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“Goddammit!” Panic grabs hold as I pluck at the cream-colored sweater, my favorite pants. Ruined.
My mother is on me with a kitchen towel, dabbing at the wine stain before turning her attention to the floor. “Go strip in the laundry. There’s some vinegar on the shelf—soak it, rub some liquid laundry detergent on it, and put it in the wash. Grab a coat from the mudroom. Go, quick.”
Grumbling curses, I dash across the hall, into the mudroom, and through to the laundry. The washing machine and dryer are both going, filling the room with warmth, noise, and the smell of fabric softener.
Both the sweater and the pants are probably stained beyond saving but I love them so I’m willing to try. I strip to my underwear and spread my clothes out over the washing machine, frantically scanning the nearby shelves for some vinegar.
Something brushes against my foot and I jump, choking on my scream.
A Ping-Pong ball?
There’s a ton of them, rolling across the floor toward me, bouncing into corners.
What the ever-loving fuck?
A basket lies on its side in front of sock-clad feet. I follow the dark jeans up to the charcoal Henley, up again to Nic’s wide eyes. I didn’t hear him come in or drop the basket over the noise of the washing machine’s spin cycle.
Our stare-off ends when he bends to grab the basket. Pink creeps over his cheeks.
Fine, he’s embarrassed. I’m not. I’m not naked and covered in spunk, so I’m already winning. Except now I’m picturing him naked, wondering what a full hard-on might look like on the still impressive semi I’d seen the other night. Dammit.
I turn back to the shelf. There’s no vinegar in here. Detergent it is. I grab it and pour some onto my clothes. My body is already prickling with awareness as he moves closer, picking up the Ping-Pong balls.
He’s probably ticking off my flaws. I’m incredibly average—and happy about it—and he sleeps with models.
“Festive.” Nic’s strangled voice is barely audible above the noise and suddenly I can feel him looking at me. That prickling sensation is a full-on tingle now.
“It’s Christmas.” I snap. And Nic Fontana should not be having an impact on the red plaid panties he’s mocking, but I can’t deny the rumble of his voice has me wet as hell.
I need to get my head checked.
I scrub at the stain harder, making my boobs jiggle. Dammit. Well, maybe that will scare him away—my bra is covered in tiny candy canes and he’s a Grinch. He’ll run out of the room, terrified. My totally average tits will be the hero of the day. I’ll buy them something nice. Lacy. Black. Something some other hot guy will appreciate if I ever manage to get laid again.
Nic crawls closer, still gathering the Ping-Pong balls. The closer he gets, the more charged the air feels. What is it about a hot man on his knees? Especially this man? God, the thought of him kneeling at my feet, begging…
Gritting my teeth, I rub my stained clothes harder and faster.
I’m losing it. I’m probably giving off desperately horny vibes.
Nic’s voice cuts through the noise in my head. “You’re hopeful.”
I glance down at him, fully prepared to give him a quick kick in the ass, but the expression on his face stops me. He’s crouched next to me, his eyes hooded, staring at a spot on my panties, a smug little smirk on his face.
Fire surges up to my cheeks, down into my stomach. Maybe I’ll kick him after all. My fingers trace the mistletoe embellishment on my panties. I’d snickered when I bought them, but they seem pretty stupid now. Soaked, because my body is inexplicably revolting against my brain.
Hopeful.
I finally shrug, leaning against the dryer, and looking down at him. “Season for miracles. Going to give me a little kiss, Nic?”
That should be enough to get rid of him—except he isn’t moving. He’s staring at my panties with an intensity that burns my skin.
“Jessie.”
The way my name carries off his lips—a warning on a breath—causes the temperature to jump a good ten degrees. Goose bumps pebble my arms.
“Nic.” Thatis notmy voice, a desperate whimper where I’d meant to sound annoyed.
He drops a Ping-Pong ball, slowly bringing his hand up, toward me. There’s more than enough time, as the Ping-Pong ball bounce gets smaller and smaller, for me to step away from him. To push his hand aside or tell him no.
