Page 44 of Santa's Girl
I looked over my shoulder. She was wearing my flannel shirt again, buttoned all wrong, hair a mess. Her eyes sparkled, lips curved up like she knew exactly what she was doing to me.
“You’re trying to kill me,” I muttered.
She shrugged, stepping around to face me. “You didn’t seem to mind a few minutes ago.”
I gritted my teeth, trying not to look at the bare stretch of thigh between the hem of my shirt and the tops of her socks. “Yeah, well. I’m a man, not a monk.”
She leaned against the counter next to me, shoulder brushing mine. “Then why’d you stop?”
I turned the stove off. Set the spatula down.
“Because I like you,” I said, meeting her eyes. “Not just for a night. Not just for right now when you’re still half-drunk and barely awake. I want this tomeansomething. And if it’s going to, I’m not screwing it up by giving in when we’re not both clear-headed.”
Her face changed. The teasing dropped away. What was left was something quieter. Something real.
“I wasn’t that drunk,” she said.
I reached out and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “Maybe not. But you’re still coming down. And I want our first time to be something youremember, Becca. Something youown. Not something that feels like a question mark the next morning.”
She stared at me like she didn’t know what to do with me.
Then she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around my waist. “You really are kind of amazing, you know that?”
I kissed the top of her head. “Nope. Just hungry.”
She laughed against my chest. And for a second, everything felt simple.
Just two people standing barefoot in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, wrapped in each other, and the smell of bacon between them.
She picked at the last piece of bacon with her fingers, like using a fork was too much to ask this morning.
I kept my mug in my hands, watching her, waiting. The kind of waiting that isn’t pressure — just presence.
Finally, she glanced up. “You asked about my deal.”
“I did.”
She gave a dry laugh. “Okay. Short version? Huntley — the ex — wants me back.”
I didn’t say anything, just raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she said, smirking. “It’s not because I’m irresistible. It’s because I look good on his arm. I'm easy to slot into his life. I check all the boxes.”
“Sounds romantic.”
“Oh, incredibly.” She rolled her eyes. “He’s successful. Arrogant. Says all the right things. My mom still sends me his LinkedIn updates.”
I snorted. “That’s brutal.”
“The worst part? There’s nothingwrongwith him. He's polished. Smart. Clean cut. Smells expensive. But his kisses…” She paused, looked at me. “They’re boring. I mean, technically fine, but they feel like a job interview. Like I’m being considered for a role I’m already tired of playing.”
I couldn’t help it — I smiled. “So… not like mine.”
Her eyes flicked up, teasing. “Please. You kissed me like you were trying to rewrite a memory.”
I coughed into my coffee. “I wasn’ttryinganything.”
“Liar.”
