“What are you doing here?”
The voice, low, calm, and deep, sends shivers down my spine. Basically heavenly.
“I should be the one asking questions,” I manage to say, swallowing the lump in my throat.
“Oh, you’ve got jokes. Since when do burglars talk back?”
“Wait.” I swallow hard. “I am not robbing the place. You are?”
“Girl, playing dumb won’t stop me from calling the cops,” she says flatly. “Now, why shouldn’t I give them a call?”
“Because,” I say quickly, “you don’t want to go to jail for shooting a woman who thought you were the burglar, but she is just house-sitting.”
Silence.
Then, dryly, “Drop the candy cane.”
“Drop the gun first.”
“Not how this works.”
“I’m not dying in Christmas pajamas holding a peppermint stick.”
She exhales, exasperated. “Fine. We count to three.”
“Okay.”
“One.”
“Two.”
“Three.”
We both drop.
The candy cane hits the hardwood with a loud thud. Whatever she’s holding lands with a quiet plop.
I turn around slowly and instantly forget how to breathe.
She’s stunning.
Her brown eyes meet mine, sharp but soft around the edges, and her lips are full and glossy, parted slightly as she sizes me up.
Then I look down.
The “gun” in her hand is bright blue. Plastic.
A freaking water gun.
I blink. “You were threatening me with that?”
Her mouth curves into a smug grin. “Scared you enough, didn’t I?”
I burst out laughing. “What were you gonna do, splash me into submission?”
She crosses her arms. “Worked, didn’t it?”
“Barely.” I smirk. “You got lucky. I was two seconds away from swinging again.”
