His eyebrows shoot up. "Do I want to know?"
"It's not what you think. Every couple has to hang a mistletoe in the most creative spot they can find on the day the competition is announced. Then, we all vote on whose placement was best."
"Creative how?"
"Last year Ethan hung ours on the kitchen doorframe. The kitchen doorframe." I roll my eyes dramatically. "The most obvious, boring place possible. When I suggested something more creative, he said traditions shouldn't be 'messed with.'"
I stab a piece of burrata. "We obviously lost. By a landslide. My parents have won three years running—they once rigged a mistletoe to pop out of a Nutcracker.
Sebastian's smile grows as I talk, and I realize I'm gesturing wildly with my fork.
"What?" I ask, feeling suddenly self-conscious.
"Nothing. I just like seeing you animated about something." He leans forward. "So we need to destroy the competition, is what you're saying."
"Well, yes." I straighten my shoulders. "But more importantly, we need to beat Ethan and what's-her-name at everything."
"Olivia," Sebastian supplies helpfully.
"Whatever." I wave my hand dismissively. "I want them to see that I've moved on to someone who actually has imagination, some creativity. Someone who doesn't think inside the box is good enough."
He takes a sip of his scotch. "Well, I do love a challenge."
My wine is almost gone, and I can feel the tension in my shoulders starting to loosen. "Since we're on the subject of physical activities... my assistant mentioned you were a professional snowboarder?"
"In my twenties, yeah. Competed for almost ten years before a bad landing forced me into early retirement."
"That's why you went into sports marketing?"
He nods. "Figured I might as well use my connections."
Even though I already knew this from Zoe's gossiping, hearing him talk about it makes it more real. "That's actually pretty impressive."
"Don't strain yourself with the compliment, Charlotte."
"I prefer skiing," I say primly, though I'm secretly imagining him carving down a mountain, all power and grace.
"Of course you do." His smile tells me he sees right through me.
Our entrees arrive, momentarily saving me from having to respond.
I take a bite of my alfredo and nearly moan. The pasta is perfectly al dente, the sauce decadent without being overwhelming and the chicken is perfectly blackened.
"So, four months," Sebastian says, cutting into his steak. "That means we've had the 'exclusive' talk but obviously haven't met each other's families yet."
"Right. And we're spending the holidays together because things are getting serious."
"What else should I know? Are we at the 'leave a toothbrush at each other's place' stage?"
I consider this. "Yes. And maybe a change of clothes. Nothing major—we're not living together."
"But we're sleeping together."
My face heats and I twirl pasta onto my fork. "Obviously."
"Just making sure I have the details straight." His eyes lock with mine, and for a moment I'm back in my apartment, his hands on my skin, tangling in my hair.
"How often?" He questions, taking a bite of his steak.
