“Mistletoe rules.”
He steps closer, his voice dropping an octave. “You wanna kiss me, Miss Combat Boots, you better stop hiding behind holiday loopholes and ask.”
Heat floods my cheeks. I climb down slowly, trying not to wobble.
“I don’twantto kiss you,” I lie.
He leans in, voice like gravel and heat. “Liar.”
Then he steps back.
Just like that.
Just far enough to leave me breathless, heart pounding, hands clenched around a tangle of ribbon.
***
Hours later, we eat dinner in near silence, the fire crackling, snow tapping at the windows. My lasagna might’ve burned a little, but he cleaned the plate.
I can feel him watching me across the table, the slow drag of his gaze down my face to my hands. I sip my wine and pretend not to notice.
He leans back in the creaky chair.
“You got a boyfriend back home?”
I blink. “That’s a bold question.”
“I’m a bold man.”
“No,” I say. “No boyfriend.”
“Why not?”
I shrug. “Too busy with my photography and interior design business. Too picky. Too uninterested in men who are impressed with their own reflection.”
He nods. “Fair.”
“What about you?” I ask. “Any special woman in your life?”
He holds my gaze. “There might be one. She broke into my house, hung up mistletoe, and thinks she can win me over with festive frosting and flashing lights.”
I smirk. “Sounds like a menace.”
He smirks back. “She is.”
We stare at each other.
The air stretches between us like elastic. I can feel it. That coiled tension. That pull. The unspoken dare in his eyes.
Touch me.
Try me.
See what happens.
But I don’t move. Not yet.
Because this isn’t just attraction. It’s a game.
