Tic-Tac-Mistletoe (Hartbridge Christmas, #1)

by N.R. Walker

Yes, cry. A thirty-one-year-old man can cry; shove your toxic masculinity in your cakehole and stop judging me.

Then something big and dark and remarkably bear-shaped tapped on my driver’s window and scared the ever-loving shite out of me so bad, I let out a high-pitched scream of terror, and I swear to God, I almost peed a little.

A man put his hands up, terrified and a little hysterical. “I’m too pretty to be bear poo!”

“Are you a serial killer? I really hope you’re not a serial killer, though to be honest, I’d probably just roll with it at this point.”

“Could-haves and should-haves are the hardest parts of hindsight.” I met his eyes and gave a nod. “They sure are. Sorry for making you dredge up all this stuff. I’m still trying to get used to it. I half expect the phone to ring any minute and to hear his voice.” “And you will for a while.” “Does it get any easier?” He didn’t answer for a bit. “Not really. You just learn how to live with it.”

“I like him. He’s such a nice guy. He’s genuine. Do you know how hard it is to find that in a guy?” She raised her hand. “I’m a heterosexual woman. So yes, I do know how hard that is.”

Be careful, John, lest you suffer vertigo from the dizzying heights of your moral ground.’”

“I’d like to kiss you again.” My breath caught and my bones turned to sponge. All I could do was nod. And this time, his hands went from my face to my neck . . . and holy shit, I thought the face-holding thing was good.

When I say I want to take things slow, I don’t mean that we have to date for six months and get married before I give you my virtue . . .” “Uh, I think you left your virtue at the locker room door back in high school.” He burst out laughing, and the serious mood seemed to dissipate, thankfully. “That’s true. I did.” “Lucky boys.”

How do you have your eggs?” “Um, in a Cadbury’s chocolate Easter egg basket, if I’m being totally honest.”

“Hamish, just go with it. If it lasts a week or a year or if it’s forever, don’t waste happiness. Life’s too fucking short.”

“If you don’t kiss under mistletoe, a Christmas angel dies rather horrifically. I don’t make the rules, Hamish.”