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He’s watching me, those blue eyes flashing dangerously again. Not in a combative way, but like he’s really taking me in.
Probably planning his next move in this ‘spirit of Christmas’ war. That, or he’s madly impressed with my all-you-can-eat order.
“I’ll have the same,” he says, and the server nods and zips away.
We sit in silence for a bit, letting the Christmas music that’s blasting through the restaurant do all the talking. But Ryan never takes his eyes off of me. Which annoys me to no end. It’s making me think about climbing across the table and straddling him. I’d run my hands down his chest until I got to his belt, and then—
I grab a buttery roll from the center of the table to have something to do with my hands.
“You know, if I could blame this snowstorm on you, I would,” Ryan says, steepling his hands while he watches me eat.
“I’m sure you would,” I say. “Unfortunately, Santa controls the weather, so you’ll have to take it up with him.”
That elicits an unexpected bark of laughter from Ryan. It’s so unlike his usual way of speaking, warm and almost… melodious. Like the sweetest note in a Christmas song.
“You’re kidding,” he says. “Santa doesn’t do that.”
I shrug. “Santa’s magic. He can do anything.”
“You don’t actually believe in Santa Claus,” Ryan say, leaning forward. “Not even an elf is that—”
“Delusional?” I finish.
“I was going to say ‘adorable,’” he says, grinning again. It’s an impish grin.
It’s irresistible.
I blush, face no doubt turning as red as my hair. Of course he thinks I’m adorable. Adorable like one of Sutton’s goats. Not hot like Sutton in all her Blake Lively lookalike way. If Blake Lively was a bit of a hippie living in Reindeer Falls.
“Of course I don’t believe in Santa.” I shrug. “But I do believe in the Christmas spirit, and that’s the same damn thing.”
“Oooh, a swear word,” he says. “I’m going to have to write you a citation.”
“That’s not a citation,” I say, prickling as he mocks my job. As he mocks me.
He leans back, crossing his arms across his chest, two fingers rubbing his jaw as he studies me. I hate being studied.
“So, is you being stuck here going to get in the way of your big fancy promotion?” I ask. “You can’t design skyscrapers remotely? Our internet not fancy enough for you?” It gives me a sliver of satisfaction to see his eye twitch at the question.
“It might,” he says. “But everyone slacks over the holidays, so I might be able to fix this.”
“Wait, did you just say that everyone slacks over the holidays?”
“So much time off the month of December. The damn office is half deserted.”
“You mean everyone takes meaningful time off to spend with the people they love,” I correct, aghast. He’s even Grinchier than I imagined.
“You don’t need an entire month off to do that,” he says. “And don’t act like people spend the holidays holding hands and singing Christmas carols together. They’re off on ski trips and taking selfies for Instagram. This holiday spirit that you’re so obsessed with… it’s just a cover for laziness and narcissism.”
Now that… that might just have made my blood boil. I can feel my whole body getting warmer, and not in the sexy way, either.
“What is wrong with you?” I snap. “Why do you have to shit on Christmas?”
“I’m not,” he protests. “But I’m not fixated on it like I’m trying to recapture a time I still believed in Santa.”
“I’m not fixated on recapturing anything,” I blurt out. “I didn’t have perfect Christmases growing up. I had fighting and bickering and divorce, okay? So get off your high-and-mighty throne before you start assuming about people.”
I sit back, breathing hard. I didn’t realize I’d leaned across the table in the first place. Ryan’s face softens as he takes in my words, which is worse. I don’t need his pity. I don’t even know why I said that in the first place.
“Food’s ready!”
It’s our server, plopping down our meals, including our enormous plates of chicken. On the one hand, I’m grateful for something to focus on that isn’t Ryan Sheppard. On the other, though, I’m regretting wasting such a great meal on an asshole.
But I refuse to ignore good food, so I promptly stuff a fried chicken leg into my mouth. Warm, buttery, crispy, perfect. Just like everything else in Reindeer Falls. I mean, the perfect part.
“I know it doesn’t make sense to you,” Ryan says suddenly. “Me caring so much about this promotion.”
“Why? Because it’s too fancy for me to understand?”
“No,” Ryan says. “Because it isn’t here.”
I take a bite of chicken, think, and then swallow. “Why do you want the promotion so bad?”
“It’s everything I’ve spent the better part of a decade working towards. It’s the next logical step in my career, even if it’s a cookie-cutter skyscraper.”
