Virgin Daiquiri - Elise Faber Page 0,1

together. “Men like you?”

I rolled my eyes. “Men”—I pointed at my face—“like me.”

She disappeared. I literally had no other word to describe it, but one second, she was all fire and the next, she was a blank slate.

“Girls like me,” she repeated, and her voice was no longer sweet peaches and sticky honey. It was ice. “I see. Heaven forbid a girl like me ask out a handsome man because a girl like me should be at home knitting or collecting cats or darning my socks.” She sighed and turned away. “Or at the very least, hanging her star on a man who fits her. Someone plain and dumpy and average-looking.”

Um. What?

“You’re far from average-looking, darlin’.”

She winced like I’d punched her.

But I wasn’t blowing smoke. This woman was small and curvy with delicate features. Her skin was all peaches and cream, her eyes a mix of blue and green, one I’d never seen before, and her blond hair was lush and thick, hanging in silky waves down her back. Too much sweet in a small package.

And too much sweet for me.

“I’m reading you loud and clear,” she muttered, spinning for the door. “Don’t need to hit below the belt. I’m going back to my empty house, back to my imaginary cats, and won’t darken your doorstep again.”

Fuck. Someone needed to save this woman from herself.

That someone couldn’t be me.

But that still didn’t stop me from snagging her arm and rotating her to face me. “You live near the city now. You have to be smart.” Her lips parted again, probably to tell me she was smart, but I kept talking. “Street smart. You can’t tell strange men you live alone or invite them back to your place.”

“Fine,” she said.

“Fine,” I agreed.

But I didn’t let her go.

Her eyes flicked over my shoulder, to the ceiling, and my gaze followed hers, half-expecting to see a giant spider dangling there.

Instead, I saw mistletoe.

I glanced back down. She licked her lips.

And suddenly, I knew she was thinking the same thing as me. Warm bodies pressed together, lips only inches apart, heat filling the space, and a kiss-inducing plant overhead.

“Mistletoe,” she whispered and licked her lips again.

Just one taste.

I could give myself that.

I bent my head and slanted my mouth across hers.

Two

Iris

Soft lips.

That was the only thing I could think.

His mouth had been pulled so tight, his jaw clenched firmly enough that I’d noticed a tick just in front of his ear, but when his lips met mine, they were gentle.

A brush that stole my breath.

My lips parted.

And then . . . he kissed me.

It was almost chaste, his hands staying at his sides, not coming up to tug me against his body, even though I would have gladly plastered myself against him. And his tongue stayed in his own mouth.

At least until my tongue did something it had never done before.

Well, not without coaxing and forcing myself to work up the courage to make the move.

Anyway, this time I didn’t need coaxing or courage or shoring up my spine to make the leap. Almost without thinking, it slid free of my mouth, darting lightly against his lips.

The change was instant and electric.

Arms banded around my waist, yanked me flush against his chest, trapping my hands between us. But I didn’t mind, not when it meant they were pressed against the hard muscles there, and I especially wasn’t crying about being close enough to have the man’s scent wafting up, surrounding me, soaking into my pores.

It was spicy and masculine, so much different than my own mix of floral and baby powder.

Not that I had a baby.

I just adored the smell of baby powder.

I hoped the man did, too.

My brows drew down, and I almost came out of the kiss with the realization that I didn’t know the man whose lips were currently pressed to mine, but then his tongue chased my own back into my mouth, tangling and teasing and ramping chaste up to hot, and I forgot about the fact that this was only the fourth person I’d kissed.

Ever.

Ever.

Frank. My parents. And now . . . this man.

Oh, God—

I was kissing a man, and I didn’t even know his name!

Panic swarmed me, and I yanked my head back, trying to shove out of his arms and completely unable to free myself.

“Let. Go,” I said, panting and completely aware of the fact that it was from the kiss, and not because it had been bad. But because I was kissing a man I didn’t