Page 91 of The Mistletoe Kisser
He paused and gave her a long, searching look. “You’re telling me that you thinkDie Hardis a Christmas movie?”
“Yeah. Why? Don’t you like McClane storming Nakatomi Plaza?”
“I have zero issues withDie Hard,” Ryan promised, fisting his hand in her shirt and dragging her in for a kiss.
She melted against him, feeling deliciously female.
“But back to your third cat,” he said, releasing her and handing her a plate. “Why haven’t I seen him yet?”
“Hans is shy. Or maybe he doesn’t live here anymore,” she said, studying the perfectly plated omelet.
They both eyed the table. The chaotic mess of craft supplies had been made exponentially worse by their bodies rolling over it the night before. There was a distinct butt print outlined in glitter.
At this rate, she’d be sparkling until Flag Day.
“Let’s eat on the couch,” Sammy suggested.
They gathered plates and mugs and trooped into the living room.
“Are you saying you aren’t sure if you have a third cat?” he asked dryly.
Sammy pulled her feet under her on the couch and picked up her mug. “He’s this fat, orange cat that’s a master of hiding. I only see him every few weeks. I’ll wake up in the middle of the night, and this big, dumb, orange face is hovering over me. Or he’ll pop out of a kitchen cabinet when I open it looking for cookies. Once, I was in the shower, and I felt someone watching me. I reached for a bottle of shampoo to use as a weapon—”
“Naturally.”
“And I found Hans sitting on the edge of the tub between the conditioner and the body wash just staring at me.”
“Has anyone else ever seen Hans?” Ryan asked pointedly.
“I know what you’re getting at, and the answer will only reinforce your point, so I’m going to go for a distraction instead,” she announced. “What’s the plan for today?”
Did they still have a plan?She wondered.
Was it weird that she wished they were touching?
Was it weird that they weren’t touching?
Was she making it weird by not touching him and overthinking everything?
“The plan is to start with breakfast,” he said, pointing a fork at her.
He wouldn’t have stayed, wouldn’t have cooked if he didn’t like her, right?
Unless he felt some sort of gentlemanly obligation to her since she’d put out and rocked his world. But honestly, out of the two of them, Sammy was confident that was more hermodus operandithan his.
They sat side by side on the overstuffed gray couch and dug into their breakfast. The omelet was—like his performance in bed—impressive.
“Oh mah gawd,” she managed around a mouthful of egg, cheese, and tomatoes.
“You’ve mentioned that sentiment a few times since last night,” he said smugly.
“Someone’s got their cocky pants on this morning.”
While they ate, they ignored Holly’s plaintive meows about how she was starving and no one ever fed her. When they were finished, he stacked their plates and utensils on the coffee table next to her clean laundry and rubbed his hands on his knees.
He was nervous. And that made her nervous. She picked up her mug again to give her hands something to do.
“How are you feeling about… everything?” he asked. “Any regrets?”
