The Mistletoe Kisser: Blue Moon #8

by Score, Lucy

“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 muttered.

  “Are you always so cantankerous? Or is it just small-town life that does it to you?” she of little sympathy asked, patting his cheek on her way into the hideous kitchen.

  “The world has enough happy-go-lucky dumbasses in it. I’m a realist,” he yelled after her, shaking his jeans out and sending fragments of dried mud everywhere. He hated mud. Dirt. Puddles. Slush. Snow. Basically all nature and weather.

  “Go shower, realist,” she called over the bang of pots and pans. “I’ll make you something greasy for breakfast, show you how to feed and pasture your animals, and then we can both go back to our regular lives, never to speak again.”

  He was too hungover to argue. Though he did wonder what was going to become of his “regular life.” It was Saturday. On Saturdays, he went to the gym for leg day with Lars, the mean Icelandic trainer he was too afraid of to fire. Then he headed into the office for a few hours of uninterrupted work. In the afternoons, he’d catch up on his professional development reading, and—Wow. He was so fucking boring. When had that happened?

  Deciding it didn’t matter, Ryan stumbled into the bathroom on the second floor, vomited, and then gratefully slid under the hot water in the powder blue-tiled shower. He fell asleep standing up for a few minutes, but the smell of food woke him.

  Five minutes later, dressed in clothes made more for business casual Saturdays in the office than sheep tackling, he returned to the first floor and found his way into the kitchen.

  The room was still ugly, but the atmosphere had vastly improved thanks to the smell of actual food and the very attractive woman standing at the stove.

  “You look better,” she observed, tapping the wooden spoon on the pan of eggs.

  “With my pants on?” he asked, helping himself to her coffee she’d left unattended on the tiny yellow Formica table.

  She gave him a long look.

  “What?” he asked, gingerly taking a seat. He was rather pleased when his head didn’t separate from his neck and roll across the table.

  “I’m trying to decide if you’re human and just made a joke.”

  “Always assume I am inhuman,” he told her. He considered it a kindness when she didn’t comment.

  With practiced efficiency, she dumped a handful of shredded cheese over the eggs and turned off the burner. “Check this out,” Sammy said, wiping her hands on a dish towel before popping open the freezer door on the piss yellow refrigerator.

  There were over a dozen neatly labeled casserole dishes stacked inside. “That’s a lot of leftovers,” he observed.

  “That’s a lot of love,” she corrected. “These are all from your uncle’s neighbors. Blue Moon makes sure he doesn’t live off junk food and cold pizza. You can thank Carter Pierce for the cheesy, free-range eggs you’re about to scarf down. Or maybe just not insult him to his face if you run into him.”

  “Pierce? I bet he has a beard and some goats,” Ryan said as memories of last night coalesced in his brain. Mayor Beckett Pierce. His mother, Phoebe. And of course, Jax, the flirty big Hollywood deal.

  “You met him?” she asked, sounding surprised.

  “His brother. Brothers. And mother. Also, I’m not an asshole,” he insisted as her previous comment finally sank in.

  She set a plate of eggs and toast in front of him, delivered with a skeptical stare.

  “Fine. I’m not always an asshole,” he conceded. There were people who liked him. His clients. His bosses—at least they had until he’d brought shame to the firm. His family. Probably.

  She gave a noncommittal grunt and surprised him by taking the chair opposite him.

  He poked the food in front of him with a fork.

  “Eat and talk, Shufflebottom. I have things to do today.”

  The final few pieces of last night’s blurry puzzle fell into place. He rubbed a hand over his throbbing head. “You think I’m Ryan Shufflebottom.”

  “For the love of God, man. We’re not doing this dance again,” she groaned.

  “I’m Ryan Sosa. Ryan Shufflebottom is my dumbass cousin. And if you think I’m an asshole, you should meet him.”

  The eggs flew off her fork and landed with a splat on her plate. If those blue eyes got any wider, he might fall into them.

  “You’re freaking kidding me,” she said.

  He shook his head then stopped when the motion made him dizzy. “His mom and my dad are brother and sister.”

  “And you’re both named Ryan?”

  He grimaced. “It’s a big, competitive family. We’ve got two Ryans, three Katelyns—different spellings—and four Georges. You should see the family reunions. We’ve got nametags with family trees.”

  She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “So you really weren’t my first kiss?” He thought it was rather rude that she looked thrilled over that fact.

  “I’ve never been to Blue Moon b
efore last night. And if I kissed you, you’d know it,” he added.

  She leaned back in her chair, her knee accidentally nudging his under the minuscule excuse for a table. “Thank freaking God,” she breathed.

  Definitely offended now, he reached for her coffee again. “Excuse me. I’m an excellent kisser.” He pushed back against her leg.

  “Yeah. Sure,” she scoffed, clearly not believing him. But she didn’t move her knee.

  “I am highly skilled at delivering all levels of pleasure.” he said around a bite of toast.

  “Your mouth is in a perma-scowl, which isn’t remotely kissable. There’s nothing sweet and romantic about you. You’re too growly and grumpy.”

  “Growly and grumpy is part of my charm,” he insisted. “Besides, romance is overrated.”

  “Is that your personal mantra or just your central belief system?” she asked smugly.

  He pointed his fork at her. “You’re one of those Christmas movie fans, aren’t you? Everything’s so sweet and romantic and boring and predictable.”

  That was exactly what Dr. Sammy Ames was looking for. A small-town good guy who threw flour during completely unrealistic cookie baking fights. Growly and grumpy would never be the star of one of those stories. Besides, Ryan was too practical to throw flour. It took forever to clean up.

  “You’re a corporate accountant. I bet you worship boring and predictable,” she shot back.

  She had a point, and that annoyed him.

  “You know what your problem is?” he asked around a bite of toast.

  “Right, because I’m the one with the problem.” She looked more amused than annoyed.

  “You’re one of those hopeless romantics,” he told her with disdain.

  She laughed in his face. “That’s the worst thing you can say about me?”

  “It’s the worst thing I can say about anyone.” Okay, that wasn’t true, but he knew arguments were built and won on vehemence, not facts. “What’s wrong with being pragmatic, practical? Why is a sense of responsibility not sexy? Why should we as adults make one of the five most important choices in life based on stupid butterflies that—let’s be real—are just gas in the digestive system.”

  She put down her fork and took back her coffee. “I can’t tell if you’re joking or serious, but either way, I’m intrigued. What are the four other most important choices?”

  “College, career, real estate, health, and personal and professional relationships.” He ticked them off on his fingers.

  She cupped her chin in her hand. “I find it very telling that you lump personal and professional relationships together.”

  He shrugged. “Not much difference.”

  “You’re an interesting underwear-less man,” she mused. “What criteria do you use to choose a significant other?”

  “Compatibility, communication, shared beliefs around fiscal responsibility, and sexual compatibility.”

  “Hang on. So physical attraction is pragmatic, but romance is what?”

  “Inconsequential.” The vomiting, shower, food, and argument made him feel more human than he had the right to after killing the better part of a bottle. “You might be looking for some small-town fruit farmer to bring you flowers and gives you a PG kiss for your Christmas cards. But that’s not what works.”

  She pulled out her phone. “Hang on. I need to cancel your meet-cute with the fruit farmer this afternoon.”

  “Do I want to know what a meet-cute is?” he asked, devouring the last of his toast.

  “Definitely not. So if it’s not PG Christmas cards, what do you want, Ryan?” She dropped her second triangle of toast on his plate.

  He pounced on it. “That’s easy. I want a woman who contributes to her retirement savings while working a job that she enjoys and makes sense to me. That way I don’t have to suffer through any office holiday parties or corporate picnics where her co-workers complain about shit like Instagram filters.” He took a bite of toast and chewed thoughtfully. “I want someone who won’t complain if I stay late at the office four nights a week. A woman whose life doesn’t revolve around demanding more quality time from me.”

  “So a roommate then?” she said with a smirk.

  He gave her a cool look. “Someone who goes to dinner with my boss and her wife and can carry on an intelligent conversation all while reminding me she’s not wearing underwear under her dress.”

  That had her attention.

  Those lavender eyes widened, and her mouth curved into a smile. “Just when I was starting to think you were a robot.”

  “Someone who asks for help reaching for something in the kitchen and then ends up taking my pants off against the fridge. Someone who makes me do things I don’t want to do so I don’t miss out on life outside the office.” Okay so maybe those last few weren’t on his official list. But he liked getting a rise out of her.

  Ryan’s New Plan

  1. Track down Rainbow Berkowicz.

  2. Solve Uncle Carson’s financial problems.

  3. Fly home and save his career.

  4. Then find a woman who smiled at him like Sammy, enjoyed kitchen oral sex, and had a conservative investment portfolio.

  “Well, well. The accountant has an unsuspected kinky side,” she said.

  She didn’t look appalled, he noted. If anything, she looked intrigued… and a little flushed. Her knee was still pressing against his.

  “So, Sam,” he said, leaning into her space from across the table. “You can keep your friendly first kiss with my idiot cousin. I’ll find my naughty 401(k) contributor.”

  “I was fourteen,” she said dryly. “I wasn’t looking for reverse cowgirl or marriage. It was sweet, and so was he. You’d be surprised how the right kiss at the right time can change your path.”

  “You’d be surprised at how a good plan can keep you going in the right direction,” he said, crunching into the toast.

  “I bet Other Ryan is a much warmer, fuzzier adult than you are,” she said, pointing her fork at him.

  Ryan narrowed his eyes. “My cousin is a shiftless douche. And I know without a doubt that I’m a better kisser.”

  “Just keep telling yourself that, tiger,” she said, turning her attention back to her food and moving her leg away from his. A careful withdrawal.

  He felt the need to convince her, to arrange the facts for her and lead her to the correct conclusion. “Dipshit Ryan went to college for six years and never graduated,” he began. “He changed his major every other semester and failed all of his classes because he was too busy ‘falling in love’ every five seconds.”

  “Some people like love,” she pointed out, looking amused.

  He rolled his eyes, then decided he’d wait a week or two before attempting it again when the room began to spin. “Now, he has a title at his parent’s property management company and shows up to work once or twice a week. At least when he’s not trying to ‘find himself’ in a yoga teacher training or a pastry chef workshop. He hasn’t paid taxes since 2007. And he prefers dating wealthy married women because they give him shiny presents and don’t expect him to be home every night.”

  “That’s quite the assessment. You do come from a competitive family,” Sammy mused, over the rim of her coffee cup.

  “You have no idea,” he told her.

  In elementary school, Dipshit Ryan had challenged him to a hot dog eating contest and then stacked his own plate with cocktail wieners. In high school, the idiot had bet him ten bucks that he couldn’t finish his trigonometry problems first. Ryan had whipped out the work and answers in record time only to have his shithead cousin slap his name on it and turn it in for class.

  Then when Ryan had brought his college girlfriend home for Thanksgiving, Jackass Ryan had gotten her loaded on cheap tequila and tried to make out with her. She’d—rightfully—pushed him down the stairs.

  Weiner Face Ryan had been in a neck brace for Christmas and blamed him for the whole thing.

  “What would your cousin have
to say about you?” Sammy asked.

  “That I am loyal, dependable, responsible. All derogatory insults to him,” Ryan told her. “That I take everything too seriously and I haven’t had any fun in twenty years. That I’d rather cross things off my to-do list than live life.”

  “So the real question is, which one of you is Evil Ryan?” she asked with the arch of an eyebrow, clearly enjoying herself.

  “He is.” Ryan was moderately offended that she hadn’t picked up on that. “He’s irresponsible, flighty, and an asshole. A worse kind of asshole,” he insisted when she flashed him a pointed look. “He’s not capable of caring about other people.”

  “And you are?”

  “I’m here, aren’t I? Instead of fighting for my job and defending my reputation, I’m in Full Fucking Moon attempting to solve some crisis for my great-uncle.”

  “Blue Fucking Moon,” she corrected. “What’s the crisis?”

  He shook his head. “It’s family business, and I don’t know the details yet.”

  Dammit. He needed to get a meeting with that Rainbow Berkowicz at the bank. Once he knew what he was dealing with, he could figure out a solution and reward himself with a one-way ticket home.

  “Well, we’d better get started then,” Sammy announced. She picked up both their plates and put them in the sink.

  “Get started?”

  “You’re living on a farm. You have chores to do.”

  Blue Moon Community Facebook Gossip Group

  Lavender Fullmer: I’m not one to speculate, but I believe I saw our very single veterinarian pulling into Old Man Carson’s farm last night. Rumor has it, Carson’s nephew is staying there alone for a few days.

  9

  The sun was barely a pink sliver cresting the tree line when Ryan marched into the snow wearing a pair of two-sizes-too-small muck boots. He’d already ruined one pair of shoes in this winter wasteland.

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he grumbled to himself. At home, he was an early bird by nature. He liked to be in the office by seven thirty most mornings to enjoy the stillness before phone calls and meetings and “quick questions” overtook the rest of the day. The important delineation being that usually he was sober West Coast Ryan. Not Hungover Jet-lagged Ryan.