Page 68 of The Mistletoe Kisser

“You haven’t met Ryan,” Sammy countered. He was probably already on a plane, heading out of her life forever.

Their conversation cut off abruptly as Nikolai Vulkov, tall, gorgeous, reformed ladies man stepped inside from the cold. His gray wool coat flapped behind him in the wind.

“Ladies,” he said with a wink.

“Hey, Niko,” Sammy said. “How was the shoot?” Niko was a fashion photographer with a glossy portfolio of luxury brand clients.

“It went well enough that we got all the shots in one day instead of two. Which means Baxter and I get to surprise my beautiful, hormonal wife with the buffalo chicken special she’s been craving since 3 a.m.”

Sammy glanced through the glass where Baxter the yellow lab wore a plaid Christmas sweater and chewed on his reindeer antler headband.

“She’s a lucky woman,” Eden told him.

“Not as lucky as I am,” he insisted.

“Your order’s ready to go, Niko,” Bobby called from behind the counter.

Every woman in the place watched as Niko paid, collected the dog, and left. A collective sigh of female appreciation rose up as he disappeared from sight.

“I don’t trust this guy,” Layla announced.

“Who? Niko?” Sammy asked.

“No. Ryan. Anyone would be honored to be invited into your pants,” her friend insisted.

Sammy’s gaze roamed the restaurant. Bobby had swapped out the regular orange lava lamps on the tables for the red and green ones. Sparkly cutouts of dreidels and Yule logs hung from the ceiling, drifting on alternating breezes from the pizza oven and front door.

“I think he meant what they all mean,” she said with a sigh.

She’d stayed up too late the night before, watching wreath-decorating videos on YouTube and massacring bows and pinecones. Then she’d spent another few sleepless hours replaying Ryan’s side-of-the-road kiss. His insightful conversation on horseback. His curt “Thanks for everything, Sparkle” when she’d dropped him off at Carson’s. Sometime around two a.m., she’d tiptoed into the gossip group on Facebook and cursed herself for looking so eager and hopeful in every one of the nine pictures her neighbors had managed to sneak of her and Ryan together.

Please like me, her eyes seemed to say in each picture.

“What do you think they all mean?” Eden asked.

“That I’m good enough to drive them around, or cook them breakfast, or babysit their little sister. But not good enough to take to prom or date. Or in this case, have a steamy one-night stand.” She was feeling sorry for herself. It made her want to slap herself in the face. There was no room in her schedule for a pity party and no tolerance for being annoying.

Eden and Layla exchanged a look.

“What?” Sammy asked.

“Sammy, I say this with love.” Eden patted her hand on the table. “That is the most asinine thing I’ve ever heard you say. And that’s including the time we were loaded on cheap rum, and you thought you saw Oprah in the ladies’ restroom at the skating rink.”

Technically, it had been a poster of Oprah.

“You’re making it sound like you get rejected all the time,” Layla said, steering them back on topic.

“Ido,” she insisted.

“Do not,” Eden argued.

“Men look at me, and they see a little sister or a tomboy or a woman who puts her arms up cow asses. I wouldn’t expect you two to get it.”

“Us two?” Layla’s eyebrows raised as she took a bite of cheesy pizza.

“They look at you two and see beautiful, interesting sex goddesses. Men trip over their pants to have sex with you.”

“Technically that was only because Davis had a concussion and his balance was off,” Eden pointed out.