Snowed In For Christmas: A Fun Feel-Good Holiday Romance Novel - Kimberly Krey Page 0,22

Sounds like it’s really important to you.”

“Thank you,” she said, but inwardly she was thinking back on what he’d shared during the interview. That his childhood was traumatic. She tied that piece of his past with another he’d shared—of how he’d wrapped his baby sister up in his old thermals at night to keep her warm. A shiver rocked through her. How was it that someone could be raised so…poorly yet turn out so good?

She wanted to ask him that very thing. Instead, Ivy followed his spoon into the jar and snatched the slice he’d scored right off the scooped surface. “That one looks good,” she said with a laugh.

“Hey,” Easton chuckled. “I picked that one because it looked the best.”

She couldn’t help but giggle some more. The mood was just so…light suddenly. And Easton was so warm and welcoming and wonderful. “Here,” she said, feeling playful now. She straightened her arm toward him. “Open up and I’ll feed you. But,” she stipulated, “you have to do the same with me next.”

He backed away slightly, eyeing her for a blink. “Okay.” He sounded wary, which only made Ivy laugh some more. This was a good night. As horrible as it had begun and as deadly as her predicament had been, this moment with Easton by the fire felt like magic.

She kept her gaze fixed on his lips as he ate the peach off her spoon and wiped his mouth.

“Mmm,” he rumbled from low in his throat. “It’s your turn.” The way he said it, with the lift of that brow and the gleam in his eye, felt more like a warning.

“You’re going to do it nicely, like I did, right?” she cautioned. “This isn’t that whole cake at a wedding thing where they shove food in each other’s faces.”

“I hate that tradition,” he said, scooping a peach from the jar. “Open up.”

A spurt of reluctance gripped hold of her as he lifted the spoon. “You didn’t agree with me yet.”

“Yes I did,” he said, steadying the spoon as he straightened his arm toward her.

Ivy backed away from it and shook her head. “Just say you’ll give it to me nicely like I did you.” Her words might have been coated in laughter, but she’d meant them all the same.

He huffed out an exhausted breath.

“Please,” she urged, forcing her lips into a pout.

Easton squared a serious look at her. “Ivy?”

She loved the sound of her name in his raspy voice. “Yes,” she urged.

“I hereby promise to deliver this moonshine peach gently into that pretty little mouth of yours.”

Her heart went into some sort of spasm. Chills rushed over her arm and legs and possibly everything else too. “Okay.” She let out a shaky breath, leaned toward him, and opened up.

He spooned the slice into her mouth just as he’d said, but a drop of juice still spilled down her lip. Before she could catch it herself, Easton slid his thumb along her lower lip. She watched in surprise as he licked it off. “Mmmm,” he rasped. “I was wrong.”

She gulped. “Wrong about what?”

“About that other slice being the best.” He nodded in her direction. “I’m using all two to four thousand taste buds, and I have to say that that one was the tastiest yet.”

Chapter 7

Perhaps breaking out the moonshine peaches wasn’t such a good idea after all. Easton had realized, during the whole feeding each other encounter, that the liquor was already hitting her.

He’d done the responsible thing—sealed up the jar at its halfway point and set it away from them, but the effects hadn’t begun to wear off. Normally, that might not be a problem. Because normally, women didn’t have this kind of effect on him.

Ivy Ingles was different. Every time he expected one thing, she did another. Even now, as she sat before the fire, those loose locks of golden hair framing her pretty face in the firelight, she was grinning from ear to ear. Not pouting about being stuck in a blizzard. Not carrying a grudge about the crappy interview.

He mused over their recent conversation. She’d asked more about his job, told him more about hers. All the while, her words were laced with a slur, courtesy of the moonshine.

He let out a sigh as he watched the way she trailed her fingers over the bearskin rug, her brow slightly furrowing in thought. Suddenly she scooted closer to him, and not very slyly either.

The two might very well look like they were in a couple’s yoga class,