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I’d give anything to live in a house like this someday. But never mind that. I have a job to do. It’s time to make the magic rain.
I put my fist up to knock, but I pause. Because suddenly, I hear a bark. A loud one, with the kind of oomph that I usually associate with Rottweilers and pitbulls. Not that I’m afraid. I’ve literally never met a dog I didn’t want to befriend. In fact, I think I have just the thing in my bag. Sure enough, after a quick dig I locate the package of dog biscuits—made in town, of course, at the one and only Ginger’s Bake Shop.
Then, biscuit in hand, I knock on the door. It takes a minute, and I hear a lot of, “Shush, Rudy, shush,” but still, no answer. So I knock again.
I also add, “Holiday Enforcement Team Member 47 Can you open the door, please?”
That gets his attention, or at least it’s enough to get him to open the door.
And my breath catches for a second time.
I’m not a girl who can normally ignore a dog. In fact, I see it as my life’s mission to pet every dog in Reindeer Falls. Hell, the world. If you’ve got a dog, I want to pet it. But I barely notice the black and white cutie that makes a beeline for my hand holding the biscuit. Fluffy. Floppy ears. Definitely into me, based on the tail wagging and the head butting against my thigh. Still, I can’t focus. And it’s all Ryan Sheppard’s fault.
Ryan Sheppard, who’s currently standing in front of me.
Completely shirtless.
In boxer shorts.
They are not, unfortunately, Christmas boxer shorts, but they are plaid. I’m sure they’re flannel. Likely soft. But I can barely register the details because I’m stuck staring at the carved planes of his abs. The light trail of hair leading from his belly button down into said boxer shorts. His biceps. He must draft a hell of a lot of skyscrapers to get biceps like that.
Then, of course, I remember that this hot hunk of man is an Ebenezer through and through. I remember why I’m here. And it’s not for an eight a.m. roll in Ryan’s bed. Or his couch. Or on his doorstep.
None of those places.
So I manage to pull my eyes away from his chest, because he clears his throat and says “I know you’re elf-sized, but my eyes are up here.”
I snap my eyes back up where they belong. “Good morning!” I say, way too brightly, even for me. “Are you ready for this?”
“Ready for what, exactly?” Ryan stares me down, a hint of amusement on his face.
His voice is lower than usual, coated in just-woke-up gruffness that threatens to undo me completely. He rubs a hand through his hair and grips a coffee mug like he needs it to survive. It’s not even a Christmas coffee mug. It’s a plain black coffee mug, black just like the lump of coal that he’s due to get in his stocking if he doesn’t turn himself around before it’s too late.
“You remembered I was coming, of course?” I say, my voice still abnormally high. “I told you I’d be coming over to check that you’d corrected the violations.”
“God, I didn’t think you were serious,” he replies, his lip quirking in definite amusement this time.
“Of course I was serious,” I explain patiently, because I am Cindy Lou Who. Or the Ghost of Christmas Present. Or something like that. “As serious as Santa picking Rudolph to lead his sleigh.”
He stares at me like I’m some kind of hallucination before shaking his head as if that’ll make me disappear. But the joke’s on him because I’m not going anywhere.
“Is that even cocoa you’re drinking?” I ask, nodding at the mug.
“It’s eight in the morning,” he replies slowly, and then, when I don’t respond, he clarifies. “It’s coffee. It would be much weirder if it were cocoa.”
Those are fighting words. And just because he’s Ebenezer in a superhero’s body, he doesn’t get to just throw out sacrilegious statements.
“You really need to work on getting into the spirit,” I tell him. “Cocoa’s the first trick to getting into the mood. That, and lighting Christmas candles.”
He grins, the sexy, lazy kind that an actor in a romcom would grin right before the heroine spontaneously orgasmed. “I don’t need to know what gets you in the mood, Christmas cop.”
“It’s Maggie,” I remind him, turning away so he can’t see my blush. “And I’m just trying to help you.”
The dog nudges my hand, demanding to be pet. I drop to my knees and happily oblige, giving the pup plenty of scratches behind his ears.
“Rudy, you’re embarrassing yourself,” he says. “You could at least make an effort at playing hard to get.”
“Rudy?” I beam, looking up. “Is Rudy short for Rudolph?”
