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The water shuts off.

A second later, the shower curtain slides back, and Bishop steps onto the bath mat with a towel secured around his waist.

And there goes my ability to form a coherent thought.

Water runs down his chest, following the hard lines of his stomach before disappearing beneath the towel. His blond hair is darker when it's wet, falling over his forehead.

His blue eyes meet mine.

“Something wrong, Becks?”

I lift my gaze. “Nope.”

“You sure?”

“Just wondering how you manage to fit that ego into a normal-sized shower.”

He grins. “Practice.”

I should leave.

Instead, I step closer.

“Do you know how hard it is to spend Christmas Eve with you and not be able to kiss you?”

His grin disappears.

“Yeah,” he says, reaching for my waist. “I've got a pretty good idea.”

He pulls me against him, and I catch myself with my hands on his chest.

His skin is warm and damp beneath my palms.

“Do you know how many times I've thought about sneaking into your bedroom when we've been here together?”

I look up at him. “Really?”

“Becks, you have no fucking idea.” Then his mouth is on mine.

He tastes like mint and coffee, and I slide my arms around his neck, forgetting about my makeup bag, dinner downstairs, and the fact that my brother is somewhere in this house.

Bishop's hand settles at the small of my back, drawing me closer.

A drop of water falls from his hair onto my cheek.

I laugh against his mouth. “You're getting me wet.”

“Pretty sure you're the one who came looking for me.”

“I came for my makeup.”

“Right.” He kisses me again.

And I'm just starting to think I could get used to spending Christmases like this when⁠—

A knock sounds at the bathroom door.

“Bish?”