She stopped when she was a foot away, not willing to throw herself at him in case this was some unfortunate misunderstanding and he was here holding flowers because something terrible had happened.
“Is Carson okay?” she asked.
Ryan frowned. “He’s fine. He’s on his way home. Why?”
“What about Stan? The chickens?”
“You think I’m standing here under mistletoe with stupid flowers in thirty-degree weather to break bad news to you?”
“It’s a possibility.”
“Goddamn it, Sam. For a doctor, you can be incredibly obtuse sometimes. I’m here because of you.”
She tried to rewind the words and listen to them again, but nothing made sense. “I’m sorry. I think I’m not processing language correctly.”
He growled, and the sound of it both delighted and terrified her.
“You’re just doing this because of the Beautification Committee,” she insisted. “I don’t know how they do it. Maybe it’s mind control or something. But you aren’t here of your own free will. Did they make you drink anything or force you to watch a slide show or something?”
He was in her space now, the toes of their boots touching. “I’m here for you. I’m staying for us,” he said, his voice low and rough.
“You’re not thinking straight,” she insisted. She couldn’t think with him this close to her. But when she tried to take a step back, he reached and grabbed her by the front of her vest.
“Snap out of it, Sparkle,” he warned, dragging her against him. “I’m here because I want to be. Not because a couple of nutcases pulled some half-assed stunt. I’m here for you. I’m here because the thought of waking up and not seeing you tomorrow scared the hell out of me.”
“Oh,” she said weakly. This was happening. Really happening. She was getting her happily ever… scratch that. She was getting her grumpily ever after.
Someone cleared their throat theatrically. “Is this where the line starts?”
Sammy and Ryan dragged their heated gazes away from each other to find Fitz standing indecently close to them.
“The line?” Sammy managed.
“The kissing booth line?” He took a hit of breath spray and licked his thin lips.
Sammy shuddered.
“Fitz, if you don’t get the hell away from my girl, I’ll send you to IRS jail,” Ryan threatened.
“Jeez. Okay,” Fitz said, holding up his mittened hands. “Mind if I hang out?”
“Aren’t you late?” Sammy asked.
He frowned. “Late for what?”
“The Pants Off Dance Off at the gazebo,” she improvised.
Fitz’s face lit up. “Sweet! Finally some real entertainment. Later, dudes!” He hurried off toward what would soon be a very confused audience.
“Now, where were we?” Ryan demanded.
His fiercely frowning mouth was so close. She could feel his breath, warm and sweet on her face. “Is this happening?” she whispered as her heart thudded in her chest.
“You’re damn right it is,” he said. “Now get used to it.”
She melted against him, ready to seal the Official Most Romantic Moment of her life with a kiss under the mistletoe. “In that case, I think we were right about here,” she said, rising on tiptoe.
“Wait!” someone yelled, breaking the spell.
Chest heaving, Sammy tried to jump back, but Ryan merely tightened his grip on her vest.
“Stop! He’s the wrong Ryan!” Ellery stormed into the clearing, dragging a man behind her.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Wrong Ryan groused.
“Is that you, Ry?” the newcomer asked with a lazy grin. He was wearing white pants, a pink Oxford, and a long wool coat. He had a green sweater wrapped around his neck like a scarf. “Heard you got shit-canned. Sucks to be you.”
There was something unsettlingly familiar about him, Sammy thought.
“What the hell are you doing here, Shufflebottom?” snapped Wrong Ryan.
Oh, shit. Ryan Shufflebottom, the Original Mistletoe Kisser, was back.
“Dude, Esme here told me there was an emergency and paid for my plane ticket,” First Kiss Ryan said.
“Ellery,” Wrong Ryan corrected. “And there’s no emergency. You can go.”
“Dunno. I kinda like this place,” he said, shoving his hands in the pockets of those blinding white pants. “It’s sexy.”
“What the hell is happening?” Sammy demanded.
“This only works if you kiss Original Ryan in the same spot as your first kiss. It’s all about symmetry,” Ellery insisted knowledgeably.
“Original Ryan?” Wrong Ryan scoffed.
“Holy shit! It’s Fried Tofu Chick,” Original Ryan said, chewing his gum harder. “I totally remember you. You got even hotter. Man, we could have had some real fun that night if my parents hadn’t caught me stealing cash from the Salvation Army kettle in the park.”
“Ellery, if you don’t want a murder on your conscience, get this douchewaffle out of here now,” Wrong Ryan warned.
“So, you want me to just kiss her, or can I try for a little third base action?” Douchewaffle Ryan asked, firing off pistol fingers and a lecherous wink in Sammy’s direction.
“Ew,” she said.
“What are we working with here? B cup? C cup?” Gross Ryan asked, walking toward her with outstretched palms at boob height.
“Not happening,” Accountant Ryan said briskly. “Hold these.” He shoved the flowers into Sammy’s hands.
“Ryan,” she warned.
“What?” both Ryans said at the same time.
“Dude, pretty sure she was talking to me,” Boob Grabber Ryan said, wriggling his eyebrows. He no longer had the boy band swoop of hair. Instead he’d graduated to a slicked back, heavy-on-the-gel style.
“Fuck symmetry,” Grumpy Ryan growled. His fist flashed out and connected with Original Ryan’s jaw. The man crumpled to the ground like a deflating Santa lawn display.
“Ryan!” Sammy yelped.
“What?” Wrong Ryan said as he stalked toward her.
“Ow! I can’t believe you hit me. I’m suing your ass! Tofu Girl, you and Ellen are my witnesses,” whined Inappropriate Conduct Ryan.
“Let’s do this right,” Wrong Ryan insisted. Once again, his hands fisted in her vest. The flowers fell uselessly from her fingers to the ground as their bodies connected. He didn’t give her a chance to breathe before crushing his mouth to hers.
There under the mistletoe, their tongues twined, teeth grazed, lips crushed.
There was nothing sweet or safe about the kiss. But there was fire and heart and hope. Even romance. And a host of other feelings drowned out by the pulsing need of more. More. So much more.
“Now, that’s a kiss,” Ellery mused from what sounded like a long way off.
“Can someone get me some ice? And some vodka?” Punched-in-the-Face Ryan asked.
“Come on, Subpar Ryan,” Ellery said. “I’ll buy you some wassail.”
Wrong Ryan broke away from the kiss. “Wait,” he ordered. He unraveled the green scarf from Sammy’s neck and threw it at his cousin. “You can have this back.”