Page 23 of The Cowboy's Christmas Baby
“We aren’t mortal enemies, either.”
“True. But a deal is a deal. You don’t mess with Frigga. Haven’t you ever heard the expression ‘sealed with a kiss’?”
He was sounding her out. She heard the question beneath the light banter. She read it in the warm green and gold of his eyes. And she was so, so tempted. This wasMiles Decker. Any other girl would have her clothes off by now.
Not Tate. She might be a fan, but she wasn’t a number. She’d never been one of those girls. She didn’t try and fool herself into thinking she was anyone so very different, however. She’d started things with that kiss, and of course he’d have to wonder how far she’d take it.
As tempting as it was though, she couldn’t do it. He’d made her feel special all evening and she wanted to hang onto that feeling, at least for tonight. But he didn’t get to pretend her age was a problem for him any longer.
She tipped the mistletoe from her hand, returning it to the packing box full of bright ribbons and colorful glass. “How about we get back to work and finish decorating the tree?”
“Do we hang the large ornaments on the bottom and the smaller ones at the top? Or do we shake it up and hang everything random?” he asked.
With that casual question, things returned to normal between them, proving he knew how to take no for an answer—although she doubted that he heard it too often, so maybe he was confused.
“I can’t believe your mother let you near the tree. The big ones go on the bottom,” she said.
“A truce usually involves compromise, you know. I never would have expected the woman who trimmed Santa’s tree to be so averse to shaking things up. But fine. We’ll do it your way.”
They sipped rum and eggnog and argued over the garland while Elvis dreamed of a white Christmas. The eggnog was thick and sweet, with only a faint hint of rum, because as Miles said, the goal was to stay warm, not get drunk.
Tate hung the last ornament while Miles plugged in the lights. A soft white glow filled the room rather than the brilliance of a midday sun that she’d half-expected, considering the number he’d insisted were needed.
Iris hadn’t moved from her spot on the floor. “I should really put her to bed,” Miles said, and Tate suffered mixed feelings, because as soon as he did, she’d have no reason to stay.
The thought of heading home to a bleak, cheerless, distinctly unfestive trailer burst her happy bubble. She should put up a tree for Ford, too. A small one. She didn’t know where her mother’s ornaments were stored, but she could always pick up cheap ones on sale at the mall—although Maybe might have to get them for her, since it would be a while before she’d be welcome again.Stupid Santa.
“What are you thinking?” Miles asked.
That his eyes were amazing—green, gold, and brown—and what a great kisser he was. She was thinking how good his cologne smelled and how much she’d enjoyed everything about this whole evening. She’d always known there was a difference between Miles the public figure—the one whose posters had adorned her bedroom walls—and who he was in real life. She hadn’t expected the reality of him to be more perfect, not less.
She plunked her empty glass on a side table. The heavy crystal caught the sparkling lights from the tree. He’d been the perfect distraction, but sooner or later, the evening had to come to an end. No need to wear out her welcome. “That I’ve had enough rum and eggnog. I should be going.”
Miles frowned. “Ford won’t be off work for another two hours at least.”
“There’s no reason for you to have to wait up for him, too. I’ll be fine at the taproom.”
“I can’t let you walk over alone at this time of night, but by the time I get the truck warmed up and Iris in her car seat, we might as well have waited for him here.”
“This is Grand, not New York. It’s only two blocks and I’ve walked it plenty of times.”
“I really can’t stay…” Marilyn Maxwell sang out, interrupting whatever Miles might have said next.
“Baby, it’s cold outside,” Dean Martin crooned in response.
The corner of Miles’s mouth lifted, softening the scar’s puckered edges. “I think Dean is trying to send you a message.”
“Dean should mind his own business.” Because she didn’t want to go either and Dean wasn’t helping.
“How about this? You call me on your cell and talk to me while you walk,” Miles suggested, following her to the door.
“What will we talk about?”
His smile broadened. “You never seem to have any trouble with words. I’m sure you’ll come up with something.”
He’d been so wonderful all evening. So much fun. It bothered her as to what he might think of her hot-and-cold behavior, but tonight hadn’t been the right night.
She donned her coat, pulled up the zipper, and struggled for words. “Thank you,” she said, feeling all kinds of awkward. “This was the anniversary of my brother’s accident. It was a really rough day for me and you made it okay.”
