With visions of icicles, snowmen, and powdery snowflakes whirling in her head, Carly Gatlin awoke on the eve of Christmas Eve tangled with the naked body of her fiancé, Kip Sullivan. Something which had nothing to do with candy canes or Santa Claus pressed against her bottom in a seasonal greeting.

Ho, ho, ho, hot indeed.

She slipped an arm out from the covers and picked up her phone from the nightstand. Six fifty-five. Only five minutes until her alarm was due to go off. So that meant no time for a day-early birthday present for the man currently stroking a hand down her ribs to squeeze her hip.

But on the flip side, it meant they were only ninety minutes away from catching the first of their four flights to Carly and Kip’s first white Christmas together in Aspen, Colorado. Her teeth nipped into the smile curving up on her mouth, and a shiver raced down to her toasty-warm toes.

Flight one—the first leg of their journey—departed from Oban’s tiny airport and would transport them to the mainland and the small city of Invercargill. The Mainland, Carly had learned in the time she’d lived on Stewart Island, was a Kiwi-ism for the South Island of New Zealand, which was slightly bigger than the North Island. From Invercargill they’d head north to the capital city of Wellington, and from there they’d fly across the pacific to LA to their final connecting flight to Aspen and the cosy little holiday rental chalet they’d booked close to the slopes.

Kip finger-walked his way over her hip bone and headed south. With a regretful chuckle she flicked his wandering fingers away and wriggled upright.

“Come on, lazybones,” she said as the covers pooled around her waist. Two seconds later when her bare boobs caught up with the fact the temperature in the room possibly explained her winter wonderland dreams, she added, “Wow, it’s like Frosty the Snowman’s butthole in here.”

Kip’s eye cracked open, a slit of gas-flame blue in his tanned face. How on earth he managed to look like such a golden god even though summer in New Zealand only officially started twenty-three days ago…not that she was complaining.

He rolled his head toward the blackout drapes covering their bedroom windows. “Hear that?”

She hadn’t noticed it on waking, but yeah, there was no mistaking the sound of thousands of rustling leaves, the roar of the surf pounding up Halfmoon Bay’s beach, and the keening of the wind whipping around the corners of their little home. Carly’s gaze zipped back to Kip, who’d propped himself up onto his elbows, his gaze unerringly locking with hers.

“Crap,” they said in unison.

Kip, who for a big guy could still get all his six-hundred-plus sexy-as-hell muscles into motion quicker than her, ninja-rolled out of bed and ran to the window. He pulled apart the drapes to a silver tinsel colored sky minus the sparkle, and plumes of sea spray rising from the waves by the howling wind.

Carly padded to his side, slipping her arm around his waist. Mostly for comfort, and a little bit because he was built like a muscular furnace and she’d forgotten to slip on her robe. “Are you kidding me? This is summer?”

“This is a Stewart Island summer.” Kip dipped his head and brushed a kiss on her temple. “Unpredictable, like you.”

“Cute.” She slid her hand lower and gave his disgustingly perfect bubble butt a slap. “We’re just lucky we didn’t book to go on the ferry this morning.”

His mouth twisted as he continued to stare outside. A flurry of raindrops hit the window. “Yeah. I’m about ninety percent sure today’s crossings will be canceled.”

“We’d better get dressed. Del is picking us up in less than an hour.”

He dipped his head again, but this time his mouth found hers. Hot, delicious kisses that were over far too soon.

“Hey,” she kinda moaned when he pulled back.

“Don’t want your brother catching us in the buff.” Kip winked at her and crossed to the chest of drawers for a pair of boxer shorts.

He dragged out a pair of silky, candy cane printed ones with a raised eyebrow. “Really, Carly?”

“It’s Christmas,” she said. “You’ll get your regular boxers back on New Year’s.”

While he pulled on the boxer shorts, Carly returned to her phone and found the weather forecast for the lower part of the South Island.

Stewart Island: Strong winds and scattered but heavy showers. Invercargill: Fog.

Carly swallowed with a jagged click in her suddenly dry throat, quickly opening another tab to check out Invercargill Airport.

Oh. God.

Kip zipped up his jeans and came to stand at her side. “What’s wrong?”

“Invercargill Airport’s closed due to fog. Our flight’s delayed until further notice.”

She didn’t mean it to, but a wobble slipped into her voice. They’d planned this trip just for the two of them for months.

Kip cupped her face in his hands. “It’ll be fine once we get there. We’ll catch a later flight to Wellington and still be in time to catch the plane to LA tonight. Trust me, I promised you a white Christmas this year, and a white Christmas is what you’re gonna get.”

Because he knew how much she missed her dad at this time of year. The longing residing in a tiny part of her heart for the Christmases spent with her Air Force dad as a kid in the colder US states. He knew her yearning for sleigh rides and roaring fires instead of barbecues and beach cricket under New Zealand sunshine.

“I love you,” she said.

“I love you, too, Zoomie.”

This time Carly got her ass slapped, and it was delivered with a grin that would’ve melted her panties to ashes had she been wearing any.

“Now, get dressed,” he said, “and let’s get this year’s Christmas mission under way.”