Page 35 of Mr. Mistletoe
I swallow. “I guess this is goodbye.”
“For now.”
His hand rises, slow enough to give me every chance to step back. But I don’t. I lean in. His fingers brush my jaw, a soft, calloused whisper against my skin.
My bag slips from my shoulder, thudding against the stone path. I lock my arms around his neck and rise onto my tiptoes. His arm curves around my waist, pulling me close until I feel the solid heat of him.
And then he kisses me.
Slow. Deep. Memorizing everything about this moment, everything about my mouth.
Our tongues trace against each other in a seduction that could last all night. He tastes sweet and spicy, a combination that makes my head swim and my knees weak. His lips are soft, purposeful, kissing me as if he never wants to stop.
I break the kiss, shivering. It’s cold out, and my coat is more for fashion than function. Only Clark’s body keeps me warm.
“I don’t have to go for a few hours,” I say. “I would invite you in, but Gran has taken over my room.”
He whispers in my ear. “Come to my place. Stay with me for a while.”
I make a split-second decision. One I hope I won’t regret.
“Yes.”
Clark kisses me again, making me temporarily forget the cold.
“A few hours might not be enough,” he says, grabbing my suitcase. “But I’ll take what I can get.”
And so will I.
He carries my suitcase to my car, kisses me one more time, then leads the way to his house. No time for second-guessing—just following his tail lights through a flurry of snow.
Evergreens line the road, twinkling faintly under the snow. The drive opens to a small, cozy cottage nestled among the trees—the kind of place you’d see on a Christmas card.
Clark parks beside the porch and hops out, rushing to open my door.
Inside, he lights a fire. The crackle of wood and the howl of wind beating against the window is the only sound as I unzip my boots. I shuffle in socks toward the fire, warmth seeping into my frozen fingers.
“This is…” I trail off, glancing around. “…kind of perfect.”
A fragrant pine wreath hangs over the fireplace, a plaid throw drapes the couch, and framed family photos line every flat surface.
He shrugs out of his flannel and tosses it over a chair, revealing a soft gray T-shirt clinging to his torso. “It’s home.”
“It suits you.”
He moves closer, eyes molten brown, soft around the edges. “You suit it too.”
I feel it deep in my bones. I fit here. The city was my life, but Starlight Bay… feels like coming home.
“I have to tell you something,” I say, brushing snowflakes from his hair.
He catches my hand, gaze serious. “There’s probably something I should tell you too.”
I lead him to the huge leather sofa. “You first.”
He runs a hand through his hair, frustration in the lines of his face. “I used to be a player.”
Confusion knits my brow. “In the NHL. I know.”
