Page 80 of The Mistletoe Mix-up

“That does make me feel a little better,” she said softly, pouring two shades of green and baby pink into the glass ball, then swirling the paint inside.

Sam didn’t understand how she could admit to being jealous and yet act as though him promising to be monogamous wasn’t a big deal.

“What about you?” he asked, fighting his aggravation. “Are you going to be seeing anyone else from town?”

“No, I hadn’t planned on it.” She dumped the excess paint on a palette, casually adding, “I’m concentrating on one thing here. I don’t need to complicate my life by having a harem of fuckboys waiting in the wings.”

Sam’s jaw clenched. “You are so funny I forgot to laugh.”

Wren looked up from her project, watching him thoughtfully. “It really does bother you.”

“What, the term ‘fuckboy’? Yeah, it does because you’ve used it to describe me.”

“I’m sorry, but to be fair, that was before I got to know you again.”

“Well, to set the record straight, I’m not a boy. Second of all, I have a brain. I have talent. I have ambitions, and I don’t want to be reduced to a tool that someone uses to scratch an itch.”

“Sam,” she said, getting up and rounding the table, settling onto his lap. “You’re not a tool.”

“Thanks,” he grumbled.

She kissed him soundly before she got up and whispered in his ear, “However, your tool is fantastic.”

Sam laughed, smacking her ass, and she squealed, rubbing her posterior all the way back to her seat. Sam picked up the paintbrush again, smiling as he made little strokes, concentrating on his task. He could feel her eyes on him, watching, and he caught her gaze.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing. You’re just adorable. Even with your tongue sticking out of the corner of your mouth.”

Sam hadn’t realized he’d been doing that and tucked his tongue back into his mouth.

“I wonder if our kid will do that when he or she is concentrating,” she mused.

Sam’s heart skipped a beat, imagining a little boy with blond hair biting his tongue as he helped his mom do something. Would she think of him?

“Sam,” she whispered, catching his attention. “I know you offered to do this for me, but if this is too much, we can stop now. I’m sure we haven’t succeeded yet.”

“Why are you sure that we haven’t succeeded?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I thought this was something that usually took most people some time.”

“Well, we’re not like most people,” Sam said, tired of his heart seizing every time he thought she was going to bail on him. “I’m not backing out of this. I told you I would do it. I signed a contract, and I’m going to see it through.”

Wren cleared her throat. “Thank you very much. I appreciate your friendship.”

“You’re welcome, although I’d rather you didn’t thank me,” he said gruffly.

“Sorry.”

Sam put his brush down and studied his handiwork. “Do you want to see what I was doing with my ornaments?”

“Yes, I do.”

He turned the ball around and in beautiful calligraphy, it read Baby’s First Christmas.

“Even though I can’t be in the kid’s life, he’ll have something in it from me,” Sam said, setting the ornament in the egg carton he’d grabbed to let it dry, pain twisting inside him like rope being tightened with every turn.

“Sam, it’s lovely.”