“Mistletoe roulette,” she says, like it’s normal.
“What the hell is that?”
“Like spin the bottle. But whoever it lands on has to kiss the other. Or answer a truth.”
“That’s not how spin the bottle works.”
She spins it before I can argue more.
The mistletoe spins wildly on the wood floor before slowing… and stopping on me.
I raise a brow. “Well, go on then. Ask your question.”
“Truth or kiss?”
“Kiss isn’t a punishment.”
She scoots closer. “Then maybe I should choosedarenext time.”
Her tone is pure sin.
But I don’t move when she leans in, not until her lips are so close I can feel her breath. Smells like cinnamon and cocoa. Dangerous.
Then—she pulls back, smirking. “Truth. What’s the dirtiest thought you’ve had about me since I got here?”
I stare at her.
She lifts her glass. “Tick-tock.”
“I’m debating whether to answer,” I mutter.
“You agreed to play.”
“I never did.”
“Coward.”
“Brat.”
I drain my whiskey.
Then lean forward, low and steady. “You sure you wanna know?”
Her eyes widen, just a little.
I lean in closer. Our noses nearly touch. “I thought about bending you over the counter that first night. When you stormed in here all lips and attitude. Wanted to hear you moan while you cursed me out.”
Her breath hitches.
And for a second, the air snaps like a livewire between us.
But she blinks and then—spins the mistletoe again.
This time it lands between us.
She grins. “Tie. That means dare.”
“Says who?”
