Page 47 of The Mistletoe Kisser
“I’m sure you can,” she said, patting his arm.
Patronizing, smug, pretty pain in his ass.
“Dr. Sammy! Ryan!”
They both looked up as Charisma trotted down the driveway toward them. “You forgot your biscotti!”
“I forgot? Silly me. Thanks,” Sammy said with forced brightness as she accepted the folded bakery box. Something in those guileless blue eyes told Ryan she had definitely not forgotten.
“I packed an extra box for you, Ryan. Consider it an apology for the spitting and the kicking and a thank you for the recommendations on llama insurance,” she said, whipping a two-foot-long section of dark hair over her shoulder. He wondered if she noticed that it wrapped around the mailbox post behind her.
“It’s not necessary. Happens all the time,” he said.
Sammy snorted, then covered it with a cough.
“I insist!” Charisma said, shoving the second flimsy cardboard closer to his nostrils. To prevent her from inserting the biscotti directly into his nasal cavity, he accepted the box.
“Thank you,” he said.
“You are so welcome. And Sammy, don’t forget. I’d like a wreath with pine cones, jingle bells, and fake snow.”
“You got it,” Sammy said, sounding even more strained.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to my baking. Ta-ta!”
“Toodle-oo,” Ryan said.
Sammy elbowed him.
“Ow. What?” He rubbed his ribs
“Toodle-oo? Seriously?”
“I was speaking her language.”
With an eye roll, she swung her legs into the vehicle.
“Where to next?” he asked, sliding the seat back a good eight inches and opening his box of biscotti.
She consulted her watch. “We should be able to catch Rainbow at Villa Harvest restaurant. And I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” she warned as he plucked a chocolate-covered chunk out of the box.
“Why?” he asked.
“Charisma is gluten-free and vegan. And a terrible baker.”
“I’m starving. How bad could it be?” he scoffed.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
He bit into the baked good and had immediate regrets. “Dear God. Is that concrete? Did she bake concrete?” It was gritty and crunchy. And the brown stuff was most definitelynotchocolate. “Why does the chocolate taste so bad?”
“She makes it with black beans, prunes, and cocoa powder,” Sammy said, grinning.
“This is worse than the hangover. I might actually vomit in your car,” he said.
She dove for the glove box and pulled out the last of the napkins. “Here.”
He spit out the masticated disaster, then scraped his tongue clean. “No one is that bad at baking. That kind of horror has to be on purpose. I think I taste rubber cement and construction paper. It’s an act of aggression.”
