“You definitely have a big one.”
“You’re not the first person to notice.” He quirks a grin and my cheeks flush at the innuendo. “Sorry, that was below the belt.” His shoulders shake with a silent chuckle.
I cover my face with secondhand embarrassment. “Enough with the dad jokes.”
“I hope your dad doesn’t make jokes like that.” He chuckles as he works his way down the ladder, weaving the lights around the tree as he goes.
“You’re in a merry mood this afternoon. Careful or people might think you’re enjoying yourself.” I open another box of Christmas ornaments, each one filling me with nostalgia.
Sawyer reaches the bottom of the ladder with a shrug. “Must be your incessant holiday spirit rubbing off on me.”
A smile pushes my cheeks up. “It’s good to see you laughing.”
He walks over to a box of ornaments and lifts a bauble with a Victorian scene. “These are a bit dated, aren’t they?”
“They’re vintage. A bit like you.” I stifle a giggle.
“Is that your way of saying I’m old?” His eyes narrow in mock anger.
“I said no such thing. Here.” I shove another bundle of lights into his arms. “You can make yourself useful again and string more lights on the tree.”
“More lights?”
“It’s Christmas.”
“It’s Blackpool Illuminations is what it is.”
“Don’t be a grouch.” I swat his chest. “How come you don’t like Christmas?”
He shrugs a shoulder as he climbs the ladder and strings more lights. “After Mum walked out on us, Dad was always working and never had time to deck the house up.”
“Is that why you haven’t decorated this place?”
He climbs down the ladder. “I didn’t see the point in decorating just for me.”
“Well, it’s a good thing I showed up then.”
He peers over into the box as I lift out a clay ornament I made when I was eight. His lips curve upwards.
“I spent hours making this snowman.” I hold it up with the string hanging from a black hat.
“Is it supposed to look like it’s melted?”
I swat at his stomach, the fabric of his t-shirt stretched over his large frame.
He doesn’t flinch, as if he didn’t even feel my hand hitting him. His lips still curved, he picks up another handmade ornament. “Has this reindeer been hit by a truck?”
“I’ll hit you with a truck in a minute.” I grab hold of a bunch of fake sprigs and stand to whack the smirk from his face.
He grips my wrist before I get close. The sprigs hang between us, inches from his face. His eyes widen and he sucks in a breath as his gaze flicks between me and the decoration.
White berries cluster between oval leaves, the fake sprigs wrapped in a red ribbon.
Mistletoe.
My heart rate accelerates. Our eyes lock. My mouth parts as I will his lips to meet mine. I rise on my tiptoes, hoping he’ll take the hint, my palm resting on his chest for balance, and he grips my other hand in his large mitt, his fingers rough on my skin, sending a flurry of tingles racing up my arm.
As I gaze into his eyes, I see all his dark desires that mirror my own lust-fuelled thoughts. Could he want me like I want him? Until recent events, I thought he saw me as a child, but there’s no denying the heat in his eyes.
