I stare at him.
He stares back, waiting.
“Hold on.” I lift up a hand, my brain struggling to catch up. “You’re telling me you’re not an actor. You’re not a performer. You’re, what, law enforcement?”
“Bounty hunter.”
“You hunt down criminals for a living?”
“Yep.”
“And Lily convinced you to play Santa for me?”
“More like guilt-tripped me into it, but yeah, basically.”
I stare at him. He’s massive, at least six two, probably more, with shoulders that look like they were built for tackling people. The Santa suit is straining at the seams, white fur trim looking absurd against obvious muscle. His hands—I remember how they felt, one in my hair, one on my waist—are definitely not mall-Santa hands. They’re big, scarred across the knuckles, the hands of someone who works with them.
A laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep in my chest. I try to hold it back, but it’s impossible. It spills out, half hysteria, half genuine amusement.
“I’m sorry,” I gasp, pressing my hand to my mouth. “It’s just, you’re enormous. That suit barely fits. You look like you could snap someone in half. And you…” I stop myself, but he’s watching me with that smirk again.
“And I what?”
“Nothing.”
“Finish the sentence.”
“No.”
“Come on. I want to hear it.”
“Fine.” The whiskey is making me bold. “You kiss like you’ve done it a thousand times and knew exactly what you were doing.”
His smirk goes full wattage. “For the record, you kissed me first.”
“I was desperate.”
“You were phenomenal.” He says it simply, like it’s a fact. “That wasn’t desperation. That was… something else entirely.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “I shouldn’t have done that. That was completely inappropriate. You were doing my sister a favor, and I basically attacked you?—”
“I’m not complaining.”
“You should be.”
“Trust me, I’m not.” He shifts slightly. I catch another wave of his scent, and part of me wants to press my face against his neck and inhale.
He’s quiet for a beat, studying me. “Want me to talk to your business partner, Scot?”
“Talk to him how?” I say. “Like, politely? Over cocoa? Or with your knuckles? Maybe throw him in a river? Or simply finish him and leave him tied to a pine tree?”
He actually laughs, a low sound that makes the room feel smaller. “All very viable options,” he says, amusement flickering across his face. “But I find subtlety usually works best.”
I picture a bounty hunter whispering and smiling politely while Scot clutches his pearls. “Right. Like a Hallmark special in which the handsome stranger gently explains boundaries.”
His grin goes predatory and very sincere. “Except I’m not in the business of gentle explanations. I’m in the business of results.”
My stomach does that stupid flutter thing. “How bad are we talking? One to ten?”
