the ballroom and dance, not wear an apron and be covered with sauces in the kitchen.”
Not to mention I want to be able to keep my eyes on Ryker throughout the whole thing. Maybe even dance with him?
Ryker grins. “Perfectly understandable.”
Does that mean he’ll dance with me? Shit. I sound like a teenager before prom.
“Although I think you’d still look good in an apron,” Ryker adds.
My breath catches. My eyes grow wide.
Ryker thinks I’d look good in an apron? He gave me a compliment?
It’s not like he’s never given me compliments before. He used to tell me that I had nice hair, that my dress was nice, that I did well on a test, that I was a natural at soccer. But this is different. It hits different.
I don’t know how to respond. I know I have to, though, before everything gets too awkward.
Shit.
Just as I open my mouth to say something, a man in a green and gold Santa elf suit approaches us. A member of the hotel staff judging by the ID hanging around his neck right behind his old-fashioned camera.
“Would you like me to take your picture?” he asks.
I throw him a puzzled look. “You want to take a picture of us?”
“If you want,” he answers with a jolly grin. “And don’t worry. It’s free. It’s part of the hotel’s efforts to instill holiday spirit. I take your picture under the mistletoe—it’s up to you whether you want to kiss or not—”
Kiss?
“—and then I print it out with this cool device and give it to you. That’s right. You get the only copy, which you can keep for years or do whatever you want with.”
He thinks we’re a couple?
“Cool,” Ryker says.
He thinks it’s cool?
He turns to face me. “You know what? I don’t think we’ve ever had a picture taken with just the two of us.”
True. Joel’s always in the picture. But he’s not here now. This is our chance.
I face Ryker. He says nothing. He just looks into my eyes. I feel like I’m getting sucked into his.
Every breath, every thought, every inch of me is getting sucked into those warm brown eyes, the shade of which reminds me of my signature gravy that I use to coat my roast chicken or ribs.
Shit. I’m suddenly craving for that gravy. And for Ryker.
Who am I kidding? I’ve been craving him for a long time.
“Okay,” the photographer says, though his voice sounds like it’s coming from beyond a wall instead of from just a few feet away. “I’m going to take your picture now. One. Two…”
I lean forward, grip his arms and kiss him.
Blame it on the mistletoe. Blame it on those two whiskey sours. Blame it on the gravy. Or not.
After all, the bottom line is I’m kissing Ryker because I want to.
When he responds, I feel like a child on Christmas morning. My heart leaps. My feet feel like they might float off the floor any second.
He puts his hand on my waist and pulls me closer. His fingers entangle with my hair as his lips collide with mine over and over. Fire burns in my chest. My head spins.
I’m kissing Ryker. He’s kissing me. And it’s better than I ever imagined.
Then suddenly, he stops. As he pulls away, our eyes meet and the coldness in his gaze extinguishes the flames under my skin as I freeze in place.
What happened to him? It’s like he’s turned into a completely different person in a matter of seconds.
“I’m sorry.” He averts his gaze and pushes me away. “I made a mistake. This was a mistake.”
Before I can say a word—not that I know what to say—Ryker leaves. Just a moment ago, I was having the best kiss of my life, and now I’m all alone under the mistletoe with the giant harp and the two pictures that the photographer left on the table. I didn’t even notice him taking them.
I pick them up. They’re good pictures. Clear. The colors look nice. The lighting is just right. That man captured my first kiss with Ryker perfectly.
And it was a perfect first kiss. Even just from looking at these pictures, I can tell that Ryker is an excellent kisser. He did everything right. He made me feel amazing, and he clearly looked like he was enjoying it, too.
So how can he say it was a mistake?
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Also By Ashlee Price
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Thirty Day Fiance
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