“Dramatic, too, I see.”
Not only is she not in fear of death, I don’t think she’s half as ticked as the slap she lands on my bicep would indicate, either. I hop back, rolling my shoulders in and laughing. “Ouch.”
She flaps the backs of her hands. “Move it. I’m getting claustrophobic in here.”
Claustrophobic and maybe some other things, judging by the hot pink flush across her cheeks.
“‘Move it’, she says. What? I get no credit for my daring rescue?”
She huffs. “Says the guy who caused the whole problem in the first place.”
Chuckling, I scoot backwards, wrap my hand around the top of the door, and cock a knee. “Whatcha digging around for anyway?”
The intense color on her cheeks wisps away. She searches the area around her feet. “Aha!” She scoops a bag of red and white candies off the floor. “You like peppermint?”
“Not particularly.”
Her hopeful expression wipes out. “Oh.”
Um…idiot.“Ohhh, peppermint. Like candy canes? Yep, love peppermint. Love candy canes.”
Everly’s eyes roll around like the ball on my deodorant bottle. “No candy canes, but I have a plan and you’re going to love it.”
“Yes, ma’am.” As long as she lets me stick around for whatever she has up her sleeve, I’ll eat peppermint every day until New Year’s.
Her shoulder brushes mine as she dodges me making her exit from the pantry. I hang back while she struggles to rip open the bag of candies, but when she slips it between both rows of perfect white teeth, I can’t stay sidelined. “Give me.” I wriggle my fingers.
“I can open a bag, Knox.”
“I’m sure you can, but I’m almost certain you’re prettier withallyour teeth in your head.”
Her face freezes with her lips mashed together around the plastic. I grab her eyes with mine so I’m clear.Yeah, I called you pretty.
Slowly, she releases the bag to my hands. I close in until our toes bump. As our body heat mingles, I reach around her, extricating a knife from the block. I slice open the plastic.
A swallow moves her throat. “I could have done that.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
“Ugh.” She tears the crinkly bag from my hands, glaring at my amusement as she pours out some candies.
I plant my rear to edge of the counter and watch her work. She finds a sturdy, zippered bag, unwraps the sweets, and scoops them into it. Then, she sets the bag between the folds of a kitchentowel. I jump back, play-cowering when she swings a kitchen mallet to the package.
After a series of wall-shaking strikes, she sets the tool aside and mounds spray whipped cream atop both the steaming mugs. Next, she takes the poor, destroyed candies and sprinkles the cheerful red and white splinters and shards over the white cream.
I recoil from the Santa mug she holds out to me. “Why do I get the fancy one?”
“You’re the guest, and I’m a considerate hostess. Take it.” She gestures it toward me again.
“Nope.” I take matters into my own hands, reach behind her, and snag the other cup, licking the blob of cream. That should end the debate.
“Knox.”
“Uh-uh.” I swallow. “Looks better in your hands, anyway.” From a hidden pocket inside me, I pull out something that sees less usage than the dimple, and wink. It’s more Rand’s MO than mine—but that could change if winks make Everly’s cheeks flush, as they are now, to a shade that nicely matches Santa’s suit.
She huffs and sails past me as if I’ve exasperated the living crud out of her.
Yep, nope. I saw what I saw.
