Page 24 of The Mistletoe Kisser

Sammy threw her hands in the air. He could argue mistaken identity all he wanted. It didn’t matter. He’d already ruined the moment for her. “Fine. Whatever. It doesn’t matter what you were. It only matters what you are now.”

“What am I now?” he asked.

“A miserable, grumpy, superior, snide adult who seems like he’s never had fun in his entire life. I bet your bedroom walls are beige,” she predicted.

He frowned, furrowing his brow. “Hey. Those are my feelings you’re hurting.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m not sorry.” She took the empty glass and returned to the kitchen to refill it.

“Oh, come on,” he called after her. “You’re whining about some lame holiday peck from a guy who’s too busy getting pedicures and visiting sketchy massage parlors to pay his own rent. I’m the one whose life just unraveled. You don’t hear me bitching about it!”

She practically ran back to the living room. “You’ve done nothing but bitch about everything,” she scoffed, handing him the glass again instead of upending it on his head like she wanted to. “What’s the matter, Crabby Patty? Sad about being stuck in this ‘hippie hellhole’ for the holidays?”

“I could give a steaming crap about the holidays,” he said testily. “I’m much too distracted by the fact that my biggest client lied to my face for years, embezzled a fuckton of money from his own company, and got me fired because I damaged my firm’s reputation.”

Sammy eyed him in surprise. Maybe the Grinch had a reason to be grinchy. He flopped back in the chair, spilling water over the rim of the glass onto the crotch of his pants.

“They fired me,” he said quietly. “Didn’t even give me a chance to defend myself or remind them what I’ve done for them for the last twelve yucking fears.”

“That sucks,” she said, feeling the tiniest spark of empathy.

He eyed her suspiciously. “Yes. It does. I love my job. ’S my whole life.”

She knew the feeling. “What do you do for a living?”

“Corporate accountant,” he said. “And now Bart Lumberto, the buck-toothed weasel, is puttinghisass inmychair behindmydesk and gloating about it.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry,” she said. “I hope it works out.”

“Works out? Ha. That’s unpossible. Did I mention that I dislike this clear whiskey very much?” He raised the glass to her and then chugged it in two long swallows. While he was distracted, Sammy tucked the whiskey bottle behind the bizarre pile of shoeboxes on the couch.

“Oh! And”—he stabbed at the air wildly with one finger— “nowI’m supposed to swoop in here and save the day.”

“Whose day?” she asked.

“Great-Uncle Carson. ’S a family thing. I shouldn’t talk about it.” His attempt at a whisper came out in the realm of a shout.

Grumpy Ryan was kind of cute when totally shit-faced. The observation annoyed her. “Is Carson in trouble?”

“Pfft. Only if ending up homeless in an air tunnel at one million years old is trouble.”

Oh, good. They’d gotten to the gibberish portion of the evening.

“It’s on me, disgraced corporate accountant guy, toswoopin and save the day.” To emphasize his point, Ryan slashed his arm through the air and knocked a tissue box and its crocheted cover to the floor.

“Where is your uncle?” she asked, trying to make sure there wasn’t a real emergency that needed to be dealt with.

“He’s in Boca with a fetlock.”

“I don’t think you know what that word means,” she said.

“His plane went through an air tunnel,” he told her.

“Oh, boy. Okay. Maybe let’s get some sleep. Regain some sanity. I’ll swing by in the morning and help you with the sheep and chickens. You can tell me more about the fetlock and the air tunnel then.”

He opened one eye and looked at her with suspicion. “Why?”

“Why what?”