Page 17 of Mistletoe Meet Cute
That’s not funny.
Holly
I’d kill him myself if he touched her.
Ryleigh
He wouldn’t. He saves that for us.
Hadley
Aren’t we lucky?
Rainey
So did you order anything yet?
Holly
Does Santa like Christmas cookies? Of course I ordered things. Sophie and I should have the halls decked by the end of the week.
CAMDEN
Monday
The start of the week generally means a lighter, shorter day. Especially after a win like we pulled off yesterday against Pittsburgh. Stretching. Seeing the trainer. Going over tapes and strategies before we get the next day off to rest and recuperate. And I needed all of it, including the day off tomorrow.
Yesterday was brutal.
Physically.
Mentally.
My head hurts, and my body aches. It’s getting harder to recover after each game, and I’m only thirty-two. What’s that going to mean in another year? Another five?
I’m going to blame the mental part on the same reason I step inside my front door and do a double take to make sure this is actually my house... Because when I left this morning, there wasn’t green garland draped over my banister, and there definitely wasn’t dark red ribbon tied in bows at the height of each dip of the garland. The red, green, and gold doormat isnew too, and so is the candy-cane-striped bow tie that’s wrapped around Madden’s neck when he greets me at the door, vibrating.
“What the fuck, buddy?” I murmur as I scratch behind his ears. “She decorated you too?”
My goofy dog, who my sister gifted me last year when she thought I spent too much time alone, snorts and wiggles his big ass like he thinks the same damn thing before running away. Well, his version of running. His short, fat legs don’t really run as much as waddle.
“Camden?” Holly calls out, and with just that one word, the tightness in my head intensifies. I woke up this morning, startled out of a fucking fantastic dream, only to realize it was a dream and I was not actually going down on Holly. Needless to say, the headache started then.
“Camden?” she calls out again, more hesitantly this time.
“You expecting another strange man to walk through my door?” I ask as I step into the kitchen and find Sophie happily bouncing in her favorite chair while Holly cuts up chicken and adds it to a big salad. She dumps a bowl of tomatoes on top and tosses the whole thing together with wooden tongs I didn’t know I had.
“Are you admitting you’re strange?” she laughs and pops a cherry tomato in her mouth. “You know I’m right, Monroe.” When I don’t answer, her eyes shine brighter. “Don’t worry. I wasn’t expecting any strange men. I just wanted to know if you like salad and grilled chicken?”
My stomach growls as I look at the food. “I’m not picky. But you don’t need to cook for me.”
“I had to cook for me. It didn’t make sense not to make enough for you. Go wash your hands and sit.” The bossy little vixen in a pale-pink sweatshirt sliding off one bare shoulder throws me the feistiest look, and I swear to God, it’s the samedamn look the sexy reindeer proclaiming herselfVixenon the front of her shirt had the first time we met.
Christ. Did I just call a reindeer sexy? “What the hell is on your sweatshirt?”
“Vixen,” she answers as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You know, Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen.”
“Of course it is...” I groan. I kinda figured it was, but today’s shirt looks different from the first one. “How many Christmas shirts do you have?”
