Page 90 of The Mistletoe Kisser

Cats were assholes. Psychic assholes.

She stretched luxuriously in the pre-dawn dark, dislodging the fur ball from her chest, as she mentally assessed her body. She feltgood. Sore. Satisfied.

All because Grumpy Ryan Sosa had banged her into oblivion.

Her eyelids flew open, and she slapped a hand to the mattress next to her. It was empty. His half of the bed was already neatly made. Disappointment settled in her chest, dulling the glow of the previous night’s satisfaction. The dumb, twittery flicker of hope she’d felt when he’d looked across the pillow at her and confessed his maybes.

“Maybe do something different.”

Had she really thought that meant her?Ugh.

“Dr. Dumbass reporting for duty,” she muttered under her breath before kicking off the covers and climbing out of bed. For a very intelligent woman, she sure did some stupid things.

Her mood had officially gone surly. Her tiny fluttery butterflies of hope had withered up and died. She had a full day of wreath assembly and booth setup ahead of her. Then there was the stack of grant applications that Mr. Bed Abandoner had offered to help her with. For a second, she thought about just crawling back into bed and pulling the covers over her head until New Year’s Day. That would count as self-care. Right?

But duty called.

She’d start fresh in January. Saying no. Blow-drying her hair.Notgetting pillow talk confused with actual relationship plans. All she had to do was survive the next few days and then she could hit the reset button.

As she trudged down the stairs, her internal pep talk was interrupted by the smell of food. Real food. Not microwaved leftover food. The lights were on downstairs, holding back the dark of the winter morning outside the windows.

Mouth watering, she peered over the railing into the kitchen and blinked.

Ryan stood at the counter very precisely arranging parsley over two plated omelets. He was barefoot. His jeans were left temptingly unbuttoned, and he was wearing what she’d dubbed her I Give Up sweatshirt. An oversized Cornell hoodie that had been washed so many times the front pocket had fallen off. On her it looked sloppy. On him it lookedhot.

He glanced up and caught her watching him. His smile went straight to her nether regions, making them feel all warm and woozy again.

“You’re here,” she said.

He gave her a hungry look. “I hope you don’t mind that I never found my pants and left last night.”

“I don’t mind.” She sounded as if she’d just run five miles after an ice cream truck.

“It’s your fault for having such a comfortable bed,” he said, with that swoon-worthy half-smirk on his lips. “And for fucking me cross-eyed.”

She tripped over a cat on its way to stare at its food dish and barely managed to not take a header onto the linoleum.

“Nice try, Holly,” Ryan said. “I already fed them and your duck.”

Holly looked down at her empty dish and back up at Sammy with hostility.

“Wow. Thank you,” she said. “Where’s Stan?”

“He’s outside with McClane and the duck. I hope they’re allowed outside because they didn’t give me a choice.”

She floated over to him on the wings of happy hope butterflies. The part of her brain that was warning her not to get too excited was drowned out by a breakfast she didn’t have to cook and fresh coffee she hadn’t had to brew. Both served by the still-here, still-smiling, hot accountant in her kitchen.

“They’re indoor-outdoor,” Sammy explained. “They’ll be back for morning treats.”

At the word “treats,” Holly wove herself in between her legs and pretended not to be evil.

“You said you have three cats,” Ryan said, digging forks out of her utensil drawer. “I’ve only seen two.”

“Hans is cat Number Three.”

Ryan snapped his fingers. “McClane, Holly, and Hans? Did you name all your cats afterDie Hard?”

“It’s my favorite Christmas movie.”