Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 145731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
“Of course I do because it deserves disdain.”
Her sigh is longer than The Lord of the Rings trilogy. “I know I’m going to regret this, but why is mistletoe a pain in the ass?”
“It’s actually poisonous. And did you know it’s bad for your friends—the trees?”
A tiny crease digs in between her eyebrows. “What do you mean?” she asks with real concern.
Good thing I did some research on mistletoe. Any good grinch ought to be prepared for a Christmas counter-argument. “Mistletoe is actually a semi-parasitic plant. It makes its food from photosynthesis, but the roots grow into the tree, sucking water and minerals out from the sap. Like a vampire piece of Christmas decor.” I put on a sad face. “Isn’t that terrible?”
“But we’re not in a forest.”
“But we were.”
“How is that even relevant?” she asks, with more exasperation than I’d expected.
But maybe it’s exactly the amount I want. Because, for whatever fucking reason, her irritation is exciting. It’s turning up the temperature on the furnace inside me. My chest is crackling hot as I say, “It’s just good to know all the details for Christmas. You wouldn’t want to see a vampire mistletoe growing out of your favorite tree, would you?”
She points upward while staring right at me like she’s a lawyer who won’t back down. “Rowan Bishop. This mistletoe isn’t in a tree. It’s literally hanging from a brick archway. How is it a parasite now?”
“Right now it’s not. But you never know. You also don’t want mistletoe around any pets. Which is yet another reason why I can’t have mistletoe at my house. I have a pet,” I say, playing up my devastation over not being able to hang the offending decor in my home. “So sad.”
Isla purses her lips like she’s about to say something, but then her forehead crinkles again. The cogs are clearly turning in that beautiful brain of hers. She crosses her arms in a defiant gesture, and…fuck me. That move diverts my attention to her pretty red V-neck sweater dress, and the silver necklace with the mistletoe charm nestled right above her breasts.
With my gaze firmly locked on the soft flesh of her chest, she says, “Rowan.”
My name comes out like she has a secret up her sleeve. I’d like to be up her sleeve.
“Yeah?” I ask, raspy, full of grit as distraction takes hold of me. But I manage to lift my gaze and meet her eyes.
She parts her lips, a sly smile whisking across them. Her mouth is entirely too distracting, especially with that shiny gloss.
My mind swims with inappropriate thoughts, including one lodged front and center in my skull—what would my best friend’s sister do if I reached out, touched that charm on her necklace, then brushed a finger across the bare skin of her chest? Would she let out a low gasp? Would her eyes flare with desire? Would she moan if I kissed her there, right there, then roamed my mouth up her collarbone to her neck, then to those soft, pretty lips?
“Tell me something,” she says.
“Sure,” I say, since I’m transfixed now.
“Is your dislike of mistletoe about its qualities as a plant, about your hatred for Christmas, or…” She takes her sweet time, licking her lips and scrambling my brain as she adds in a throaty purr, “Or is it about kissing?”
Wait. What? That doesn’t compute. “Hold on. What are you talking about?”
She shoots me the most challenging stare in the history of Christmas bets. “Be honest. You’re not any good at it.”
“Good at what?” I ask, but I think I know what she’s saying, and she’s poked the bear.
“This is a safe space.” She glances furtively left and right, playing up the secretive nature of this convo even though it’s only us here. “You can say it—kissing. You’re not any good at kissing, right? That’s also why you’re so afraid to date.”
Oh, those are fighting words. I square my shoulders. Stand taller. “Want to bet?”
“You don’t stick to your bets.”
“I’ll stick to this one,” I say, all hot and bothered under the collar.
“Fine. I’ll bet you’re not any good at it.”
“I bet I am.”
“Right. Prove it.”
It. Is. On.
I lift a hand and cup her cheek. Her breath hitches. For one short moment, we lock eyes. Searching for permission, perhaps? I slide a thumb down her soft skin. She shudders. “Ready, sweetheart?”
Her eyes flicker with unchecked excitement but also questions. I don’t move as she seems to war with herself, dragging her teeth along her bottom lip. The questions must vanish since her eyes flare with heat, and she whispers a needy, “Yes.”
With the gauntlet thrown, I dip my face to hers, but I don’t kiss her. Not yet. I wait, my mouth millimeters from hers, till I hear that tell-tale whoosh of her breath. A tiny gasp. I notice the rise and fall of her shoulders, and the subtle way she eases her body closer to mine.