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Some kind of Christmas this was.

I stood behind the bar, polishing the well lacquered wooden top with a rag, yet again. My boss, Helen, was determined that we stay open all throughout the festive season, and me being one of the few people without a partner or kids, it meant I got the night shift at the roadhouse.

“There’s no one waiting at home for you, honey,” she’d said in that faux bright tone of hers. Like apparently, you can say seriously cunty things, as long as you sound highly medicated when you say them. “And think about the money. Time and half!”

It was of course, supposed to be triple time, according to our award, but getting an industrial relations consultant out here—actually anyone other than truckers and hippies or backpackers packed inside Kombi vans—was a mean feat. Which was why I was so surprised when he rolled in.

I saw the big truck and assumed I was gonna get either some tweaker off his face on caffeine and meth, grinding his teeth as he muttered just what he’d like to do to me after my shift, or some boofhead with a big mouth and even bigger gut. I got neither of those things.

The sliding doors parted, and while it was nine-fifteen PM and the moon was well and truly up, I felt like I was having one of those moments where that single ray of sunlight hits your one true love, wreathing him in golden light, because day-um.

This boy was beautiful. Long blond hair tossed carelessly behind his shoulders, which were so broad, I was sure they could blot out the sun.

They narrowed down to a neat waist, the worn cotton of his shirt hinting, teasing, flirting with me with the glimpses of cobblestone abs I spied.

Who the fuck had a body like that outside of my much replayed copy of Magic Mike or gay porn?

I was a keen watcher of both. But for some reason, Tall, Golden and Way Too Fucking Gorgeous for This Dump looked a little lost.

“Can I help you?” I asked, my usual script with customers, but I admit, I might have injected a little purr in there.

“Uh…yeah. I was looking for a drink and a meal.” He dug out his wallet and pulled out a card. “And a room if you have one?”

“All three, sweetie. You’re in luck. My boss assumed we’d have a fleet of people wanting somewhere nice to crash for the festive season, but alas, no. So just a room for you, or is there a lucky lady with you?”

I wondered what the hell I’d said wrong when I saw a flash of pain cross his face. Like no, no way. It went against the rules of the universe that someone that gorgeous would experience heartache. Surely he was leaving trails of beautiful women panting in his wake, always wanting more?

“Just me,” he said with a shake of his head. Then he walked up to the bar, moving to take a seat, before pausing. “Is it OK for me to sit here?”

“Sure,” I said, trying not to drool at the prospect of him sitting front and centre. “There’s no one else here, so every seat is free. Now, what can I get you while you’re filling out the accommodation paperwork?”

I slid the basic details form we used when someone rented one of the few not especially well-appointed rooms at the back. They were old, tired, but I made sure to keep them squeaky clean, and out here, beggars couldn’t be choosers.

“I could murder a beer,” he replied, reaching over to take the pen I offered.

Our fingers grazed each other for a second.

No big deal, right? Like, it was a small piece of real estate, a pen, and two sets of fingers, they didn’t have a lot of room to move on it.

That whole thing, of the world turning sideways because of a tiny little inconsequential touch, was the stuff of romance novels and teenage girls.

I was just past thirty and as unlikely as anyone to get all twittery over a little thing like that.

His head buried between my thighs, now that was a whole other thing.

So why did I feel a wash of something hot, so very hot, as he reached for the pen and then tugged it from my slack fingers?

Why did I feel like I’d just been dipped in candle wax, ready to ignite?

Why did my nipples bead that little bit harder, my pussy unleashing a goddamn deluge?

Why did I see me and him, whatever his bloody name was, naked and wound together, tight as snakes, his arm around my hips, helping me work myself up and down, up and down until we?—

His eyes were the most perfect shade between blue and green, and they stared into mine like he saw every damn thing playing out in my mind and more. A small tip of a tongue flicked out to moisten sinfully full lips, his nostrils working as he drew a deep breath in, like he was scenting me.

Wait, what?

That thought was a quick slap to the face, forcing me to acknowledge the damn spectacle I was making of myself. I smiled and then turned, grabbing a clean schooner glass with one shaking hand and pouring him a tap beer. But when I went to set it before him, I saw he was still staring.

I wasn’t bad-looking. Helen had hired me because I filled out a pair of jean shorts and the required polo shirt well enough that the largely male clientele had something to look at when they came in, but I was just your average, slightly pretty, curvy girl.

I was like a six on a good day, when I woke up and my hair was doing what it actually should, not going all frizzy, but him?

He was an infinity symbol. So why the hungry look?

Why did he stare at me like I’d hung the moon or something?

“Is there anything else? The kitchen’s closing soon, but I can rustle you something up before it does. Are you hungry?” I asked, attempting to claw back my chill and failing miserably.

“More than you can imagine,” he ground out, his voice suddenly a low growl.

Fuck, the swimming pool that had already formed in my pants was just getting hosed with more.

Those eyes, they took in the way I’d been trying to wriggle subtly, thinking that would somehow ease the sudden ache inside me.

I stopped still, feeling like a mouse when an owl has them in their sights, his gaze going lower and lower until?—

“Hey, Bec, you want something to eat before we close up? There’s heaps of leftovers,” Charles called out through the kitchen servery.

“Oh, hey, man,” he said when he saw the stranger.

“Want Christmas dinner with all the trimmings? Half-price, as I’m gonna have to toss a lot of these or make turkey and cranberry sandwiches for like weeks. ”

“I could eat,” the customer said to our cook. He slid a card across the counter. “I’d like to buy you two a meal and a drink.”

“No need,” I said with a wave of my hand. “We don’t get paid much, but food and board is part of it.”

“Then let me get you both a drink. Sitting out here, doing the graveyard shift for minimum wage, you deserve a one or two.” He waved the card. “This is the boss’ expense account, and I’ve been given some leeway with what I spend.”

“You wanna get your drink on, pretty boy?” Charles asked, his hulking form filling the servery window. His brown eyes slid to me. “Looks like we’re gonna have a Christmas dinner after all.”