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“Cider,” I reply, without any real thought to which I prefer, because I need to do something other than just stare at him. Because why, why does he look even hotter now that we’re here? He’s got little bits of snow in his hair, and I’m noticing the slight shadow of stubble on his chin. And that sweater. There’s something so… sensual about it.
It would look nice on my bedroom floor, which is most definitely not allowed tonight. Or any night.
“Cider it is,” he says, grabbing me a cup from the drink stand at the start of the path. “You ready?”
No. No, I’m not ready. I’m still trying to talk myself out of being turned on by Carter’s sweater, and I doubt that being snuggled in a sleigh with him will help.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I quip. “But don’t you want to get a picture? Document this for social media?”
He shrugs. “In a bit. Come on.”
An older gentleman waves us over to his sleigh. He looks like the kind of guy who will play Santa at some point in Reindeer Falls, if he isn’t already.
“Name’s Jack the Sleigh Captain,” he tells us. “Hop on in.”
I practically launch myself into the sleigh to avoid letting Carter help me, which I only semi-pull off, as I’m pretty sure that between my lack of grace and the length of my dress he probably got at least a glimpse of my ass, but at least I didn’t fall.
“Excited to get this show on the road, huh?” Carter asks, climbing into the sleigh beside me. He gets a laugh from Jack the Sleigh Captain, who thankfully shuts up fast after I glare at him. Jack turns his eyes to the road, gives the horses a nudge, and off we go onto the glittering path.
“Just ready for this to be over,” I say, trying again to ignore the romance and the magic. “I’ve got a life to get back to, you know.”
“Ah, right,” Carter says. “Reindeer Falls Head Librarian.”
The way he says it, I can’t tell if he’s making fun of me or not. But I have to assume that he is.
“About that,” I say, taking a sip of my cider. “I saw you returned that book you borrowed. You could’ve just not borrowed it if you weren’t going to read it, you know.”
As the horses clip-clop forward into the forest, Carter stares forward, considering what I’ve said. He must be deciding how best to rile me up.
So I’m surprised when he says, “Actually, I did read it.”
“Don’t lie,” I tell him. “You don’t even know what you checked out.”
“Young adult fantasy. It’s my favorite genre.”
“Carter, that’s impossible.”
“Why’s that?” He arches an eyebrow while sort of side-eyeing me and it does nothing to make him less sexy, which is unfair.
“Because you… you don’t read young adult fantasy. Or fantasy. Or anything but game plans.”
“Because I’m a ‘jock’?” Carter asks, giving me a little nudge with his shoulder. “Don’t tell me the Reindeer Falls Head Librarian is so close-minded that she judges books by their covers. I’d have to retract my five-star review.”
“You have never written a five-star review for a library.” I laugh.
“Actually, I have,” he says. “Whenever I travel to a new city, I check out the library. See if it’s as good as the one back home.”
He gives me a wink that warms me from my toes to my fingertips. I push the feeling away and force myself to watch the snow instead, but I know I’m blushing.
“I don’t believe you,” I say, but that just makes him laugh more.
“Like you didn’t believe me about the chemistry?”
As he says this, he inches closer to me in the sleigh.
Oh, this is dangerous.
Far too dangerous.
“I’m just saying that none of this adds up,” I say. “Why would you like young adult fantasy, anyway?”
“The world-building,” he says, with more enthusiasm than I’m expecting. “And the pacing. There’s a lot of downtime on the road, reading makes it fly by. And sometimes it’s nice to get invested in another world. You get that, right?”
“I… I do,” I say, surprised. Not because I don’t understand. But because he does.
“There, was that so hard?” Carter asks, grinning. “Or is it painful to agree with me?”
I bite my lip and take another sip of my cider. “It might be,” I admit. Then I glance at the cup in his hands, my attention snagging again on those mittens. “What about the mittens?” I demand. “How do you explain those?”
“Uh, the cold?”
I roll my eyes. “Why are you wearing handmade mittens? Another tactic to repair your playboy image? Are you being considered for a million-dollar mitten endorsement?”
“So cynical, Tinkerbell.” He shakes his head, holding up one mittened hand for me to inspect. “My grandma made them for me. She says they’re good luck.”
