Time-stamped two hours and fourteen minutes ago. The mistletoe over the entry to the great room.
Because this is what I’ve been reduced to.
Tracking a mistletoe.
Collecting evidence.
Glancing up at the exact area now, and… no mistletoe. “The fuck?”
Slamming my glass down, I slide off the stool when something catches my attention from my peripherals.
A tool belt propped along the wall at the end of the bar.
The hammer.
Oh, I’ll handle it.
Curling my hand around the handle, I flashback to the way Holly gripped this very fucking hammer from the looks, and set everyone straight.
Most of all me.
Yeah, this would do. This would fucking do nicely.
I test the weight, adjust my grip, and tear up the distance between me and the goddamn problem.
By the time Seth leans into her—too fucking close and too fucking charming—with his hand braced against the ledge next to her head, I’m there.
Barely registering Holly’s widened eyes, I slide between her and Everett’s uncle, keeping her tucked firmly behind me.
Uncle Seth's grin widens, and I'm moving before I can stop myself my face stopping just inches in front of him.
"Chance? What are you?—"
“No.” It’s low and rough—a demand, a declaration—a single-syllable warning in a tone conveying any number of nightmare scenarios for Uncle Seth’s untimely death. “She’s taken.”
Seth’s grin widens, his hands raised in mock surrender. “Easy there, Chance. Just thought I’d do my part. You know, tradition and all that.”
I narrow my eyes at him, my jaw clenching until my teeth ache. "Find another tradition."
He chuckles, unbothered. “If you say so.” Leaning around me, he tips an imaginary hat to Holly. “Ma’am.”
Slick motherfucker.
“What the hell are you doing?” she demands—her voice low, but sharp—all while delivering a hell of a poke to my goddamn kidney.
She’s trying to sound indignant, but there’s something else beneath it. Something that sounds a lot like excitement.
“What I should’ve done the after the first damn time.” I spin on her and prop my hand in the same spot Everett’s uncle had.
Each word is a growl of every bit of frustration, pining, lust, and fucking restraint choking me since I walked into that fucking airport and found her on her knees with her ass in the air.
“Yeah, soldier boy… and what’s that?” Her eyes gleam and her lips twitch, right where I kissed her at the bonfire.
Oh, she knows exactly what she’s doing.
In two steps, I’m looming over her, a boot planted on the bench on either side of her hips.
Eve says something, probably another play-by-play, but I can’t distinguish a word, not with the adrenaline surging through me and the deafening pounding of my heart.
