Page 56 of A Very Naughty Christmas

It was then she realized she hadn’t brought in her robe or any clothes to change into. Dammit all!

“I’m getting out now,” she called as she released the stopper and climbed out, dripping on her thin bath mat. She toweled dry on her seen-better-days, ten-year-old Walmart cheapo bath towel, and again, wished for her chenille robe that she had found at the Goodwill Thrift Store in town. Gently used, it had been a real find, thicker than her old terrycloth version that she’d gotten her freshman year in college. It also would have covered her from earlobes to shriveled-up raisin toes. As it was, she only had the small hand towel that barely covered the essential parts in front.

She went to the door. “Um… Kyle?”

“Yeah, baby?”

When he called her that, for reasons she couldn’t fathom, a shiver went shooting down her spine to her neglected pussy, which, not happy at all about the long dry spell, perked up and paid attention.

“I forgot my robe. Could you pass it in to me? It’s on the chair by the window.” She heard the bed groan—holy crap, Kyle Prescott had been sitting, or lying, on her bed—and the old floorboards creak as he crossed the room. A month ago, if someone had told her that her teenage crush, turned pro quarterback, now hotshot doctor who volunteered with sick kids, and featured in all her erotic dreams, would be in her shitty apartment, let alone standing on the other side of her bathroom door while she waited naked and fresh out of the tub, she would have called them insane, delusional, or at the very least, an out-and-out liar.

The knob rattling beneath her hand made her jump.

“Dixie, open up.”

Of course, like she’d be naked in the tub with him in her apartment and leave it unlocked. Hiding behind the door, she twisted the lock and cracked the door, inching her hand through. There was a pause, then he laid it across her palm. She pulled it through, closing and locking the door again. After drying off and putting her damp hair up in a messy bun, she wrapped herself in her robe and tied the belt in a double knot, like she was a frightened virgin and it was made of armor instead of chenille.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, she opened the door. Kyle was reclined against her pillows, in a thermal Henley and jeans, both fitting his lean body to perfection. One arm was folded behind his head and his legs were crossed at the ankles. He seemed perfectly at ease as though he often relaxed on her bed.

“Feeling better?”

“Yeah, I’m warm now.”

“You were in there so long, I thought you’d fallen asleep.”

She glanced away, embarrassed. “I did. I got up at five this morning for a six o’clock shift.”

He checked his watch. “It’s eight-thirty. You work longer hours than I do.”

“For two dollars and thirteen cents an hour, too.”

“What? You’re kidding. He doesn’t pay you minimum wage?”

“No. I’m supposed to make up the difference in tips, which on days that don’t have a snowstorm, I usually do. Today, from four o’clock until I left, I made a whopping seven dollars.”

“That’s a crime.”

She shrugged, not disagreeing. “It is what it is.”

“That’s a polite way of saying it’s a shitty system, yet you’ve got no other choice, sofuck it, right?”

She grinned. “I guess so.”

He patted the empty space beside his big body in her full-size bed. Ordinarily, it seemed roomy, except with a six-foot-three, two hundred pounds plus, former NFL quarterback in it, no so much. In fact, it looked tiny. Hesitantly, she inched forward and perched on the mattress edge, then froze.

Lucy, her traitorous fickle cat, lay reclined on her side like the queen of Sheba, the length of her spine pressed to his side, the picture of pure contentment as Kyle scratched her behind the ears.

“Oh, my God!”

“What?”

“My cat likes you.”

He arched a brow. “You sound surprised.”

She giggled.

“I don’t get what’s funny. She’s a sweetie.”

---