Emily

I CAN’T SLEEP. I MISS my own bed. My adult bed. Sleeping in my childhood room is just weird. I’ve crashed at my parents’ home before, but this time is different. Like premeditated regression. My room isn’t exactly a shrine, but it certainly hasn’t been changed very much either.

So, I do what any grownup would do, I head to the kitchen to eat cold pizza and raid my dad’s whiskey at two in the morning.

I leave the lights dim, enjoying the glow from the strings of multicolored lights my sister Amy and I wrapped around pine boughs and then draped on top of the cupboards. I eat my pizza and then turn my attention to my beverage, remembering the first time Carter and I stole booze from the liquor cabinet and how not great that turned out. We tried to replace the vodka in the bottle with water, but got busted when my parents decided to put the vodka in the freezer before a summer party and their “booze” froze.

Not the first or last time Carter and I were in double trouble.

Lost in my thoughts, I feel his presence before I see him—the infamous Sergeant Warner. I stiffen and turn toward the door. There he stands, arms braced across the doorway, his masculine shape redefining all my previously held impressions of my mother’s kitchen.

Wow.

He’s wearing a simple tank top, and his army-issued sweatpants hang loosely on his hips. The way he holds his arms leaves no need to imagine the curves and planes of his strong muscles and shoulders. As I totally did all through dinner. My imagination is no match for reality.

He tilts his head, asking permission to enter, so I send him a small smile. My mouth feels too dry to form a verbal response.

Just wow.

When my mom said Carter was bringing home his retiring sergeant, I assumed someone much older. Someone grizzled and gray. But this guy is probably in his mid-thirties and the most prime-of-his-life specimen I’ve ever been privileged to see in person. Well over six feet with dark eyes that promise danger. His cheekbones are chiseled, able to cut into a girl’s heart for sure, and a dark scrape of early beard rasps across them. Carter never shaves on his leave either...but Sergeant Warner isn’t going back. Will he keep the beard? Or is it just a symbol for his exodus?

“Can’t sleep, Charlie?” I ask, sliding the pizza box over a place setting on the counter for him.

He joins me, taking the second stool at the breakfast bar next to me. “It’s too quiet.”

I grab a Santa cup off the mug tree and pour some whiskey into it for him. He huffs a small grateful laugh and thanks me. His large hands wrap around the mug and make me quiver a little.

Get a grip, Emily.

We sit in silence for a few minutes while he eats a slice and I sip my whiskey. I don’t know what to say. I’m not good at ice-breaking. If we had something in common, it would be easier. But all we have is Carter.

He clears his throat. “You’re wearing red.”

Well, that’s an interesting icebreaker, but probably no less weird than what I would have come up with on my own. I look down at my long underwear shirt and plaid jammie bottoms. “Yes. I’m wearing red.” Time for another sip.

I meet his eyes over the rim of my cup, and they are taking me in from head to toe. It’s disconcerting. Most guys don’t notice me these days.

“I’m just surprised. Red is a standout color.”

I jerk back involuntarily.

“Easy, mistletoe.” He puts a hand on my arm to stop me from retreating. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way. From what I saw at dinner, from the pictures of you around the house, you don’t wear bright colors. You like to blend in.” He pauses. Like maybe he hopes that is enough of an explanation. Then he sighs. “I’m not good at this, am I?” I look down at his hand, and he removes it quickly. “I was trying to say that red looks nice on you and you should wear it more often. I don’t usually have such a problem talking to women, but I’ve been blowing it with you all night. I’m sorry.”

First, my mind gets stuck on the part where he notices what I’m wearing at all. Much less pictures of me. And then it catches up and latches onto the last thing he said. “What do you mean you’ve been blowing it with me all night?”

His eyes widen in the only amount of panic I’ll probably ever see on his face. Sometimes, boys are really ridiculous. I am hardly scary. “Look, I can tell you don’t like me.”

“I hardly know you. What makes you think I don’t like you?”

He shrugs and starts tracing the top of his mug with his finger. The action should not make my nipples tighten under my long johns. I pull my eyes away from the mug.

“You just don’t seem to. At dinner...after dinner when we were all in the living room...I thought you were angry or something. Or that I rubbed you the wrong way, no matter what I said.”

I sink all the way back onto the stool. Reaching for the whiskey, I say, “That’s not true. I’m quiet. Usually people just call me shy. I’ve never been accused of being a snob before.”

“I didn’t say you were a snob.”

I’m not shy, either. I just don’t like being noticed. I never thought that maybe by trying so hard to be unnoticed, I might be drawing even more attention to myself.

But none of that is Charlie’s fault.

I’m about to say something polite when I remember he gave me a nickname. “Did you really just call me mistletoe?”

“Seemed like a good idea at the time.” He tips his mug for a refill. “So, my guess is that we are the two worst communicators currently in residence.”

I pour, grateful for something to do. “And here we are with no backup.” This awkward encounter is not getting any less awkward. I take a sip of the whiskey. “I’m much better with people one on one than I am in a crowd. I was just being quiet tonight. It wasn’t personal. Let’s start over.” I point to his cup. “Hi, my name is Emily. Can I buy you a drink at this bar in the middle of nowhere?”

Lame. Geez.

He scrunches his brows together and then shakes his head. Confused, because duh, I am so weird. Then he grins. “Hi, Emily. I’m Charlie. Where I come from, men buy the pretty ladies a drink. Come here often?”

I giggle. In spite of myself. In spite of the fact that there are no nearby rocks to crawl under. “New in town. You?”

“Here on business. I’m a...” Charlie looks around the kitchen, his eyes resting on the stove. “I’m a ...pot holder salesman. From Kansas.”

“Pot holders? That’s fascinating.” I take another sip. “I bet you are very influential in your company.”

He nods, a smile breaking out a dimple I didn’t realize he had. “I’m kind of a big deal.”

Charlie holds up his hand like he is getting the bartender’s attention and indicates two more drinks.

“Oh, I shouldn’t,” I say, while pushing my cup toward him for more.

“Tell me what you do,” he says as he pours our drinks. “Before I do something stupid and ask what a pretty girl like you is doing in a place like this.”

He already knows I’m a bookkeeper for my grandparents, as that came up at dinner. I need a better fake profession. “I’m a singer. Karaoke champion in four counties.”

He laughs, a nice rumble that I feel strumming in my own belly and then lower. “Look at us. We haven’t offended each other for several minutes.”

He smells really good. When he cocks his head in question, I realize I said that out loud.

Well, since it’s a day that ends in Y, it’s hardly surprising that I embarrassed myself. “Sorry. I...don’t get out much.” I’ve been drinking, yes, but I’m not drunk.

He laughs again. “You smell good, too.” He is teasing, but it’s nice. “Your hair...I like it down.”

I pat my somewhat crazy curls and bite my lip. Which brings his attention to my mouth until he brings his gaze back up to my eyes.

The air feels charged, a moment dragging impossibly long between us. Like static buzzing and zapping. I can’t look away from his eyes, even though I know I’ve been staring into them too long. It’s like falling. Or maybe flying.

“I should go,” he says, but he doesn’t look away. God, he is absolutely the most handsome man I have ever seen in person.

“If we were really in a bar, would you try to get me to leave with you?” That is really a stupid question. One that I don’t want to know the answer to.

Charlie swallows hard. “We’re not in a bar, though. You’re my buddy’s sister, and I’m in your parents’ kitchen.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Emily, you’re a nice girl.”

Well, that answered the question, didn’t it? Nice girl is shorthand for plain. Simple. Not the girls you pick up in a bar.

I shouldn’t feel let down. I’ve spent the last two-and-a-half years cultivating plain and simple. I try very hard not to look like a girl who could be picked up in a bar. Not to be a girl who gets picked up in a bar. I’ve embarrassed myself and my family enough this decade.

But it stings just the same.

I suck at handling rejection. Even before the incident. After... well, I’ve spent a lot of time making sure not to put myself in rejection’s path.

I get up and busy myself with putting the pizza box away and rinsing my cup. He hasn’t left the kitchen, so I have to fake being fine. I’m not sure I’m pulling it off.

“Emily.” He is directly behind me. He moves like a ninja or something.

I close my eyes. “Hmm?”

With one big hand on my hip, he turns me around until we’re face to face, barely an inch between us. The heat of his palm scorches the skin beneath my pajama pants. “You’re a very pretty girl.”

I snort and try to turn, but he cups my chin and brings me back to his dark, hot gaze. “If we were in a bar, I would have worked every angle until I got you back to my hotel room.”

My breath hitches. “I probably wouldn’t have been interested,” I lie.

This time he snorts. “Oh, you’re interested.”

“You think highly of yourself,” I balk. Also, you’re right.

“Some things are inevitable. But I’m going to try really hard to put this one off.”

“Right. Inevitable. So inevitable that you can walk away. I get it. I’m not your type. You don’t have to give me excuses—”

He stops me with his mouth. A hot, wet zing that goes straight from my lips to the center of my body and then lower. He’s still holding my face in one hand, and his other squeezes my hip. Holding me still. He likes being in charge.

I really like him being in charge.

Charlie slants his lips over mine and coaxes my mouth open. He tastes like the whiskey we shared, and I drink him in, getting more intoxicated with each pass of his tongue. He pauses, pulling back to look into my eyes. Then he closes his own, exhaling a sigh as he presses his forehead to mine.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not.” Please don’t be sorry.

“No, I’m not.” He steps back. “But I’m just passing through. I’m too old for you. I’m not boyfriend material, and you deserve better. Also, your brother will kill me.”

I can’t help but laugh. “I’m not going to tell him. Are you?” He still looks uncomfortable. “Look,” I say. “We got carried away. Lost in a moment. Blame it on the mistletoe.”

“We’re not standing under mistletoe.”

“Right. Well, then it’s the Christmas lights. And the whiskey. And the time of year. You’re home safe from war. Whatever.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but he nods. I lift to my tiptoes and kiss his cheek before I practically run out of the kitchen.

Because while I know it could be any or all of those reasons, I’m afraid it is the one I didn’t say. That despite everything I’ve done, no matter how hard I’ve tried to hide my body, my looks, Alan was right that night two-and-a-half years ago. That his words were true then and true now.

You’re a slut.