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Fuck Brett.

Fuck his stupid inheritance.

Screw his shit talking best man and all the shit I overheard.

The kiss turns ravenous as I finally give myself permission to let go.

He tastes better than I imagined, and I imagined extensively.

His thigh slides between mine and presses upward, finding the heat of my core. A sound leaves my throat that I've never made in my life, and I understand something with sudden, blinding clarity: married sex would never have felt like this. Brett never made me want anything this badly. Brett never made me want anything at all.

But then, footsteps echo at the end of the corridor.

We break apart, both breathing like we've finished a shift on the ice, but Miles doesn't step back. His eyes stay locked on my mouth while his thumb sweeps across my lower lip, collecting a streak of gingerbread icing I didn't know was still there.

He brings his thumb to his mouth and sucks it clean without breaking eye contact.

"Fucking delicious," he says.

My entire nervous system collapses more completely than our gingerbread arena.

Oh God.

I need control. One scrap of self-respect. Anything.

"I won the bet," I blurt out.

His eyebrow lifts. "You did."

"So I'm choosing my command." I straighten my dress with hands that will not stop shaking. "You're not allowed to kiss me again. Not until I ask."

Miles studies my mouth. It's probably swollen, ruined, and betraying me entirely.

But then he bends close, so close his breath moves warm across my lips without ever touching them, and every cell in my body screams at me to kiss him again.

"Fine," he murmurs. "But only because you want this. And I cannot fucking wait to hear you beg me for more."

He picks up his elf hat, settles it back on his head with infuriating calm, and walks off toward the Ski Bar with the little bell jingling.

I stay in the alcove, surrounded by boxed Christmas decorations, with weak knees, destroyed lipstick and one crystal-clear realization.

Winning that bet might be the worst decision I've made all week.

And I ran out on my own wedding.

Chapter 6

Miles

There's a rumor going around that hockey is played on ice, but nobody told the Mistletoe League because the outdoor rink is packed.

Half the town has driven up the mountain, and now families crowd the boards while snow drifts down through the floodlights. Kids are waving red Wildcards flags as vendors pass steaming hot chocolate over their heads.

The enormous Christmas tree Audrey and I resurrected blazes at full power beside the rink, every bulb now performing perfectly while Celeste Winters stands beneath it in her winter-white suit, watching it like a proud mother at a school recital.

And above the benches, behind glass in a private heated lounge, four men in expensive coats hold coffee and look out as we take center ice.

Scouts.