you,” I say.
Her brow creases as she considers my suggestion, and I can’t help wondering who hurt her.
“Why don’t you give me your number?” she asks.
My stomach sinks. That’s the oldest trick in the book. Still, I rattle it off, raising my voice over the sudden loud cheering.From the sound of the fans going wild, I guess the Stingers are finally in the lead.
“Did you get that?” I yell over the screaming fans.
She nods, and then she’s gone—vanishing into the crowd like smoke.
I know in my gut, she’s never going to call.
Chapter Five
Jess
The studio smellslike peppermint and pine, a weirdly comforting mix. Gran is mixing up a new batch of holiday scented candles, and the smell gives me visions of sugar plums dancing in my head.
I’m hunched over my drafting table, a charcoal pencil smudging the side of my hand as I shade the curve of a design. New project, new distraction. If I keep my head down, maybe I can outrun the memory of a certain kiss under the arena lights. It’s been two days, and I haven’t called Mr. Mistletoe.
I’d rather have a good memory of him than press my luck. Things have a way of never working out for me. And this guy—with his sweetness, his height, and those magic lips—has to be too good to be true. I’m better off remembering him as a perfect stranger who kissed me senseless. Twice.
