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He arches an eyebrow. “Ha, you didn’t think of that, did you?”
We follow the emcee to a seesaw, where I am weighed for my winnings in beer and cash.I wish I were heavier!Everything is packed into crates to be shipped to Arrago.
The emcee picks up his microphone. “At last, comes the moment everyone has been waiting for!”
I throw Louis a quizzical glance. He mimes that he has no idea.
The emcee leads us to the corner with a Christmas tree, lighted deer, tiny elves, and gigantic candy canes. Since we’re dressed as Santas, I’m guessing he’ll have us distribute gifts to the kids in the crowd. I scan the space for sacks full of presents but can’t find them.
The emcee points us to a beautiful wrought iron archway to the right of the Christmas tree. A sprig of mistletoe is dangling from it by a satiny red ribbon.
“And now, the winners will kiss under the mistletoe!” The emcee cries, all psyched.
The public raves.
Oh, dear.
“I’m afraid we have to do it,” Louis whispers in my ear. “Refusing would give rise to rumors…”
“I understand.”
He draws back to look at my face.
I shrug. “It’s just a quick peck to entertain the crowd. No biggie.”
He smiles, relieved.
We’re told to remove our beards and stand under the mistletoe sprig, facing each other. At least two dozen cameras, mics, and lamps are trained on us. I squint and shield my eyes.
“The kiss should be real,” the emcee declares. “Aim for a full minute.”
Damn!
He looks up to the public. “Big fines if we catch anyone filming with their phone! Is that clear?”
They shout, “Yes!” and then they chant, “Kiss her! Kiss her! Kiss her!”
What, no insults?
Not a single “Burn the witch” or even “Lock her up” is shouted, and I wonder if it’s because they haven’t realized yet who I am. Or is it because Louis’s name is already shielding me, just like he’d said it would.
We step—more like stumble—toward each other. He pulls me closer still. I place my hands on the slope of his shoulders while he tightens his hold.
I guess this is the part where I should rise on tiptoe so he can kiss me. But we can’t have a quick peck, which makes things… tricky. My senses are getting overwhelmed. He should stop staring at my lips like this. His body should stop feeling so good beneath my fingers. It’s too much.
He hooks a finger under my chin and nudges it up. I close my eyes.
Quick!Do it, so we can move on with our fake married life, and forget this moment ever happened.
His lips touch mine. It’s a gentle, featherlight caress that makes my heart flutter. We stay like that for a few seconds until the blinding lights go away. Even with my lids shut, it’s a relief. Twenty-five more seconds to go.
Louis’s lips continue touching mine but not pressing. His hands, however, do things they weren’t supposed to do. One cradles me at the nape, tangling in my hair and tilting my head for a better angle. The other slides down my side until it reaches the curve of my hip, where it rests, pulling me closer. His lips press harder to mine, parting.
What is he doing? What’s going on?It must be his lady-killer instincts kicking in, and his body is acting of its own accord, on autopilot.
He needs to wake up!
I open my mouth to tell him to cut it out, but he mistakes it for an invitation and slips his tongue past my teeth. The taste that fills my mouth is delectable; I have no other word for it. My hands grip the faux fur at the front of his Santa coat, with the aim of pushing him away. But then his tongue does something—several delightful somethings—inside my mouth. It strokes my tongue, thrusts, tastes, and teases me in ways that make me weak in the knees.
