I’m not ready to unpack that thought, so I pack the rest of the extra ornaments, then lift the box from the table. “Where should I put this?”
She nods toward the archway and the room beyond. “Back of the shop. I’ll load it in my car when we’re all set.”
I head there, set the box by the back door, and turn around to grab more of the items. I’m passing under the archway with that infernal mistletoe hanging from it right as Isla sails past me.
Our gazes land on the sprig at the same time and stay for a beat or two. But she’s the first to look away, with her jaw set hard. “This is ridiculous.”
Well, I can’t argue with her. “You’re right. Mistletoe is one hundred percent ridiculous. Could you say that on the record though?”
Her stare is icy. “The mistletoe isn’t ridiculous,” she says. “Bumping into you under it is.”
But her eyes give her away once more—since she stares right at my mouth.
Well, well, well.
I’ll just tuck that data point into my pocket, thank you very much.
With a smug smile I try to fight off, I grab the box of lights next and carry it to the back. She’s right behind me with the tablecloth tucked under her arm. We set them down at the same time by the back door.
“No one likes mistletoe anyway. It’s a pain in the ass,” I say as we make our way back to the front of the shop.
Fine, my job as a defenseman isn’t simply to stop things. Sometimes it’s to stir things up.
“Surprise, surprise. You don’t like mistletoe,” Isla says, stopping under the archway and flapping her hand toward the sprig with the red berries on it. “It’s beautiful, fun, and festive. Of course you hate it.”
“Of course I do because it deserves disdain.”
Her sigh is longer thanThe Lord of the Ringstrilogy. “I know I’m going to regret this, but why is mistletoe a pain in the ass?”
“It’s actually poisonous. And did you know it’s bad for your friends—the trees?”
A tiny crease digs in between her eyebrows. “What do you mean?” she asks with real concern.
Good thing I did some research on mistletoe. Any good grinch ought to be prepared for a Christmas counter-argument. “Mistletoe is actually a semi-parasitic plant. It makes its food from photosynthesis, but the roots grow into the tree, sucking water and minerals out from the sap. Like a vampire piece of Christmas decor.” I put on a sad face. “Isn’t that terrible?”
“But we’re not in a forest.”
“But wewere.”
“How is that even relevant?” she asks, with more exasperation than I’d expected.
But maybe it’s exactly the amount I want. Because, for whatever fucking reason, her irritation is exciting. It’sturning up the temperature on the furnace inside me. My chest is crackling hot as I say, “It’s just good to know all the details for Christmas. You wouldn’t want to see a vampire mistletoe growing out of your favorite tree, would you?”
She points upward while staring right at me like she’s a lawyer who won’t back down. “Rowan Bishop. This mistletoe isn’t in a tree. It’s literally hanging from a brick archway. How is it a parasitenow?”
“Right now it’s not. But you never know. You also don’t want mistletoe around any pets. Which is yet another reason why I can’t have mistletoe at my house. I have a pet,” I say, playing up my devastation over not being able to hang the offending decor in my home. “So sad.”
Isla purses her lips like she’s about to say something, but then her forehead crinkles again. The cogs are clearly turning in that beautiful brain of hers. She crosses her arms in a defiant gesture, and…fuck me. That move diverts my attention to her pretty red V-neck sweater dress, and the silver necklace with the mistletoe charm nestled right above her breasts.
With my gaze firmly locked on the soft flesh of her chest, she says, “Rowan.”
My name comes out like she has a secret up her sleeve.I’dlike to be up her sleeve.
“Yeah?” I ask, raspy, full of grit as distraction takes hold of me. But I manage to lift my gaze and meet her eyes.
She parts her lips, a sly smile whisking across them. Her mouth is entirely too distracting, especially with that shiny gloss.
My mind swims with inappropriate thoughts, including one lodged front and center in my skull—what would my best friend’s sister do if I reached out, touchedthat charm on her necklace, then brushed a finger across the bare skin of her chest? Would she let out a low gasp? Would her eyes flare with desire? Would she moan if I kissed her there, right there, then roamed my mouth up her collarbone to her neck, then to those soft, pretty lips?
