The Mistletoe Kisser - Lucy Score Page 0,22

over-thirty hangover. Yet.

“You know, in the rest of the world, ‘go away’ means the opposite of ‘come in,’” he groaned.

“Town Ordinance 17-06 of 1985 gives any Blue Mooner the right to enter the premises of another Blue Mooner if they are concerned that a crime or a crisis is in progress,” she announced.

“Great. So you just legalized breaking and entering.”

“Technically it’s just entering since the door wasn’t locked.”

“That’s not my fault,” he insisted. Though who he could blame it on wasn’t immediately clear either.

“No one locks their doors here,” she said, sounding amused.

“Why the hell not? What stops someone from walking into your house and stealing your shit?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe being a good person?”

“This place is so weird.” Ryan pulled the blanket tighter around his head and willed the world to stop spinning.

“Whoa there, tiger. I didn’t come here to get an eyeful of Grumpy Junior.”

“Grumpy Junior?” he rasped. The cold air from the open front door finally reached his unprotected southern hemisphere. Peering through one of the face-sized holes in the blanket, he realized he was completely naked from the waist down. Fuck.

He snatched the blanket off his head and hurled it over his lap. “What the hell happened last night? Or is it still last night?”

It was pitch black outside the farmhouse windows.

“It’s six a.m.”

Which made it his three a.m. Great. He’d just managed to combine jet lag with a hangover.

“Where are my pants?” he rasped. “Did you… did I… did we…”

She looked annoyingly pretty standing there in slim cargo pants, scarred boots. A flannel shirt tucked in under a down vest and a soft green scarf. Her hair was a riot of thick curls in a color that made him think of honey. She was holding two to-go cups of what smelled like coffee.

She rolled those blue, blue eyes. Lavender fields, he remembered.

“I did not take advantage of you. You did not sexually harass me. And we did not, nor will we ever, have sex,” she said.

He felt a rush of relief, then a vague dissatisfaction, which was almost immediately eclipsed by a wave of nausea.

“Why are you here?” he groaned, trying to work his way out of the recliner. He managed finally to climb unsteadily to his feet and wrapped the blanket around his waist like a holey sarong.

She plucked his pants off the singing bass fish mounted to the wall and handed them over. “You abandoned a sheep. Drank yourself stupid. Confessed to getting screwed over, losing your job and your way in life, briefly mentioned a fetlock emergency, then screamed and took your pants off. Surprised me with the whole commando thing, by the way. You seem like the kind of guy who not only wears underwear but irons them.”

He rubbed at his eyes, headache throbbing. That all sounded vaguely, blurrily familiar. Also, he was pretty sure she’d insulted him a few times along the way in her recap, but he was too tired, too sick to care.

The holey blanket slipped off his hips and pooled at his feet.

Sammy gave a strangled sound and turned around to face the front door.

“That was an accident,” he insisted in a dry-mouthed rasp. Bending over to pick up the blanket made his head feel like it was going to pop like an overinflated lawn ornament.

“I’m starting to have my doubts,” she said wryly.

“Why were you here in the first place to witness my newest level of shame?” His fingers brushed something on his forehead. A sticky note. He peeled it off and read it.

“I brought your sheep back,” she told him.

She handed him one of the cups of coffee she held. Large and steaming.

“He’s not my sheep.” He took a long gulp of hot, glorious caffeine. It scalded his throat, but the pain was better than the rolling vertigo.

“You are currently in possession of said sheep until his owner can be identified.”

He wanted to slink off into a dank basement and die in a corner somewhere. He also wanted to throw up. In a distant third, was the scenario where he curled up with his head in the pretty vet’s lap and slept for three days straight.

He groaned. “What am I supposed to do with a goddamn sheep?”

“I’ll show you. Since you’re also in charge of Carson’s chickens.”

He made a grab for the jeans. The move had his head spinning, and he had to lean against the wall until the urge to puke his guts up passed.

“Just when you think things can’t get worse,” Ryan