Chapter 3
“Polish, right?” I ask, after hearing him chat for a minute with an equally-tatted guy about his age. I’m curious what they were talking about but not enough to ask.
“How do you know?”
“I live in Chicago. Half my friends are Polish.”
“But not you?”
“Not me. I’m basically the EU minus Poland and Spain.”
He chuckles, amused. “So, what do you think my friend and I were talking about?”
“Probably how you have no shot with me and should get home before bedtime.”
His lips twitch. “You think you’re that special?”
“I thought I wasn’t thinking?” I ask, intentionally sexy.
“Good girl,” he mouths, like it’s our secret.
I roll my eyes, although my heart is racing. I loved that. He pulls my stool closer to his.
If I go back to his … No! You are not going anywhere with a guy you know absolutely fucking nothing about—even though the vibes are there. After this drink, you’re heading straight home to your mom’s house. No detours. No fun. Just torture, and not the sexy kind.
“Sell me on the idea … of your place,” I say after my next sip, ignoring my own internal warnings.
“I don’t beg.”
I hate that his words make me smirk. “What do you do, then?”
His eyes slowly roam down my body. “Hopefully kiss and lick what’s under that tinsel.”
I sway my head back and forth, considering.
“We can keep playing this game,” he says, so low only I can hear, “or you can get in my fucking car.”
I inhale sharply, trying to focus on the bigger picture and not what’s going on between my legs. “Is it nice?”
“Audi.”
“So suburban mom of you.”
He stares at me, clearly unamused.
“Where’s your house?” I ask, internally selling myself on the idea of a night with Santa. It’s not a hard sell. He’s hot, commanding.
“I’m staying at my cabin tonight.”
I quirk a brow. “Define cabin.”
“Ten-thousand square feet on forty acres.”
“Flexing?” Although that sounds way better than sleeping at my mom’s house.
“Flexing …” he repeats, almost like he’s mocking the word. “Flexing would be telling you about all my homes … all around the world.”
He could be full of shit and actually planning to murder me, but the fact remains—I’m turned on. I stare at my drink, weighing the possibilities. The logical side of me screams no, but I’m done thinking.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“You don’t care.”
Do I care? The question plays on repeat as we continue our staring contest. I blink then huff, looking down at my drink. “I’ll get in your fucking car, but I’m not sleeping over.”
I’m going to fuck bad Santa and then go home.