Page 22 of The Cowboy's Christmas Baby
And why she still had this huge urge to fangirl all over him—except she had no intentions of ever being one of those women who couldn’t leave him alone. She knew the difference and where the line was.
“You played Audrey in your school play, didn’t you?” he said when he finally stopped laughing.
“Of course, I did. It was the best part. But we haven’t solved the problem of how to get the star on the tree,” she pointed out.
Miles rubbed the back of his neck while he studied the problem some more. “The tree is only eight feet tall. If I gave you a boost, you could reach it,” he suggested.
Only eight feet…Sure. If she didn’t mind getting scratched by all those sharp, prickly needles on the thick clusters of branches. “Why don’t I climb the tree, instead?”
He responded with a touch of good-natured sarcasm of his own. “You’d do that for me?”
“Not in this lifetime, Texas,” she said. “But you’re welcome to give it a try.”
For a second, he looked as if he might be seriously considering it. Then he said, “I have a better idea.”
She stood to one side while he took the tree from the stand, lopped another few inches off the top, and tied the star into place with a thin piece of wire. She helped him wrestle the tree upright again, then stepped back to get a good look and prepared to pass judgment.
“It’s beautiful,” she said. “Still fat, mind you. But more in a majestic kind of way, and less overfed.”
“It’s as if you’re determined to hurt Audrey’s feelings,” he said. “Ever consider that your friend Maybe isn’t the only person around here who’s mean?”
“I never said I wasn’t mean. But I do like babies a whole lot more than she does.”
And she’d missed joking around with someone who had the same sense of humor a lot more than she’d realized. Miles was exactly what she’d needed tonight. He didn’t get bent out of shape when she said stupid things, like that idiot remark about the age of consent. She had no idea where that had even come from. If she wanted him to see her as an adult, she should probably behave more like one, but she’d never been good at filtering what came out of her mouth.
“Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” blared from the kitchen TV. Miles sang along with it as they began stringing the lights. He had a great voice, Tate discovered, surprised there was a personal fact about him that she didn’t know. It was a deep, rich, country-style baritone that he dropped into the lower ranges on a few notes for comedic effect, proving she wasn’t the only ham in the room.
“Mistletoe hung where you can see…” Miles stopped. “That’s what’s missing,” he said, snapping his fingers. “Mistletoe. There’s got to be some in here, somewhere.”
He dove into the box of decorations and began pulling things out, scattering them with such little regard for organization that Tate’s obsessive-compulsive tendencies shuddered in horror.
“Found it!” Miles straightened, triumphant, and held a large cluster of red berries aloft. “Do you know where the tradition of kissing under mistletoe comes from?”
“From ancient state senators who wanted to pretend kissing young girls was okay, so they passed a law saying if they caught one under the mistletoe, she had to kiss them whether she liked it or not?” Tate guessed.
“Interesting take on it, but no,” Miles said. “It comes from an old Norse legend. The short version is that the goddess Frigga’s son, the god of innocence and light, was killed by an arrow made from a sprig of mistletoe. Frigga declared that from then on, mistletoe would only promote love and peace. Anyone caught standing under it, even mortal enemies, would have to set their weapons down, exchange a kiss of peace, and declare a truce for a day.”
“In that case…”
Impulsiveness had always been an issue for Tate. She took the mistletoe from him and held it over his head, then stretched to kiss him before he could dodge out of reach. She’d meant it as a joke. To be funny. And for the first second, it was.
A second later, however, things changed.
Because Miles Decker, even when caught off guard, knew how to kiss.
Chapter Seven
Tate
Tate closed hereyes and let him take charge. A rope-roughened hand, the texture at odds with the gentleness of its touch, cupped her cheek. A thumb set fire to the bare skin below the ribbing of her cropped sweater. He brushed his lower lip against hers, then followed it up with the tip of his tongue. She curled her fingers into the front of his shirt and went along for the ride.
Which ended right around the eight-second mark. He dropped his hands and put a few inches between them, which was a shame, because her knees werereallyunstable, and if she collapsed at his feet she’d have to lie there and die.
“Those senators had the right idea,” he said, rubbing his neck.
“I kissed you,” she pointed out, because she never knew when to shut up. If he wanted the credit for it, she should let things alone and give it to him.
“We’re back to the Norse, then…” The few inches of space turned into feet. “What’s our truce going to be about?”
