Page 10 of 3 Stolen Kisses

I grunt, scowling at my hands as they work. Don’t trust myself to reply.

* * *

“There’s one more thing,” Ali says hours later, as the sun bleeds into the horizon outside and she brushes imaginary dust from her hands. Her black bun is sagging to one side, her forehead dewy with sweat and her neck flushed, but she’s done a great job. Can’t deny it. My one-bed bachelor pad by the waterfront has been transformed into an explosion of Christmas cheer.

There’s the tree, obviously, with golden string lights wound through the layers and red velvet bows nestled among the green needles. Silver frosted baubles drip from the branches, and a glittery star marks the very top.

But Ali also swagged tinsel beneath my breakfast bar, and hung a wreath on the front door, and burned scented candles to make my place smell like allspice. She even hung a stocking from the mantelpiece and gave my floor lamp a tinsel crown.

Now she’s clutching a canvas tote to her chest, shifting back and forth between her feet, looking guilty.

“What did you do?” I ask, faux stern the way she likes, and Ali laughs nervously. When she draws a sprig of mistletoe from the bag, dropping the tote to the rug, I forget to breathe.

“It’s traditional,” she says in a rush, practically hopping from nerves now. “You’ve got to have mistletoe at Christmas. It’s, like, the law.”

I clear my throat with effort. “Right.”

Ali tiptoes toward me like I’m a wild animal. Like I might bolt, or maybe charge at her. Guess she’s not wrong, because both those things are on the table right now.

She waves the mistletoe weakly. “So where should we hang it? Above the front door?”

I cough out a laugh and shake my head, although none of this is funny. Not really. Or if it is, the joke is on me. “Not at the front door. I’m not planting a smacker on every delivery person who comes to my door in December.”

Ali presses her lips together against a smile. “Where, then?”

And I shrug and pluck the mistletoe from her hand. She’s right in front of me now; close enough to feel her heat again, to smell her shampoo, and maybe that’s why I do it. Why I lose my ever-loving mind.

Because I raise the green sprig over our heads, white berries clinging to the twigs, and say, “How about here?”

Ali’s breath hitches. Her eyes sparkle so bright. And her hands lift up, cautious at first, then spread over my chest, two sudden shocks of contact. Of heat.

God help me, as Ali pushes up onto her toes, I don’t stop her. I don’t stop her for a second. Inside the chaotic whirl of my mind, I’m urging her on, begging her todo it. Do it.

She pauses a breath from my mouth—and look at how I’m leaning down to help her, stooping to get in range. So desperate for a taste that I forget everything—my training, my professionalism, the age gap between us. Everything but how badly I want this girl.

I’m done for. Cooked.

Ali’s warm breath wafts against my lips. It tastes like peppermint, like the candy cane she’s been gnawing on as she decorates all afternoon. In the background, a man sings softly about driving home on Christmas Eve, and my bones are creaking from the effort of holding this still.

“Can I?” Ali whispers, like we aren’t ninety percent of the way there already.

I nod, and that alone makes our lips brush. Lightning zaps down my spine, and my blood rushes through my veins, pumped by my anguished heart.

It’s a barely-there kiss. Less than a second of contact before she stumbles back, blushing hard.

And it detonates a crater in my chest.

Five

Ali

Dad throws a Tuesday poker night and a fancy dinner party on Thursday, but the next big event is on Saturday. That’s how our holiday seasons go each year: smaller events in the week, little blips to keep Dad happy and keep tongues wagging about the Wainwright social calendar, and then on the weekends… it’s carnage.

Tonight’s party is themed. A masquerade. All the guests are dressed in priceless gowns and tailored tuxedos, glittering with wealth and swarming through the mansion like a perfumed tide, hungry for drama behind their masks.

Music throbs and clothes rustle; laughter rumbles and women shriek. The energy tonight is itchy, restless. People are anonymous, and they want to misbehave.

Me? I’m popping bottle after bottle of champagne in the kitchen, topping up glasses for the guests. Normally, you’d expect a party like this to have swarms of staff on hand, but not at a Wainwright function. There’s just me, or folks serve themselves.

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