Page 6 of Mistletoe Meet Cute
The man I’ll forever more refer to asthe golden gladiatorlifts a brow, and I’m fairly certain he’s amused. “Right... Because I like to spend my free time following women around to make sure they get Costco-sized boxes of tampons and diapers. It’s a real turn-on for me.”
“You never know.” I cock my head and purse my lips. “You might be partial to a certain brand.”
“More like there’s only one pharmacy in Kroydon Hills.” Golden boy looks at me, clearly amused but refusing to crack an actual smile.
Hmmm... maybe golden boy sounds better than golden gladiator. I reserve the right to finalize my decision later.“True. But twice in two days is a little odd.”
“Pretty sureyouran intomeboth times.” His eyes widen when he reads my shirt, but still no smile, just shakes his head.
What can I say? I’m Christmas’s version of a basic bitch. You can keep your pumpkin-spice everything. Give me all the holiday fun and food and festive decorations, and I’m like the happiest little elf at the North Pole. Just keep Handsy Santa away, and I’m good.
Not that I’m going to tell a complete stranger any of that. At least not at the pharmacy while I’m holding tampons. Maybe if we were at a bar holding a drink, I could flirt, but how do you flirt surrounded by tampons and diapers?
Shit. The diapers.
I look around golden boy’s gladiator-sized—yeah, that’s not going to work either—shoulder and shake my head. “Pretty sure you’re blocking the diapers.”
His grin sharpens, all mossy-green eyes and incredibly unfair dimples, and my insides melt like mini marshmallows in my favorite hot cocoa. “Ladies first.”
We stare at each other, both fighting off smiles—him better than me—stuck in some kind of high-stakes standoff. Kind of like a bad western movie, only instead of tumbleweeds rolling by with intimidating music playing as our soundtrack, Mariah is singing about Christmas, and an old man in a Santa hat wearing an anatomically correct yeti sweater wheels a shopping cart full of holiday wrapping paper down the aisle.
The golden giant—okay, maybe no nickname for this guy because none of them do him justice—steps aside and chivalrously opens his arms. “After you.”
I flutter my lashes for effect and curtsey. “Thank you.”
But as I snap back up, the universe decides to shame me for flirting with the hot daddy—ohh... that one could work—and my arm brushes a display of oversized candy canes stacked in the shape of a Christmas tree.
At least it was before the whole thing collapses around me in a clatter of red-and-white-striped, sugar-coated chaos.
And that’s what I get for trying to flirt.
Apparently, mortification is what it takes for this gorgeous stranger to finally smile, and oh my, what a smile it is. He doesn’t even try to hide it or his laughter, and the sound is deep and rough and tugs in places it has no business being.
“You always this destructive?” he asks, with a dimple popping deep in his cheek. “First the bakery and now here?”
Yup. There’s that voice.
“Only when mysterious men in sweatpants distract me.” I feel like that was a cute comeback, but I have zero doubt ten things better will pop into my head as soon as I leave here.
The big man bends down and snags two candy canes, then holds them out for me, his amused grin pure trouble. And maybe now I wish he’d held back on that smile. Less dangerous that way. “Compensation for damages.”
I stare at the candy canes like they’re venomous snakes, while also trying to save what’s left of my dignity. “You think you’re so cute, don’t you?”
His gaze lingers, and that smile says it all. “Pretty sure you do too.”
Well, he’s not wrong, but there’s no way I’m telling him that. Instead, I shake my head and nibble my lip as I slink toward theregister, but sexy stranger —Ohh, now that’s a good one too—follows behind, tugging my hair when we stop in line.
I look up and see a cheap sprig of plastic mistletoe stuck in a blonde curl.
Seriously? Am I being punished?
This man steps closer... Too close, as he reaches for my hair again, and I don’t stop him. And okay, so maybe I lean into him... just a little bit.
I shouldn’t, but his grin is deliciously sexy and kind of mesmerizing. And I’m totally going to blame my momentary lapse in judgment on that.
“You know what they say?—”
“Don’t even finish that sentence,” I warn, flirting be damned.
