Page 9 of The Boyfriend Material Novellas

I’m alone with Vaughn again, and he is better than his pictures. His dark eyes twinkle, and his smile is magnetic, inviting, and . . .

Stop!

None of this is a surprise.

I thought I’d prepared for the onslaught of hotness with my immersion therapy—checking out all his pictures before dinner should have made me immune, or at least resistant, to him.

But just to be safe, I also didn’t shave my legs tonight, and that guarantees that nothing can happen.

Not that anythingwouldhappen.

I doubt he’s into me, plus my brother’s here, plus this is business.

But even so, I need all the help I can get. The man is funny and friendly and so easy to talk to. Now that Josh is gone again, I need to focus on the holiday party so I don’t stray toward temptation.

“So, you’ve drawn the short straw,” I say. “They’ve roped you into Christmas party planning.”

He smiles, a crooked grin that makes my chest zip and zing. “Is it the short straw though?” he asks, lifting his glass of wine and taking a drink.

“Considering how deeply my brother despises parties, I assume you two had a bet and you lost, and that’s why you’re here.”

“Why would you think I’d lose? Maybe I’m excellent at wagers.”

“Are you?”

He reaches into his wallet, fishes out a ten, and spreads it flat on the table. “I’m betting no one can convince me to serve eggnog at this party.”

My eyes pop. “Why not? Eggnog is a staple at holiday parties.”

“It is. And I need to know why, what we can do to avoid it, and if it can be stopped.”

I laugh, taking a sip of my own wine. “I didn’t realize there were eggnog haters.”

He shakes his head. “I’m not an eggnog hater. I’m not a hater, period. I’m a lover.”

Oh God, the way he says that word, like it tastes good on his tongue, sends a wave of inappropriate lust rolling over me. And now I’m wondering what kind of lover he is. Slow and tender? Rough and hungry? Devoted and attentive?

All of the above?

A girl can dream. But that doesn’t mean she should.

Focus, Quinn.

“But not an eggnog lover?” I ask, getting back on track.

He leans a little closer, his big body occupying so much space. I’m not a small woman—I snagged the same tall genes that Josh did. But even at five nine, I feel like a pip-squeak next to the sequoia of Vaughn. I bet he’s six foot five. Six footdeliciousfive. My stomach swoops as I watch him, how at ease he seems to feel in his body, the laid-back way he talks.

“Maybe I could grow to love eggnog, but I don’t understand it.”

“What’s not to understand? It’s creamy, a little spicy, a little sweet.”

His lips hook into a grin. “Sure. True. But why do we need it? It just seems like the bastard stepchild of delicious holiday drinks.”

“I noticed you didn’t say the redheaded stepchild.”

His gaze roams over my hair. “Now why on earth would I say that?”

“Is that because of the present company?” I flick some red strands over my shoulder.

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