Page 6 of Mr. Mistletoe
Not that I’m even sure Iwanthis attention anymore.
Dropping back into my seat, I bump elbows with the stranger.
“Sorry,” I murmur.
“My bad,” he says at the same time, and our laughter tangles together like it belongs there.
“Tall people problems,” I joke.
His grin is quick and unguarded, and for the first time all night, I feel seen.
When he rises to cheer with his sister, I let myself look. Really look. Broad shoulders that strain against his shirt. Dark auburn hair that catches the light. A beard that frames his mouth in a way I didn’t realize beards could do.
“I’m too big for these tiny seats,” he complains in a deep, rumbling voice that matches his stature.
“They’re worse than airplane seats,” I say, shifting to find a more comfortable position.
He drops his gaze to my legs, then slowly raises it back to my face. His intense stare strikes a match along my skin, leaving a fiery trail in its wake.
The crowd cheers, but neither one of us glances at the court. I can’t look away from his expressive eyes. They tilt up at the corners, making it look like he’s got a secret. A good one.
I could fall into that gaze, and for a moment, I do. I forget I’m at a game with a date and imagine what it would be like to be with him instead.
A blush spreads through my entire body as I think about the inevitable goodnight kiss. Would his beard be soft or scratchy? And what would it feel like scraping against my cheek, my neck, my collar bone?
Good Lord! I need to stop reading Gran’s romance novels she leaves lying around in our shared studio. This guy isn’t a fictional hero. He’s a stranger.
My heart races in my chest. I want to know his name and a lot more. But I’m here with Kyle, and just talking to this man seems like a betrayal.
The crowd erupts with a loud cheer, giving me a much-needed distraction from my thoughts.
I try to watch the game, but I can’t be more uninterested. My mind is on the man next to me. When he stands to cheer and high-five his sister, I can’t help but admire the fit of his well-worn jeans.
Kyle returns with a beer. He shoves it into my hand and drops into his seat, phone already in play.
“Anything good happen while I was gone?” he asks absently.
I glance at the stranger, the spark still crackling between us, then force a shake of my head. “Not much.”
It feels like the biggest lie of my life.
Kyle nods absently and scrolls.
“Were they out of Diet Coke?” I ask.
No answer.
“Kyle?”
Thunderous applause swells, swallowing my voice. I glance up—only to find the entire row staring at me. A woman in front of me grins and points. “You’re on the kiss cam, honey!”
My stomach free-falls.
There I am, twenty feet tall above the court, with a glittery sprig of mistletoe hanging over my head.
The crowd chants, “Kiss! Kiss!”
I glance at Kyle. He doesn’t even notice. Still scrolling. Mortification burns my cheeks, and I duck my head to avoid the camera.
