Page 92 of Mistletoe and Christmas Kisses

Adam’s lips curved in a deliberate, sweeping smile. He tipped his head and laughed, long and deep.

Tanner’s temperature soared with each chuckle. He fisted his hands by his side. “Just forget I asked for your help, all right?”

Lips twitching, Adam tossed the hairpin back to Tanner. “Oh, don’t go getting your dander up. I’ll help. Somehow, I’ll help. Because damned if you are not the most lovesick pup I’ve ever seen. A hairpin. For two years.”

Tanner pocketed his treasure and swung away. At least one of them could enjoy his misery.

* * *

A pleasant hum buzzed in Kate’s head by the time the tree decorating began. The artificial bravado gave her the courage to ignore Tanner. Handsome, scowling Tanner, who kept trying to wedge himself between her and—she glanced at the man beside her—oh, heaven, she couldn’t remember. But he seemed nice enough, whatever his name was. Harry, maybe. Or Joseph? A little short, Harry-Joe, but what was the attraction with a tall man? And, Harry-Joe’s eyes weren’t as striking as...well, who really needed to gaze into eyes as blue as a summer sky?

Kate bounced on the balls of her feet and flung her popcorn garland at the tree. It sailed high and snagged, quite inelegantly, on a different branch than she had intended. “Excuse me,” she said to Harry-Joe. “Can you help me? My decoration is caught.”

Harry-Joe stretched, grasping the garland and presenting it to her like a trophy.

“Jesus.”

Kate jerked, leaned down and in, peering between a broken-branched hollow. Tanner, eyes narrow and, damn it all, very, very blue, peered back at her. They stared, so still Kate could hear pine needles scraping against her cheek.

She even imagined she could hear Tanner breathing.

Behind her, Harry-Joe coughed and touched her elbow. She started, bumping into the tree, rousing a chorus of groans and bouncing ornaments.

“Would you like some Syllabub, Miss Peters?” Harry-Joe asked.

“Yes, thank you.” Though, the last thing she needed was more Syllabub. She reached into the wooden crate by her side: crocheted ornaments, paper link chains, holly sprigs, cornucopias overflowing with candy. She chose a delicate lace star, considered a moment, and hung the ornament in a bare spot. Stepping back to see how it looked, she encountered a hard chest. She did not have to turn to know who stood there. She smelled him. Tobacco, mint, man.

“Mr. Barkley, what a surprise.” She nudged the star a little higher. Her voice, surprisingly, sounded quite steady.

Tanner stepped beside her, his elbow brushing hers, a snowflake dangling from his finger. “Do you need any help with your garland, Miss Peters?” He waggled the snowflake in her face.

She knocked the ornament away, snatched a green sprig from the crate, and had it halfway to the tree before she realized she held mistletoe. A log splintered in the fireplace; her skirt brushed Tanner’s boots. All disturbed the rhythm of her pulse. Her hand quivered, and the mistletoe fluttered to the floor.

Kate blinked and angled her chin to find Tanner watching. She could not escape the look. Or what the look meant.

“Come here,” he whispered.

She shook her head as he leaned in.

Leaned in close, until she saw the flecks of gold at the outer edge of his pupil. His lips parted, exposing straight, white teeth.

Oh, no, she thought, the words quite possibly escaping.

His breath touched her just before his lips did. A feather-light press, gentle. His fingers invading her hair. A cupped hand sliding, tangling, forcing her forward. She stumbled. Left shoulder, right knee, left hipbone. He cradled the crown of her head, walking them back, into a darkened corner, then flush against the wall.

She resisted, she truly did. Kept her lips sealed tight, her hands fisted by her side, her spine ramrod straight. Unfortunately, the wine she’d consumed had strengthened her resolve in some areas and weakened it terribly in others. And, so much time had passed since he had kissed her like this, as if he were starving for the taste of her. When his tongue touched her lips, she sighed, releasing a burst of air and restraint. He brought his hand to her waist, his snowflake hitting the floor.

His tongue circled, crept inside her mouth, cautiously, as if he feared rejection.

Rejection. She almost laughed—instead, going against any good sense, she showed him how ridiculous she found the idea. Her fingers found his cheeks, his neck, his shoulders. His muscles strained beneath her hands.

He groaned—so low she wasn’t sure if she heard it or felt it—and tightened his hold, winding one arm around her. His fingers spread over her ribcage, detailing every groove. His thumb pressed into the hollow at the nape of her neck, tilting her head. Deeper. The taste of whiskey and Syllabub mingling. Deeper. Into each other, into the corner. Deeper, as a shudder worked its way up her spine, through her mouth and into his.

Closer. A restless compulsion to get closer controlled her. He responded, leaning over her, angling her into the corner. She pulled him in, fitting her thumbs in the buckle and strap at the back of his trousers. Cool metal against her skin failed to awaken the possibility of discovery. Instead, she focused on savoring the sensations and pushing aside thoughts that interfered.

A rough edge on his front tooth. The taste of gingerbread. The scent of soap on his cheek. His brace biting into her breast. His thumb brushing the underside of her arm, sliding lower, hand curling. His fingers tangling in her dress, his skin scorching her.

Another minute...just another minute.