The Mistletoe Kisser - Lucy Score Page 0,21

was kind of cute when totally shit-faced. The observation annoyed her. “Is Carson in trouble?”

“Pfft. Only if ending up homeless in an air tunnel at one million years old is trouble.”

Oh, good. They’d gotten to the gibberish portion of the evening.

“It’s on me, disgraced corporate accountant guy, to swoop in and save the day.” To emphasize his point, Ryan slashed his arm through the air and knocked a tissue box and its crocheted cover to the floor.

“Where is your uncle?” she asked, trying to make sure there wasn’t a real emergency that needed to be dealt with.

“He’s in Boca with a fetlock.”

“I don’t think you know what that word means,” she said.

“His plane went through an air tunnel,” he told her.

“Oh, boy. Okay. Maybe let’s get some sleep. Regain some sanity. I’ll swing by in the morning and help you with the sheep and chickens. You can tell me more about the fetlock and the air tunnel then.”

He opened one eye and looked at her with suspicion. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why would you come help me with anything? Don’t you have other things to do besides help people do stuff?”

“It’s what we do here, Ryan.”

He screwed his face up. “That’s weird. You’re weird. You probably have a dumb gazebo that gets snowed on every Christmas Eve.”

She’d officially had enough. “I hope your hangover is terrible,” she told him. “Now go to sleep.”

“’Kay.” He obliged by closing his eyes and letting his head loll to the side.

She sighed, then pulled a green-and-orange knit afghan off the back of the couch. Just as she started to drape it over him, he came back to life.

“Pants!” Ryan yelled.

Sammy jumped back as he flung his limbs out wildly. Somehow, with an excessive amount of flailing, he managed to unzip his jeans. She caught a glimpse of absolutely no underwear and decided now was a very good time to leave.

“Uh. Yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said, backing away. “Merry Christmas.”

“I don’t want your pity Christmas spirit!” he roared. He shoved his pants down to his knees.

She was only human. At least, that’s what she told herself when she peeked for one whole second. Okay. Fine. Five seconds.

From where she stood, Grumpy Ryan had nothing to be grumpy about below the waist. In fact, he should be the happiest guy on the planet.

“Night, Sexy Sam,” he murmured.

Opportunistic ogling complete, she hurled the blanket at him and bolted for the door.

She was still thinking about him—and his bottomlessness—fifteen minutes later when she let herself into her own house. The fluffy, striped head of McClane—the surly six-year-old cat—popped out of a naked wreath on her dining table when she flipped on the lights.

“Hey, guys,” she sighed, wishing she could just sink into that couch, light a fire, and watch TV until she fell asleep like a normal adult.

But her kitchen sink held four days’ worth of dishes. Her table was buried under what looked like a craft store explosion. Ribbon, wire, fake pine cones, sparkly berries on wire stems. Her collection of every size of jingle bell was scattered across table and rug. McClane’s doing, most likely. He liked shiny things he wasn’t supposed to play with.

One wreath, she decided with a yawn. She’d just double down tomorrow and block off some serious crafting time.

“Who wants to help me wash dishes and make a wreath?”

Blue Moon Community Facebook Gossip Group

Sammy Ames: If anyone is missing a friendly male sheep, please contact my practice immediately.

Edit: Please call only if YOU or SOMEONE YOU KNOW is DEFINITELY missing a sheep right NOW. Not two years ago or one time in college. A currently missing sheep.

Edit: A SHEEP. Not a cow or a cat or your car keys.

8

Very early Saturday morning, December 21

* * *

Ryan couldn’t tell if the knocking was coming from inside his skull or from the outside world. Blearily, he pried one eye open. It was dark. But he wasn’t certain if it was still dark or dark again.

The knock sounded again.

“I can see you staring at the door,” a very smug, very female voice called. “Open up.”

The pretty vet, he realized, then decided he was too hungover to find anyone attractive.

“Go. Away,” he rasped, pulling the blanket up over his face. It didn’t help though—there were so many knit holes in it. Even the blankets in this town were ridiculous.

The door opened, and he heard footsteps.

“Morning, sunshine,” she called chipperly in a volume several decibels too high.

Morning. Okay. At least he hadn’t lost an entire day to an