“So we’re stuck.”
His gaze meets mine.
It’s not annoyed. Not grumpy. Not even frustrated.
It’shungry.
“Looks like it,” he says, voice low and rough. “Just you. Me. Firelight. No distractions.”
“You forgot the mistletoe.”
He smirks. “I didn’t forget anything.”
My skin prickles. I cross my arms, suddenly too aware of the fire, the shadows, and the way the snow howls against the glass like it wants in on this tension too.
“I’m going to bed,” I say, mostly to remind myself that’s an option.
“Sure you are.”
I narrow my eyes. “You got a better idea?”
He steps closer. “Strip mistletoe.”
I blink. “Again? Seriously?”
“You scared?”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
He disappears into the kitchen, returns a second later with a red-and-green striped thermos—and a sprig of mistletoe in his big hand.
He drops onto the bearskin rug in front of the fire and spins the mistletoe like a bottle. “Ready?”
“I’m hardly wearing anything as is.” I gesture to the bare legs and flannel covering my form.
“That’s the fun part.”
I narrow my eyes. “You’re joking.”
“Am I?”
The mistletoe slows.
Points straight at me.
He lifts a brow. “Truth or strip, city girl?”
I should say no. I should go upstairs. I should do anything but drop to my knees on the rug across from him.
I choose truth.For now.
“Have you ever hooked up with someone you hated?”
“Never.” I reply. “Have you?”
His eyes gleam. “Hate’s not the word I’d use.”
