Chapter 2 Penn
Penn
“Are you okay?” Jaylynn asks, her voice tinged with concern, and maybe amusement. I try to drag my eyes away from the candy-cane stripes coating every square inch of the room, but it’s like a train wreck in gingerbread form. I want to look away. Really. I do. I just… can’t.
“It’s not that bad, is it?” she asks, eyes wide and hopeful.
I glance at the elf wallpaper border. The blinking string lights wrapped around the mirror. The peppermint-stick sleigh bed.
She huffs out a laugh. “What am I even saying? Of course, it’s that bad.”
“No, it’s good,” I say quickly, forcing a smile as I shake off the mild Christmas-induced panic attack. “It’s great. Festive. Cozy. Better than sleeping outside… or sharing a room with that herd of cats.”
“Clowder,” she murmurs.
“What?”
“A gathering of cats is called a is called a clowder of cats.” I stare at her and she shakes her head. “Never mind.” She grins and spins a slow circle in the middle of the room, arms out like a deranged holiday cruise director. “Welcome to the Peppermint Palace.”
I chuckle, unzipping my coat as I look around again. “They really go all out for Christmas here, huh?”
“Bad news,” she says with a wink. “This room looks like this year-round.”
I freeze mid-sleeve. “But why?”
“Some people are Christmas obsessed.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
She pats a pillow shaped like a snowman’s head. “I wish that wasn’t true.”
I groan. “Jaxon’s family still owns this place, right?”
“Yep.”
Jaxon Sheffield. Small-town hockey royalty and now my teammate. He grew up right here in Snowberry Falls. He was older than me, so we never really ran in the same circles, but I know he’s a solid guy. Talented player. Always polite, even when I was just the new kid sweating through rookie camp.
I haven’t really bonded with the team much since getting called up, and I’m not sure how they feel about me after the mall incident. One rogue Santa stunt and now my position is on thin ice. Literally.
“This town probably still thinks Buddy the Elf was a documentary,” I mumble.
Jaylynn smirks. “Heads up. Jaxon gets back tomorrow. His room is right across the hall.”
I shift my duffel onto the peppermint-striped bench and try not to notice the way Jaylynn’s flannel pajama pants hug her curves as she fluffs the snowflake pillows. But the twitch in my groin says otherwise. Apparently, he didn’t get the memo about professionalism and boundaries.
Down, buddy. Now is so not the time.
It’s not that I haven’t noticed her before.
Believe me, you’d have to be blind not to.
But back in high school, she was untouchable.
Gorgeous. Smart. Off-limits in every way.
Dating Dylan since freshman year, practically wearing his class ring and his last name.
Not to mention, her dad was my coach. Which meant she might as well have worn a neon sign that read—DO NOT TOUCH UNLESS YOU WANT TO SKATE SUICIDES UNTIL YOU DIE.
But her dad isn’t your coach anymore, dude.
Still. Doesn’t matter.
Because this? This whole fake-engagement-for-the-sake-of-PR thing? It’s about cleaning up my image, not complicating it with off-limit girls in flannel pajamas who unknowingly make my life harder—in every way—every time she bends over.
I snap my gaze toward the ceiling, pretending to admire the giant glittering wreath hanging from the light fixture.
It’s fine. Totally fine. All good.
Just one bed. One plan. One professional, platonic arrangement.
Totally chill.
And really, maybe she’s playing this game with me to make her ex jealous because she might want him back. I’ve seen plenty of that kind of drama and manipulation in the hockey world.
My gaze trails back to Jaylynn, who just bent to pick up a peppermint-shaped pillow. I peel off my coat, suddenly boiling, even though the room is barely heated.
Yeah. Chill.
Right.
Except definitely not, if she keeps bending over like that.
Fuck me.
I move my duffel bag to the bed, and when Jaylynn moves toward me, a shrill, BZZZZZ screams from above.
“Holy—” I clutch my chest like I’ve just seen my playoff hopes flash before my eyes. “Is that a fire alarm?”
Jaylynn nearly doubles over laughing. “Nope,” she says, pointing upward like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “That would be the mistletoe alarm.”
I blink. “I’m sorry, the what now?”
“No idea how it works,” she says with a shrug, stepping back from me.
The moment she moves, the alarm cuts out with an abrupt click.
She glances up, then down at the space between us.
“Maybe it’s a pressure sensor or something?
Like if we get close, the alarm is an indication that we should, you know… kiss.”
“Wow.” I stare up at the offending sprig of mistletoe dangling from a ribbon like it’s mocking me. “That’s not festive. That’s disturbing.”
She smirks. “Welcome to the peppermint honeymoon suite and I really do hope it’s a weight thing that sets that off and no one from the lobby is watching.”
I chuckle, even as my pulse tries to catch up from the surprise buzzer. “This whole room is a booby trap. Next thing you know, Cupid’s going to pop out of the mini fridge.”
She laughs, then trails off, her gaze dropping to my groin area. “Though, I mean… This is the honeymoon suite and that alarm is, well, let’s just say it’s more likely to trigger a heart attack than a rise…”
She pauses, cheeks suddenly blooming a soft, rosy pink, and her hair tumbles forward as she ducks her head.
“More than what?” I ask, casually, but my voice comes out a little too low. A little too interested.
Abort mission. Shut it down, man. No time for jokes.
Her head snaps up, brown eyes sharp. “You know what I mean.”
I lift a brow. “Can’t say I do.”
Her glare says I’m about three seconds from getting smacked with a festive pillow.
“A rise in…” She pauses and huffs out, “Let’s just say you have one, and I don’t.”
I stare at her, wanting to push this just a little bit. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because she looks so damn cute when her cheeks flush. “A gallbladder? You think that is causing a rise in gallbladder attacks? I remember when you had to have yours out in high school.”
She lets out the most dramatic sigh known to mankind.
“Yes, Penn,” she says, tone pure sarcasm. “Exactly. That mistletoe alarm is more likely to cause a rise in gallbladder attacks than anything else. Nailed it.”
I laugh, full on now, and she rolls her eyes so hard I’m surprised she doesn’t pull something.
She points at the bed. “Anyway. Which side do you want?”
I eye the mountain of heart-shaped pillows with suspicion. “Whichever you don’t. This is your room, your rules.”
She flops backward onto the mattress. “I usually sleep in the middle. Starfish style. Limbs everywhere.” She throws her arms and legs out dramatically, kicking up a few peppermint pillows in the process.
Unfortunately, physics decides to get involved, and the motion makes her breasts bounce beneath her flannel top.
Goddammit, she’s about to cause a gallbladder attack. I clear my throat and focus intensely on the wreath hanging over the bed as I try to think of an intelligent response. “Starfish. Right. Limbs.”
Brilliant. Shakespeare over here.
“So uh, you take the middle then.”
A peppermint pillow smacks me square in the chest. “I’m joking, enforcer,” she says, sitting up. “Relax. You can have the side farthest from the creepy elf. I’m generous like that.”
We both glance toward the corner of the room, where the peppermint suite’s unofficial mascot sits perched like a holiday demon.
A three-foot felt elf, with googly eyes, a smirk like it knows all your secrets, and the unsettling energy of something that’s definitely witnessed crimes—or was responsible for them.
I point. “Okay, no. Nope. That thing moved, Jaylynn. I swear to God, it moved.”
She just plants a hand on her hip like she fully expected this. “Yeah, he does that sometimes. I think it’s the festive energy.”
“Festive energy?” I repeat, staring it down. “That elf is possessed. We’re going to need an exorcist.”
She shrugs and pulls back the covers like we’re not sharing a room straight out of a twisted gingerbread-themed horror movie. “He only moves when provoked.”
“That is not comforting.” I unzip my duffel bag warily, half expecting the elf to blink. “So, uh… what’s the sleepwear situation here?”
She tugs at the hem of her flannel pajama top and climbs under the covers, nestling into a stack of peppermint pillows like this is completely normal behavior. “Practical and adorable. ‘Sleigh, Girl, Sleigh.’ I’m a whole Christmas vibe.”
I can’t stop myself. “Does it sparkle when the lights go out?”
She glares at me like I just insulted Santa—or decked him again. “Funny.”
I do a full scan of her body. Strictly for analysis and not because I’m wondering what’s under all that flannel. Okay, maybe a little because of that. “You won’t overheat in those?”
She narrows her eyes. “Why? What exactly are you planning to wear?”
“I’m a hot sleeper.” I pause. “I usually sleep… uh, nude.”
She recoils, her face twisting like she’d just eaten something offensive. “Are you serious?”
Wow. Okay. That reaction stings a little. It’s not like I’m some Quasimodo-looking troll. Sure, I’m not Mr. Yearbook Poster Boy like her ex, but I’ve got abs. Shoulders. A jawline. I’m not exactly unfortunate looking.
Simply not her type, man.
Good. She’s not mine either.
…Much.
“Yes, I’m serious. But for your comfort and safety, I have these.” I hold up a soft, well-worn T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. “These work?”
“Works for me,” she says with a shrug, but I don’t miss the flicker of something behind her eyes.
God, these are going to cook me alive. “No promises if I strip them off in my sleep.”
She gives me the driest look known to man. “Charming.”
I glance around. “Is there a thermostat in here? Maybe I can cool it down a little so I don’t melt into a puddle.”