“Bet you’d look good in a cocktail dress.”
I smile. “I would.”
He sets me down, checks the time, and says, “Snow angel, come to the gala with me. We’ll be fashionably late.”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
We walk into the ballroom, fashionably late and owning it. I’m in a sleeveless, silver sparkly dress with a deep neckline and an A-line cut that hugs my curves. Rowan’s shirt is buttoned up, his pants zipped, of course. But his bow tie’s still undone, and that feels fitting. Very him—the edgy defenseman with an attitude. His lips are still bruised. Bet my cheeks are still red. Well, we cleaned up, but we kissed like crazy outside the chalet after he parked.
The fête is in full swing—servers weaving through glittering throngs of big athletes and their lovely partners, dressed to the nines in gold, deep red, and emerald-green.
Music floats through the air, and I laugh, turning to Rowan. “It’s our song.”
He cocks his head. “‘Jingle Bells’ is our song?”
“It’s one of them.”
He touches my cheek. “You do like riding in a one-horse open sleigh.”
“Among other things,” I say with a brow lift.
He tugs me close, pressing my body to his, then dances with me in front of his team, his coaches, the management.
And he doesn’t grumble.
He doesn’tbah humbug.
He doesn’t hate on a single thing—not even when the pianist moves into “The Twelve Days of Christmas” and croons about a partridge in a pear tree.
He sways with me the whole time, then says, “Want to hear my list?”
I’m game. “Sure.”
“It’s the opposite of a hate list.”
“This sounds good. Continue.”
He twirls a strand of my hair between his fingers. “I love you in this dress. I love you out of this dress. I love the way you challenge me. I love how smart and how kind you are. I love how you taste. I love making your dirty dreams come true. I love hanging out with you and my dog, and my daughter too. I love spoiling you. I love fucking you—outdoors and inside.” He pauses, his breath hot against my skin. “Mostly, I just love being yours, and I love that you’re mine.”
My heart soars. “I am yours.”
Then he kisses me. Deeply. In front of…everyone. And that cinches it. I can't imagine a better present than this merry little kissmas night.
EPILOGUE: KISS HER ONCE FOR ME
ROWAN
The knock is louder than a door-to-door salesman hawking sprinklers—and those guys are seriously loud.
“Wake up! Santa’s here!”
Yawning, I stretch my arms overhead and say through the gravel in my voice, “Be out in ten.”
Isla turns to me with a smile. “Bet I’m ready faster than you.”
“Of course you’re a morning person,” I grumble.
“Hush. You are too,” she teases, hopping out of bed and heading into the en suite.
