Filthy Scrooge

I sent a trio over where she should have been and the third hit her in the shoulder as she peeked above the rail. “You’re a dirty cheat.”

“You haven’t figured that out?” I called back to her.

“I’m learning.”

My fingers were frozen under the thin gloves I’d had in my pocket. They were great for shoveling, not so much for keeping warm. She stood and threw two at me like a damn ball launcher at the batting cages. I stepped out of the way for one and ducked against the other as I moved back toward the house.

She

still managed to wing my ear.

“You keep playing dirty, Miss Kane.”

“Stop calling me Miss Kane!”

“You liked it last night.”

“It was cute last night.” Another two came flying at me, but they were way over my head since she was throwing blind. “This time, it was to push me away.”

I stopped at the bottom of the stairs. “Yes, it was. I’m sorry.”

She slowly peered around the post. “What was that?”

I jammed my hands into my coat. “You’re right.”

15

Kay

I ducked back behind the post. “You’re just saying that so you can stuff snow down my sweater.” Like he’d already done.

Twice.

Bastard.

“That’s an excellent strategy, but not this time.”

My knees were wet from crouching and toppling over because his feet were in the Frankenstein league of sizes. Or maybe basketball players. I was tall—I could wear a lot of guys’ shoes if I had to. Not this guy. So, yeah, I kept tripping because I kept falling out of his shoes.

But dammit, that didn’t matter.

He’d said he was wrong. Men didn’t do that. Seriously, never. At least not in my twenty-seven years. I stood up slowly, still suspicious.

But he stood with his baggy sweatpants dotted with snowdust and wet spots from our impromptu fight. His plaid shirt was half open and that delicious chest was wet from snow, too. Even with the sun shining, it wasn’t warm out here. Snow was whipping around and I wanted nothing more than to go inside and curl up in front of the fireplace.

Instead, I’d started a snowball fight.

More because he’d been all snappy and cold after the best sex of my life, not to mention the gooey mushball feelings I’d developed thanks to his cooking skills. It had been a wonderfully sweet morning after. The man had legendary skills in the bedroom and with his griddle. He even cooked perfect bacon—then bam!

Miss Kane.

And not the sexy way he said it. That was ironic and funny with a hint of dirty in his voice. In the kitchen—not at all the same tone.

So yeah, I was mad and I’d taken it out on him with snow. And now he was being all contrite?

Yeah, I smelled a trap.

I crossed my arms over my chest, hoping for a little warmth. Too bad my nipples were frozen. I would not think too hard about how warm his mouth was and how he’d warm me up. I was still mad at him.