She gasps, one hand to her chest. “Blasphemy. Those are vintage. They sparkle. Like joy.”
“They shed like glitter bombs in a strip club.”
Her eyes narrow. “If you weren’t so ruggedly hot when you’re insulting me, I’d throw one at your head.”
“Flattery won’t win you this battle, tinsel girl.”
She perks up like a Christmas elf on espresso. “Battle?”
I grunt.
She’s already halfway to the kitchen, pulling open her decorating bins with manic energy. “Decorating contest. You versus me. One hour. One area. And I’ll even let you pick your weapons, oh Great and Powerful Grump.”
“Winner gets what?”
She stops, tapping her chin. “Hmm… loser does dishes for the next two days.”
My lip twitches. “You’re on.”
She smirks. “Great. You take the porch. I’ll take the fireplace.”
Outside?
Perfect.
I’ve got a plan already.
She cranks up a tinny Christmas playlist on her phone—Run Run Rudolphblaring like this is some kind of festive war zone—and we both dive in.
She’s pulling out tinsel like it’s a tactical assault. I grab my axe and head for the shed.
***
Forty-five minutes later, I’m shirtless, stringing lights up the porch post with one hand and holding a freshly cut pine bough in my other. Snowflakes stick to my skin. My breath fogs in the freezing air.
But I don’t feel a damn thing.
Not when she’s watching me like that.
She’s pressed up against the frosted window inside, hands cupped around her face like a goddamn Christmas voyeur. Her lips part. Her gaze tracks the line of my shoulders, down my back, and lingers—lingers—at the waistband of my jeans.
I look up and smirk.
She yelps and disappears like a cartoon villain caught mid-peep.
I finish the last nail and plug in the lights.
Boom. Warm, golden glow. Even I have to admit—it looks pretty damn magical.
By the time I stomp back inside, Noel’s standing by the fire, arms crossed, face flushed.
“Not fair,” she says.
“What isn’t?”
“Using your abs to hypnotize the judges.”
“Didn’t realize this was a pageant.”
