Chapter 2
Two
December, Seven Years Ago
CJ
In my defense, he was standing under the mistletoe.
“What was that for?” The hot stranger’s hand drifts to his cheek where I just planted a smacking kiss.
“Oh, sorry. Were you hoping for the mouth?” My eyes flick to the lips in question, which are nicely curved and slightly parted in confusion. “That’s a little forward even for me, but—”
“Mouth?”
Hot Stranger’s thick brows pull together, so I enunciate my next words carefully in case the best-looking man at this noisy party isn’t hearing me properly.
“Mistletoe.” His baffled gaze follows my finger as I point overhead. “In his welcome speech, the chamber president said anyone not wanting to get kissed should steer clear of the mistletoe.”
I lift my wineglass in a toast, but Hot Stranger’s gaze is pinned on the green leaves and white berries dangling from the chandelier above our heads.
Then his brown eyes fix on me, and I discover that the intense, frowny energy that drew my attention in the first place is even more attractive up close.
“I figured he was just kidding since we’re at a holiday mixer full of businesspeople.
” I lower my glass, my words tumbling out in a rush to explain myself.
“But then you stood right here and made all that eye contact with me, so I…” I lift my free hand, let it drop.
“I assumed that’s what you were wanting. ”
He’s still staring, so I foolishly continue. “You know, a kiss. From someone.” Oh my god, kill me. “Namely me.”
Kill me right now.
“Ah.” Hot Stranger blinks. “I missed the welcome speech.”
“Ah,” I echo as embarrassment crawls over my skin. “So that means you also missed the warning about where not to stand if you don’t want to be kissed by strangers.”
“Correct.”
My cheeks heat at his short response. “Well. Oops.” My body is now fifty percent humiliation and fifty percent cash bar Merlot. “That just makes this whole thing even more inappropriate than it already was. I am so sorry.“
He pins me with that smoldery gaze again, making no move to acknowledge my rambling apology as I edge back a step.
“Okay. So we’ve established that there was no meaningful eye contact and no consent for kissing.
” Another backward step. “That makes me oh-for-two.” I smile weakly.
“I’d take it as a personal favor if you don’t sue me or this restaurant or the Beaucoeur Chamber of Commerce or, like, the Ghost of Christmas Present. ”
Still nothing from the hot slab of broodiness in front of me, so I take another shuffling step away. “I will now take myself and my unwanted kisses elsewhere. Happy holidays, I guess? And again, I’m so sorry.”
I take a big gulp of my wine, wave the glass at him in an awkward little farewell, and pivot on my spiky heel, preparing to dive behind the cluster of poinsettias against the far wall until I can slink out the door or melt through the floor into a puddle of goo, whichever comes first. But before I can execute either plan, Hot Stranger’s voice stops me.
“It wasn’t.”
I slowly turn back around. “What wasn’t?”
“Unwanted.” He steps toward me, all tall and dark and serious. “The kiss. It wasn’t unwanted.”
“It… wasn’t?”
“And there was eye contact. For the record.” The smile that slides across his face makes my heart lurch and my thighs squeeze together. But I’m not about to let any man, not even one as gorgeous as this, get the last word.
“I knew it,” I say with a smirk, feeling a zing as his eyes drop to my mouth.
“There’s still a problem though,” he says in that deep, even voice. “I usually buy a woman a drink between the eye contact and the kissing.”
Without missing a beat, I drain the rest of my wine and hold the empty glass out to him. He chuckles and plucks it from my fingers, then steers us toward the bar, quickly securing a pair of stools and fresh drinks, in that order.
“Wyatt,” he says once we’re settled.
“CJ.” When I offer my hand, he takes it. But instead of shaking, he rubs his thumb over my knuckles.
“CJ,” he repeats, and something low in my belly heats at the way he lingers over those two little syllables. “What do you do for—”
“Nuh-uh.” I pull back and reclaim my hand, sipping my wine as I eye his ruthlessly tailored navy suit, pristine white shirt, and sedate striped tie. This man is corporate perfection, but I get plenty of that at my actual job. “No shop talk. Can’t we strip it all away and see what’s underneath?”
At the word “strip,” Wyatt’s eyes hit my mouth again, and this time they trail down to the silky tank underneath my blazer.
And I’ll admit it, I lean forward the tiniest bit, well aware that my already low neckline shifts even lower when I do.
One of the best things about being on the fat side of curvy is the cleavage.
My boobs are spectacular, and I kind of want Wyatt to notice.
Judging by the way his eyes heat, he notices. So I lean forward even more and rest a hand on his knee.
“Ask me anything else, Wyatt. Please. The weird food combos I love or the last time I cried or my perfect day or the thing I would uninvent if I could.” His eyes track me as I sit back and study him over the rim of my glass. “Ask me something interesting. I’m begging you.”
“Begging, huh?” He tilts his head and rewards me with another slow smile. “Okay then.”
So he asks me a question. Then I ask him a question. We ask each other questions for hours.
They’re the best hours of my life.
“Seepage,” Wyatt says three drinks and a second location later.
I snort. “That’s the worst word in the English language?”
An hour ago, we traded the upscale chamber of commerce gathering at a downtown gastropub for a nearby dive bar.
The Midnight Moose is covered in limp tinsel and strands of Christmas lights that have almost all of their bulbs.
Not that the ambience matters. This place could have eight tiny reindeer behind the bar mixing drinks with their dainty little hooves, and Wyatt and I wouldn’t notice.
We’re wrapped in a warm little cocoon with room for only the two of us, and I want to stay here forever laughing with him, teasing him, learning what delights him. And, of course, what horrifies him.
“Yes. Seepage.” Wyatt shudders. “Way worse than ‘ointment.’”
Now I’m the one shuddering. “You said you wouldn’t use it against me!”
I swat his arm, and he grabs my hand and brings it to his mouth. “Sorry.” His lips brush the backs of my fingers. “Favorite letter of the alphabet?”
“W,” I say shakily when I feel a quick stroke of his tongue against my knuckles, there and gone. “You?”
“C.” His breath is hot on my skin. “And J. Tell me about your situation.”
“My situation?” We’re sitting in a booth in the darkest corner of the bar, pressed together thigh to thigh. His free hand curls around my knee, making me grateful I wore a skirt tonight despite the Illinois winter cold.
“Husband? Boyfriend? Girlfriend? Wife?”
I blink up at him, still a little stunned at how fast everything’s moving.
I’ve never clicked with someone as hard or as fast as I have with Wyatt.
I went to the mixer on a whim while I’m in `Beaucoeur on a temporary work assignment.
I thought I’d stay for an hour, do a little networking, then bail.
Instead, I found my dream man under the mistletoe, and just a few hours later, it feels absolutely right that I’m practically sitting in his sweet, broody lap while his thumb moves in a slow circle over my skin.
“CJ?” He shakes me the tiniest bit, and oh yeah, he asked me a question.
“If I had a partner, would I be here with you and your incredible jawline?” I reply.
He tilts said jawline down, and I take that as an invitation to trail my fingers over it. He’s got perfect end-of-the-day stubble, and I want him to rub it all over me, my pink parts in particular.
Oh, but his somber expression’s back, and his forehead creases in thought as he studies me. After a beat, he says, “No. You wouldn’t. You’re the only woman I know who’d kiss a stranger at a business function. You’re impulsive and you take risks, but you also take serious things seriously.”
Blood rushes to my cheeks. “Yeah,” I say. “I do.” Even the people closest to me don’t always understand how to look past my fast, bright exterior to see the dedication and hard work that drive me. But somehow Wyatt slipped in and saw it all, down to the core of me.
When I don’t follow up with a question of my own, Wyatt looks at me with raised brows.
“Oh, sorry, did you need me to ask you the same thing?” I laugh because it’s such a no-brainer.
“You’re loyal as hell.” That certainty has me sliding my legs up and onto his lap.
“I don’t need to grill you about any wives in your attic to know that you wouldn’t be touching me like this if you had someone. ”
As if my words were the permission he needed, the tips of his fingers slide under the hem of my skirt, sending sparks shivering across my skin. His expression turns hot and intense in the same heartbeat.
“I don’t,” he says. “There’s nobody. Never has been, really. Not like this.”
God, his hand feels good on my thigh, and those sparks keep me talking.
“Same,” I tell him. “And I think you need me, Wy.”
His straight, heavy brows flick upward, so I continue.
“You’re all stern and serious, but you’re also dying for somebody you can let go with. Somebody you trust to let you fall just far enough.”
His gaze darts from my mouth to my breasts to my neck to my eyes. He looks as dazed as I feel.
“I think…”
I wet my lower lip as I wait for him to finish. “You think… ?”
“I think you’re right. I’ve been waiting for you,” he says quietly. “To fall with me and then help me back up.”