Page 7 of Tangled In Tinsel & Knots
I am checking the gift list on my phone, making sure we haven’t missed anyone, when Scot appears again. He’s several steps away, weaving through the crowd with a lazy grin that makes my skin crawl.
He lifts his chin toward the rafters. “Look up, Hannah,” he says, voice thick. “Fate’s pointing upward, babe.”
I hate it when he calls me that word. I have told him a dozen times, but I glance anyway, and my stomach drops.
Mistletoe. Hanging over me, the berries bright against dark wood.
Fuck.
“No,” I say, pulse spiking. “Scot, don’t.”
He keeps coming, slow and confident, like this is something he is owed.
“You pushed me away all afternoon,” he says. “All these months. Like I’m a stranger instead of your partner. But here we are. Under the mistletoe at the perfect moment. You know the rules. One kiss.”
He keeps moving closer. Not running. Not rushing. Just walking with this awful certainty that I’ll let him kiss me.
If this becomes a scene, everything I worked for tonight could fall apart. “I’m working,” I whisper. “This is not appropriate. Please stop.”
His grin sharpens. “Just tradition. One little kiss.”
Panic claws up my throat, so I take a step back. Then another. And collide with a wall.
Except it’s not a wall; it’s a person. Tall. Solid. Unmoving.
I glance over my shoulder.
Red velvet. White fur trim. A Santa suit. Relief hits me so fast it’s dizzying. Santa, thank God. I can use this and make this work without creating a scene.
Scot is still closing in, licking his lips, and I almost gag.
My brain shifts into survival mode. I spin halfway, grab the front of Santa’s coat, turn him toward me, my eyes locked on Scot. “Santa, kiss me. Christmas luck. Just a quick one.”
I don’t wait for permission.
I rise up on my toes, yank Santa by the coat, and move to kiss his cheek, except he’s turned and our lips clash.
For half a second, nothing happens.
Then he kisses me back, slow and sure, and my entire world tilts. Warm hands cradle my hips, steady and confident, and heat rolls through me so fast I forget where I am.
My eyes fly open.
The man in front of me is not Declan, our Santa. His eyes were a muddy brown when I met him two days ago to go over party details. These eyes are moss green, sharp and steady, watching me like he already knows every secret I have ever kept.
And his scent hits me a heartbeat later. Cinnamon cake. Burnt caramel. Cedar. Rich and sharp under the sugar and pine of the party around us.
Declan smelled like the outdoors and cheap deodorant. Sweat and cold air. Nothing like this. Nothing that makes my knees go loose and my tongue forget how to move.
The thought registers somewhere in the back of my mind, distant and irrelevant, because holy hell, this man knows what he’s doing. His mouth moves against mine with devastating confidence, like kissing is an art form he’s perfected. One hand comes up to cup the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair, angling me exactly where he wants me. The other hand settles on my waist, broad and warm even through my dress, pulling me closer until I’m pressed against solid muscle.
I should stop this. Pull back. Saythank youand deal with Scot and salvage what’s left of my professional reputation.
Instead, I kiss him back like my life depends on it.
My hands slide up his chest. Damn, he’s built, nothing but hard planes under that ridiculous costume, and he makes a low sound in his throat that short-circuits every logical thought in my brain. Everything about him is intoxicating, and I press closer, inhale deeper, drown in his scent.
Nobody kisses like this.
