Christmas Carol

“Make my pants wet?” he grumbles, though still not annoyed and yelling like earlier. He crouches down to pull on his pants leg and survey the damage.

“She wasn’t trying to hurt you. If she was, your pants would be tattered not wet,” I point out.

“I guess there’s that.”

“If it’s any consolation, my pants are wet too,” I tell him.

The guy looks up immediately, with kind of a stunned look on his face, before his lips move into a very, very wicked smile.

“They are?” His voice is kind of graveled, and I can tell he’s of Spanish descent, although he doesn’t really have a thick accent, but there is a trace of it.

“Yeah drenched,” I mutter.

He throws his head back and laughs, catching me off guard. I’m thoroughly confused, but when his eyes come back to me and they heat me from the inside with just that look it hits me and the embarrassment falls on me like a ton of bricks.

“I meant the water I spilled!” I explain, my voice squeaky.

“Well, now, that’s a shame,” he purrs.

Oh, this guy is dangerous. I ignore the way my heart beats faster.

“Have your car buffed and get me the bill. If it doesn’t fix it, I’ll pay to get it fixed at the local auto body in town, or wherever you live,” I tell him.

“Let me guess, it’s Donner’s Dent Repair?” he grumbles.

I try not to laugh, because really, he’s being kind of testy about our town. “That’s the one,” I tell him. “Have you been there?”

“You have got to be kidding me,” he says with a sigh. I laugh, I can’t help it.

“I’m just messing with you,” I admit. “The only auto body shop in town is Frank’s.”

“Finally, a normal name,” he mutters. He seems so relieved that I don’t bother telling him that Frank’s last name is Klaus. I mean it’s spelled different than Santa’s last name, but still…

“Are you in Mistletoe to visit? This road dead ends, but if you continue on the main road there’s a bed and breakfast—”

“I’m actually subletting a townhouse here,” he corrects me.

“You are?” I ask, wondering what it’s going to be like having this guy as a neighbor. I hope I can keep a check on my brain—and my hormones.

“Yep. Do you live here?” he asks, motioning to the house behind me.

I look back at my town home and smile.

My sister has an old Victorian farmhouse that I’ve helped her make into a beautiful bed and breakfast. Krissy always wanted to be self-sufficient. It was her dream to run a business and never have to worry about money. We weren’t exactly raised in the best of situations growing up. We more or less raised ourselves. I didn’t even know our mother—or at least I barely remember her. When her and my father broke up, she left me with him. She ended up in Mistletoe and hooked up with a chef and together they had my sister Krissy. It took me years to track her down after my father died, but once I did, I moved here. I wanted a connection with my family, but I didn’t want to live with her—no matter how much she kept asking. So, I busted my ass and began running a small catering business out of my apartment in Mistletoe. It took some work, but I finally had a stable enough income to buy this place and with each payment the sense of accomplishment I feel is amazing. I’m thriving, doing something I love and I’m helping my sister do the same. I smile with my thoughts but push them back and focus on the guy in front of me.

“Right here, actually, pointing to the blue siding with brick accented home behind me. It’s the end unit and beside it is the similar home in brown siding. I personally think it’s the prettiest units—especially this time of year, because I go out of my way to decorate for the season, which is exactly what Abominable and I are doing now, by streaming the pretty, twinkling lights across my yard—well, mine and my neighbor’s, but Chelle goes to Florida this time of year. She says the cold is too rough on her bones.

“Well, it looks like you and me are going to be neighbors, Bebé,” the man says, confusing me. I look at him and he’s smiling at me and suddenly…I feel like the canary with a cat standing over me…CyrusI close the door to the town house and wrinkle my nose. This place looks like it would belong to my grandmother—not that I have one of those, but still. As I pull the sheet off of the sofa it reveals ivory fabric with lines of mauve roses.

Christ.

I can’t stay here. If I do my balls will shrink and find a way to climb inside my damn body and never work again. I shudder at that thought. Something is going to have to give. I jerk when my cell rings, and I answer it without looking because I’m so busy uncovering a matching lift chair.