Page 70 of Mistletoe Misses
Taking hold of her arms, I separate us. “Stop right there. You have a Santa fantasy?”
“Not until you showed up.”
“I don’t look like Santa.”
“No, you do not.” Laughing, her hands run down my torso. “Wait until you see the store window painting. With the rumor mill running at full capacity already, I’m definitely winning the contest this year.”
“What did you paint?”
“I just designed it. Kaitlyn and all her artistic talent is bringing it to life.”
Confused, I hesitate before asking, “And it includes your Santa fantasy for the entire town to see.”
“Yep. Winner, winner, chicken dinner.” She points at herself and leans in for another taste of me.
Catching her unaware, I pick her up and toss her into the chair. The intrusion disrupts Trixie, and she barks in protest as she usually does when something interrupts her beauty sleep.
“Where are you going?” Carmen yells as I throw open the door and rush out without explanation.
Her rapid footsteps and Trixie’s yelping echo behind me, but I’ve got a good five-second lead down the stairs. I exit through the back door and take the alley on the other side. It barely fits a trash can, but I’m on a mission, and it’s the fastest route. My sweatshirt sleeves scrape against the brick until I squirt out onto the sidewalk in front of the store.
Trixie arrives next, and I gently toss her inside the bookshop before returning to Carmen’s store. Looking over the painting, I’m face to face with a rendition of myself in a skin-tight red T-shirt with white trim, tool belt, and accentuated biceps and chest—okay, maybe those are true to size—and black work boots over jeans. A startled woman stares at me through the glass, her paintbrush frozen in mid-stroke on the curve of Santa’s ass.
Carmen skids to a stop beside me with a huff, and my eyes dart from her to the supposed Mrs. Claus in the scene. It’s Carmen in a skimpy red dress and black, knee-high boots. Her curves are also accentuated in all the right places, and we’re kissing, quite seductively, under the mistletoe.
“Wow,” is all I can say.
“You don’t like it?”
“I didn’t say that. Kaitlyn isverytalented.”
“Chicken dinner,” she brags, then sobers. “Is it too revealing? I know you wanted to keep things quiet. Say the word and I’ll erase it all if you’re—”
Curling her into me with one arm, I cup the back of her head with the other and dip her back with a kiss that could fog up the windows if we let it go on too long. Passersby stop to ogle and gossip, but with Carmen in my arms, I can’t seem to muster a care.
“You as a Claus is so hot.” I peck her nose and set her upright before I ignore the dangers of the rumor mill again.
“Right back at ya, big guy.”
Standing next to me, with her hand lingering on my pec and my arm around her waist, it feels as cozy as it used to. Right. “Do you have an outfit like that for the pub crawl?”
“No, but if it gets this reaction out of you, I’ll find one.”
“If you do, I’ll suck it up and dress like Santa.”
“Sexy fantasy Santa?”
“Who else?”
???
“What’s on your face,” Aaron asks, his brow pinches in the middle while he sits in the chair beside me in the living room. Propping an ankle on his thigh, he leans back and studies me.
I unravel an arm from around Opal, who hasn’t left my side since I got home, to drag a hand over my jaw. It wouldn’t surprise me if tomato sauce lingers there from dinner. Mom’s lasagna is my favorite, and I scarfed down two heaping portions like it was my last meal.
“Ahh, it’s gone now.”
“What was it?” I ask, checking my hand and sweatshirt for evidence.
