Page 28 of The Mistletoe Mix-up

Wren let him lead her into the small dining room and kitchen, but she needed to know the rest of the story. “Was he ever prosecuted?”

“Nope. As far as I know, he is living large somewhere sunny. Our agreement was a gentleman’s one, so I didn’t have anything in writing. I didn’t have a dime to my name when I showed up on my brother’s doorstep with my tail tucked between my legs, but he welcomed me without any recriminations.” Sam took her down the hallway and flipped on the light in the bathroom. It had a simple, silver-framed mirror and a gray and white checkered shower curtain with matching gray bathroom rugs on the floor in front of the tub and sink. “It sucks being such a sorry excuse for a big brother.”

Wren squeezed his hand. “I’m sure Clark doesn’t feel that way.”

“He’d never say so out loud, but I think it.”

“How close are you to being able to buy your own shop now?”

“Couple months maybe,” he said.

“Well, you always were artistic, so it makes sense you’d make a career out of it.”

He chuckled. “It was art or mechanics, and I don’t like to get my hands dirty unless it’s my own bike.”

“Oh boy,” Wren laughed, opening the door at the end of the hall. “I forgot what a prima donna you could be.”

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

“I remember camping with a group of friends, and you and I had our own tent.” Wren released his hand as she stepped over the threshold into his bedroom, lost in the memory as she looked around. It was as neat as the rest of the house, the black and white plaid bedspread turned down, revealing shiny black sheets. Wren smirked, tempted to ask if they were satin.

“And what, I snored?” he asked, leaning against the doorframe.

“You really don’t remember?” Sam shook his head, and she continued, “A spider climbed inside with us, and you made me kill it.”

Sam pushed off with a huff. “Not liking spiders doesn’t make me a prima donna. That makes me honest and complex, instead of conforming to toxic masculinity.”

“All I hear is that I’m”—she pointed to her chest—“the spider killer when we’re together.”

Sam reached out, running his fingertips along her cheek. “Thanks for keeping me safe.”

Wren’s stomach flipped at his soft tone. His touch continued down the side of her neck and down her arm, leaving a trail of warmth in his wake.

“I noticed you’re still not sporting any ink.” He grinned at her, taking her hand again and spinning her in a circle, as if searching for some hidden tattoo. “What happened to all that big bad talk about getting sleeves and maybe a neck tattoo?”

Wren smiled at his teasing. “I went with some friends in college, but I chickened out. There wasn’t anything I loved enough to permanently put on my body.”

“I understand what you mean. All of mine have special meaning to me.”

“Really?” she said, reaching for his right arm. “May I?”

Sam grinned devilishly. “You don’t ever have to ask permission to touch me, Birdy. In fact, I insist.”

“Stop,” Wren murmured, ducking her head so that he wouldn’t see her blushing as she studied the colorful designs on his arm. They connected naturally, like puzzle pieces placed perfectly.

She pointed at a storm cloud with dark and light outlines to the blended layers. “What’s the significance of this one?”

Sam turned his other arm, putting them next to each other so she could see the beautiful watercolor sun that seemed to line up like it was peeking out of the cloud. “It was a reminder that there is always sunshine after the rain.”

Wren’s brow furrowed as she traced the outline of the sun. “I feel like I’ve heard that before.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Sam said innocently, but when she glanced up at him suspiciously, he looked ready to burst out laughing.

Suddenly, it hit her, and she snapped her fingers. “It was a song from one of those cringey boy bands you secretly loved.”

Sam scoffed. “I didn’t like boy bands.”

“It may have been like a deep dark secret that you didn’t tell anyone, but I remember stumbling onto your playlist.” Her fingers traced the outline of the sun, smiling at his sheepish expression. “Who was it? Backstreet Boys?”