One More for Christmas

“Mmm.” His eyes were closed. “This is my fourth pair in two years.”

“Wow, now I’m intrigued.” She kept her arms locked around him. “What do you do to them?”

He turned his head to look at her. “The last pair was damaged a month ago when I was leaving the Stag’s Head.”

“The pub where you took me for lunch? What happened?”

“I had a little disagreement.”

“You mean a fight?” She couldn’t imagine it.

“Not exactly.” He cleared his throat. “I mean, it was a fight of sorts, although no other humans were involved. Just me. And a patch of ice. We went about four rounds.”

“Ice? You slipped?” She started to laugh and he gave her a severe look.

“Is this your idea of sympathy? Because if so, it needs work.”

“Was there any damage?”

“You mean apart from to my glasses? Yes. I took a severe blow to my pride. It’s a particularly soft, sensitive part of me, and the damage was immeasurable.”

She couldn’t stop laughing. “Your honesty is—”

“A passion killer?”

“I was going to say refreshing.” She leaned down and kissed the corner of his mouth and then his lips. “And adorable.”

“Adorable? Is that a good thing?” He hooked his arm around her, trapping her against him, and there was nothing soft or sensitive about the way he held her.

“I’m naked and in bed with you, and I’ve known you about—actually, forget it. I’m not going to think about how long I’ve known you. I’ll freak myself out. I don’t do this. I mean, not that there is anything wrong with sex you understand, but usually I have to really know someone before I get into bed with them.”

“I know. You told me.”

“Don’t remind me. I still can’t think about that without wanting to die. It was the worst, most embarrassing conversation I’ve had in my life.”

“It’s undoubtedly the best conversation I’ve had in my life.”

“You were embarrassed, too.”

“No. I’ve often dreamed of a woman telling me she wants to drink champagne naked in bed. You really messed with my sleep.” He lifted his hand and pushed her hair back from her face. “Especially after I looked you up. Cute photo, by the way.”

“You looked at my photo?”

“I might have peeked. Once or twice.”

“This is so unprofessional.”

“We’re not working. And technically, we haven’t agreed to work together yet, so there is nothing to be professional about.” He paused. “I don’t do this, either.”

“You don’t?”

“My last relationship was a disaster. We made you and Kyle look like Romeo and Juliet.”

“They both died.”

“Ah—a reminder that I should steer clear of literary references.”

“Why were you a disaster?”