Mistletoe Over Missoula

by Ellen G Kelley

  Our IT guy, Jack cornered Drew and me at the coat check as we were stashing our belongings. Fortunately, Jack was fully dipped in vodka at this point. I could smell his approach at ten paces. Poor Drew was less fortunate. She hasn’t been blessed, like me, with a sniffer to rival that of a bloodhound. For once, my over-active olfactory center paid off. By the time she had put two and two together, evasive maneuvers were not an option. Instead, she had to make do with an awesomely awkward side kiss/duck and weave combo.

  I’m not going to lie…watching my friend’s discomfort almost made my guest appearance tonight worth it. I wasn’t about to let her know that, though. One whiff of enjoyment, and she would be forcing me out of the house more often.

  Maybe I hadn’t gone to one of these in a while, or (and this is more likely) the spur of the moment cameo by the head of the company was the reason for the serious party upgrade. This year’s gathering wasn’t being held in some cheap banquet room as in previous years. No, this year’s location was upgraded to the newest and swankiest hotel and resort that just recently opened on the outskirts of town.

  The forty-minute drive to the venue would have been a bad call with a winter storm advisory out for tonight. However, a lot of the employees in attendance live out of town, and, as such, most opted to book a hotel room rather than risk the drive or try to maintain a sober state.

  Everyone but Drew and me of course.

  There was no way I was staying here past the obligatory dinner, canned ‘way to go team’ toast, and forced small talk.

  One hour. Tops!

  Then I was going to do the “dip” and make a break for it. Even if escape meant commandeering Drew’s vehicle. I knew that persuading me to ride with her was part of her strategy to make me her holiday hostage. But I also knew she probably forgot that she and I exchanged spare keys a while back in case of emergencies. If I had to stay at this party long enough to watch the inevitable hookup of two drunken co-workers, then I’d say that qualified.

  With the party being at a resort, I imagine venue options were almost limitless. Either R&R was trying to shake things up a bit, or we booked too late to get one of the meeting spaces. Regardless, this year’s party was being held in the resort’s brand new nightclub. At least, what passes for a nightclub in Montana.

  Off to one side, I noticed a secluded restaurant encased in heavy timbers and large glass windows. The bar was a two-story behemoth. Bottles were stacked up so impractically high that they must have been a decorative element because retrieving them looked like a worker’s comp claim waiting to happen. The dance floor was a hardwood masterpiece. Dimly lit (a small mercy to its current occupants) and surrounded by a collection of cozy seating options and multiple tabletop fireplaces-the overall appearance spoke of a millionaire’s hunting lodge mixed with an air of ski bunny chic that would do Aspen, Colorado, proud.

  Looking out above it all was an immaculate lounge. That would be the scene of tonight’s many Christmas crimes against better judgment. Unlike a lot of joints in Montana, the interior decorator opted to forgo the bevy of dead animal adornments on every square inch of wall. Instead, the aesthetic was the perfect blend of rich leathers, tasteful faux fur elements where appropriate, stone, wood, and copper. All of it lit to ambient perfection by a massive stone fireplace and candlelight.

  Some might say this was the perfect venue for a holiday romance.

  Not me, of course. But some would.

  I can see how it might appeal to the twitterpated masses that scarf down the juicy romance novels penned by R&R authors. Authors like my personal favorite, H.R. Scott – who never came to these parties either, but I can see how she’d like it here.

  There was no shortage of dark corners to creep off to. Candle-light to dance across eager flesh. And there was enough liquid courage available to dull away any and all inhibitions. All that was missing was a hot stranger.

  Oh, my God. Listen to me!

  I must be seriously hard up for some male/female relations. I sounded so much like the book covers I design that I almost threw up in my own mouth.

  Gross.

  Get a grip, Becca! Or at least, get a drink.

  Move over eggnog. This is a job for alcohol.

  I made my way to the bar downstairs. The lounge featured a modest assortment of drinks, but if I was going to drink… I was going to get a drink. This was a job for Four Roses Small Batch.

  I bellied up to the bar and ordered my double bourbon neat. No brutalizing it with ice. I was hoping the slow burn might clear my dirty mind. My elbows were perched on the bar as I waited for the bartenders return. That’s when I felt the brush of a new patron at the bar to my left.

  I don’t know why I turned to see who it was. I guess it’s a force of habit. Like breathing. Or singing along to any Journey song ever made. Seriously, though…if ‘Don’t Stop Believin’ starts playing, and the person you’re with doesn’t instantly start singing along, stop talking to them immediately. They are a robot.

  Whatever the reason, I turned.

  Instantly, I regretted it.

  Chapter 4

  Next to me at the bar stood my ex. And latched on to him like a tick was the ditzy blonde whore he had left me for. I wanted to yell all nature of obscenities at them both. But at the moment, I couldn’t even speak. I just stood there. Wide-eyed. Mouth agape. No doubt I was doing a killer impression of a stroke victim.

  “Becca?” he asked.

  Right, asshole. Like you’ve almost forgotten who I am.

  Well, if he had to say my name like a question, then I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of saying his name at all. I simply closed my mouth and nodded as nonchalantly as I could.

  “What brings you out and about this evening?” He was doing a good job of pretending to give a shit. This made me even more vexed. I was preparing to find the words to respond when I saw it. That bitch’s left hand was all but swallowed up by a blinding diamond the size of a meteorite.

  Dear Heavenly Father, PLEASE grant me patience. Because if you give me strength, I am definitely going to end up in jail tonight.

  My brow furrow and my face twitched-the early warning signs of my face contorting into my trademark scowl. My mouth was just about deliver a response when I felt a warm hand slide knowingly across the small of my completely bare back.

  What the hell?

  I glanced down, and my ex’s hands were accounted for.

  That means…that hand had better not belong to Jack, or I swear!

  A mixture of surprise, curiosity, and annoyance compelled me to twist to my right. Attached to that masculine hand was as an impossibly sculpted arm. Attached to that arm was a broad set of shoulders that now towered over me. Connected to all of it was the face of a man so handsome that his parents had to have won a bet with the almighty.

  Sweet Saint Nicholas! Santa, you’re good. You are really good.

  Not even his well-tailored navy suit could hide that this man was no stranger to the gym. The crisp white of his shirt collar set off his sun-kissed skin. A mix of bright blue eyes, sandy brown hair, and newly tanned skin in the middle of winter? It was obvious he was not from around here.

  That’s it! He probably thinks I’m someone else.

  Well, this is awkward.

  I had successfully worked my eyes up his body to make eye-contact when those baby blues of his twinkled with mischief. Before I knew what was happening–the beautiful stranger now clutching my backside found the words that had eluded me.

  “There you are, Baby.”

  My eyes went painfully wide. All I could do was stare at him blankly.

  “I was wondering where you got off to.” While one hand took up residence on my back, the nimble fingers on the other stroked an errant lock of my hair–gently threading it behind my ear. He leaned forward, and, in one swift, smooth effort, he feathered a kiss on my temple.

  This dress must be cutting off my circulation. Because I am officially paralyzed.

  The next thing I k
new, he had gently nestled my back to his front between him and the bar. With one possessive hand on my waist, he used the other to ease my rocks glass from my fingertips and bring it to his lips. He drank from my glass like it was the most natural thing in the world.

  I couldn’t say for certain what my facial expression must have been at the moment.

  Shock?

  Relief?

  It no longer mattered to me how stunned my face may have looked–because the looks on the faces in front of me were spectacular! The little home-wrecker was so green with envy she looked like a pint-sized Hulk. And my ex? He looked like either someone had canceled his Christmas, or he had just been kicked in the nether region by a reindeer. I was completely okay with either scenario.

  “I...ahh. I’m sorry, Becca. I didn’t mean to bother you.” My once smug ex was now struggling with the English language.

  Good.

  “Oh, she’s not bothered.” My mystery man returned. He then leaned closer and said, “At least not yet.” The smell of my bourdon was still on his lips where he was nuzzling my now exposed neck.

  Oh, my God, he feels good. This is not good. NOT good at all!

  “What I meant was, I didn’t know you were with someone,” said my ex in an overly formal and judgmental tone.

  Was it just me, or did my ex look sort of pissed? Where the hell does he get off acting bent out of shape?

  “And I didn’t realize you were back from Europe,” I said countering quickly.

  Hey! I can speak!

  Before my ex had a chance to answer his new slut...I mean girlfriend...I mean fiancé smugly interjected. “We decided to cut the trip short, so we could celebrate our engagement with the family.”

  This catty wench was as subtle as a band saw. She was flashing that giant rock like she was trying to use it to send out Morse code. My entire body grew tense–like I was getting ready to pounce on that pocket-sized piece of work and introduce her face to the floor. Probably because I was.

  As if reading my mind, the man at my back dug his hand more firmly into my waist and returned my drink to my twitchy palm. The gesture was subtle. As if to imply that I should do something with my mouth other than speak the choice words on my mind. He then waved in a leisurely fashion to the bartender for his own glass. Then–cool as a cucumber–he offered his congratulations.

  Who the hell was this guy?

  “I apologize.” The blonde looked past me to the gorgeous man behind me. “We’re being terribly rude. I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.” The woman at my ex’s side did a horrible job of masking her obvious interest-she was no doubt pondering an upgrade.

  “And you are?” he responded. Just as she had extended her hand in greeting, she was cut off.

  “We were just leaving,” my ex said abruptly.

  Ouch. It appears my ex has gotten a wee bit touchy.

  Evidently, he’s not one for competition because he herded his future trophy wife out of the bar so fast I thought she might lose a hair extension.

  Before I could revel in their defeat I felt the sudden loss of heat at my waist. I turned to the man who had single-handedly stopped my night from circling the drain. My God, he’s pretty. He had a chiseled jaw with a close clean shave. Kind eyes. And lips that turn up ever so subtly into a semi-permanent smirk. Staring at this impossibly perfect specimen, I somehow managed to find my voice. I think my empty glass may have helped a bit as well.

  “You, Sir…oh, my. You’re smooth.”

  “I haven’t had any complaints.” His face erupted into a full-blown smile.

  Damn it! Dimples. Of course, he’s got dimples.

  And now he’s laughing. Wait…oh, crap.

  “I just said that last part out loud didn’t I?” I grimaced.

  “Yes, you did.”

  “Damn it.”

  “You said that already.” Another laugh escaped him.

  “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.” I couldn’t help but chuckle. I gestured at myself, saying “See this? This is what happens when you avoid social settings like the plague. You end up dressed like a mirror ball trying to drink your dinner. Which then leads to losing control over your inner monologue. Which then results in using word like dimples in a sentence. Out loud. To a handsome stranger.”

  “So, you think I’m handsome?”

  “I think I am out of control.”

  “Control is overrated.”

  “So are holiday parties. And Celine Dion.” He shot me a smile that was both tickled and confused.

  “Don’t ask.” I shook my head before meeting his eyes. “Look. Umm. Thanks. For that, that…I don’t know what to even call it…intervention?” I lowered my head and my cheeks began to flame with embarrassment as I shuffled my feet.

  “There’s no need to thank me.”

  “Oh no, trust me. There most definitely is. I’ll spare you the details, but believe me when I tell you that both my pride and my wallet thank you.”

  “Your wallet?”

  “Yeah. Funny thing…but it turns out that assault is frowned upon in public. Well, it’s frowned upon in private, too. But it’s especially not something that high-end establishments appreciate. Had you not stepped in, it was very likely I may have ended up spending all my cash on bail money instead of bourbon.”

  I tossed out a small chuckle, trying to make light of the situation. I gestured to the bartender for another drink. Mine was now gone, and I needed an excuse to break eye contact with my rescuer. As the bartender slid the amber liquid in my direction, I reached for my wallet to fish out some money. Before I could even open it, a warm hand halted my progress and came to rest on top of mine.

  “Put it on my tab, please.” He motioned to the bartender with practiced ease.

  “That’s very nice of you. But you don’t have to do that.”

  “I know I don’t have to. I want to.” He rose from his bar stool and pressed closer to me. Then he raised his glass to mine before continuing, “As I said before. No, thank you is required. You had my attention from the moment you walked through the door.”

  “You...what? I...I did?” I couldn’t help scrunching my face in disbelief. When he nodded, I started to panic.

  Oh God! He’s staring at me. He’s staring at me, and my knees are beginning to feel like Jell-O. Commence operation ‘Deflect and Evade’ now!

  I used my patented self-deprecating humor to respond. “Well, you were probably blinded by the dress. It’s not exactly subtle.”

  “While I appreciate the fine cut of your dress…I’m considerably more interested in the woman wearing it.”

  And I’m paralyzed again.

  I’m not usually at a loss for words, but this guy had me seriously tongue-tied. Speaking of tongues, did he just lick his lips? And how long has my mouth been hanging open?

  “Here’s to being in the right place at the right time.” He clinked his bourbon against mine and I instantly grew jealous of the glass he held as he brought it to his perfect lips.

  Say something, you idiot!!!!

  Mentally I was screaming at my-dumbstruck-self to snap out of it. As the slow burn of my drink slid across my tongue, I cleared my throat and attempted to prove that I actually can hold an intelligent conversation. “Speaking of place and time…I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that you are most definitely not from around here.”

  “Hmm. I’ll bite. What gives you that impression?”

  “Well, you’re wearing a suit. Not something off the rack. No, this has been tailored.” The liquor must be spurring my boldness because I actually stroked his lapel as I spoke. “You have impeccable taste in bourbon. And you have manners. You are most definitely not a local boy.”

  Still holding on to his suit jacket, I looked up at him, quite pleased with my analysis.

  His enormous hand relinquished its hold on his glass and found a new home on my hip. I had no choice but to stare up at him. Pinning me with those blue eyes, his fingers dug into my hip as he re
eled me to him like a fish on a hook.

  I was a goner. It was completely obvious. I knew it. And the look on his face told me that he knew it too. Sensing victory, he delivered the deathblow to my resistance.

  “I wear my suits tailored because I like the feel of a perfect fit,” he said pulling me flush against him. There was no mistaking his interest as my lower abdomen brushed against something hard, large, and distinctly male. His hand stroked my hip as he spoke. “I like my bourbon how I like my women. I don’t bother with anything cheap. I prefer approachable, but with plenty of complexity. A hint of spice, with a finish that’s nice and long.”

  The way he dragged out the words, “finish,” and “long,” was no accident. He sent me over the edge when he ended with, “And I assure you, I am no boy.

  It’s official. I need a fresh pair of panties now.

  Chapter 5

  If I had thought it was difficult to form sentences around this guy before–now it was impossible. I had never been in the presence of a man so self-possessed. A man who blended confidence and raw sex appeal without coming off like a complete douche can. As he spoke, I could literally feel myself melting in his arms like a stick of butter. This guy was every woman’s catnip, and I was as jacked up as a smitten kitten. I had completely forgotten why I went down to the bar in the first place until I heard a voice behind me say my name.

  “Becca, are you sufficiently lubricated yet? We’re about to start.” I knew instantly that it was Drew behind me. Both her voice and her manner of speaking were quite… distinctive. Still, her choice of words was entirely too ironic. Now fully flustered, I turned and took a slight step back, and the movement successfully dislodged the large hand from the side of my hip. Clutching my liquid courage in hand, I turned to face Drew, and the gentleman behind me straightened to his full height. That’s when the look of recognition washed over my friend’s face. Before I could decipher what it meant Drew spoke again. This time, she addressed the man behind me.