Page 37 of Santa's Girl
And before he could answer, I reached behind me, snagged a sprig of mistletoe from the garland someone had strung across the bar, and held it right over his head.
“House rules,” I said.
His eyes narrowed in mock warning, but the edge of his mouth betrayed him.
“Sugar,” he murmured, “you play a dangerous game.”
“Maybe,” I said, tilting my head. “But so far, I’m winning.”
He stared down at me, that quiet half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“You won’t do it,” he said, voice low enough that only I could hear. “Not here. Not with all these people watching.”
I grinned. “Watch me.”
Before he could react, I dragged a chair over, stepped onto it, and suddenly I was eye-level with him—or a little above. The room had gone still; laughter and music faded into a low hum of curiosity.
I leaned forward, cupped his beard in both hands, and said in my most ridiculous sing-song voice,
“Oh, my little Grinchy. My cute, cuddly, Care-Bear little Grinchy.”
The whole bar burst into laughter.
His eyes went wide for half a second, and then narrowed in that way that said,you started this, sugar.
He muttered something under his breath, set his beer on the nearest table, and in one smooth move caught me around the waist. The chair creaked as he pulled me down off it and straight against him.
The noise of the crowd blurred. The garland, the lights, the fire—all of it disappeared.
He looked at me once, his gaze burning, raw, and unyielding, like he’d been holding back for too long. Then he kissed me.
It was fire—hot, hungry, and all-consuming. His lips crashed into mine, urgent and demanding, like he was staking a claim he’d been denying himself for years. One hand tightened at my waist, pulling me closer until there was no space left between us, while the other slid up to cradle the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair. The kiss deepened, a desperate edge to it, all heat and need, like we were stealing every second we couldfrom the world around us. My hands gripped his shoulders, anchoring me as the room spun, the taste of him—whiskey and want—igniting something reckless in me. Someone whooped. A few clapped. Mariah hit the chorus right on cue.
When he finally pulled back, I was breathless and half-laughing. “Guess you did believe in Christmas spirit after all.”
He shook his head, still holding me close. “Guess you make it hard not to.”
The room roared back to life around us—music, cheers, someone hollering for another round—but for a heartbeat, it felt like the whole mountain had gone quiet except for us.
The applause faded into the clatter of pool balls and the buzz of conversation, like the room was pretending nothing had just happened.
Fine. I could pretend, too.
I slid off the chair, heart still trying to remember its normal rhythm, and headed for the bar. My hands were shaking just enough to make twisting the cap off a cold beer harder than it should’ve been.
A few people clapped me on the back, someone whistled, someone else yelled “About time!” I laughed it off, waved them away, trying to act casual, but my lips were still tingling.
He tasted like mint and sin.
Like trouble I’d been pretending I didn’t want but couldn’t stop thinking about now that I’d had a sample.
I took a long drink, the cold cutting through the heat still crawling up my neck, and stared at the garland-wrapped lights flickering over the bar. How had I gotten here?
A day ago, I was sliding down an icy road, thinking I’d freeze to death.
Now I was kissing a grumpy, gorgeous biker under mistletoe while Mariah Carey sang backup.
I needed to get a grip. Fast.
