Page 48 of The Mistletoe Kisser

She was laughing at him. “I warned you.”

“I thought it was hyperbole. Like ‘watch out for Tina, she’ll bore you to death with stories about her guinea pigs.’ No one actually dies from a conversation with Tina. But this poison masquerading as biscotti should come with an FDA warning label.”

She held up his coffee, looking amused. “Drink and try to forget it. And maybe next time you’ll listen to me.”

He washed down the remaining grittiness with a hit of coffee. “Please tell me Villa Harvest is a restaurant. I need something else in my mouth to block out the memory of that.”

“It is. Since you were such a good sport about the spitting and kicking, I’ll buy.”

She directed him through town. Block after block of tidy houses with festive exteriors. He was getting a wrist cramp from acknowledging all the bundled-up pedestrians who insisted on waving at him like they knew him. It was a weird town full of weird people. But the friendly, kooky kind of weird. Not the starting-a-militia-in-the-backyard kind of weird.

Sammy was looking at him again like she was considering something. He wondered if she was going to ask him for tax advice.

“You’re definitely leaving soon, right?” she said, biting her bottom lip.

“First chance I get.”

“And you won’t be back?”

“Nothing could drag me back to this holiday hellmouth,” he promised.

“Interesting,” she mused. “I imagine losing a job like that can do a number on a guy’s stress level.”

“What are you getting at?” he asked with suspicion.

“I was thinking. Since you’re obviously attracted to me, and since I don’t find you physically repulsive, we could have sex.”

A fine mist of coffee coated the dashboard.

“Jesus, Sam,” he choked. “Warn a guy before you’re about to proposition him.” He pulled over in front of a rambling Victorian home with porches and windows everywhere.

“Good sex is a great stress reliever.” She said it like she was lecturing a high school health class. “As long as you’re still getting on that plane, things wouldn’t have the chance to get awkward.”

Carefully he put the coffee back in the cup holder and picked up the wad of napkins. He smeared coffee and half-chewed concrete around on the dashboard as he drove. “Let me get this straight. You’re offering to have a one-night stand with me so I can blow off some steam? How altruistic of you.”

She lifted a shoulder. “Okay. Fine. So maybe it wouldalsoscratch an overdue itch of mine. It’s a win-win. As long as you put forth a solid effort in bed, of course. You do, don’t you?”

He stopped swiping at the windshield. “What am I supposed to say to that?”

“You’re supposed to say something like ‘I’m freaking great in bed, Sammy. I’ll leave you walking like a bowlegged cowboy.’ Or maybe ‘I’m extremely thorough in bed.’”

He opened his mouth to say something, anything. But words failed him.

He was bombarded with images of a naked Sammy writhing under him, looking at him with those blue eyes gone glassy. There was no chance of him not getting hard. It was a foregone biological conclusion.

The breath he’d been holding left his lungs slowly like a deflating balloon. His silence had stretched on too long. Now it was weird. He was making it weird. Well, she’d made it weird first with her “hey, wanna have awesome sex with me?” query.

She made it sound so easy. So uncomplicated.

But in his world, sex didn’t sneak up on him. It was worked toward, planned for, elegantly executed. There were preparations. Condoms. Manscaping. Wearing the deodorant that he’d been too hungover this morning to remember. Showering off llama spit was a new one, but it ranked right up there with the condoms. And that was onlyafterhe and the woman in question had thoroughly vetted each other.

Sure. He was a man, but dammit, sex was a big deal. His erection throbbed its agreement.

She shot him a glance. “You’ve been silent for almost three minutes.”

“I’m processing,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Are you telling me you’ve never been propositioned before?”