Kissing Under the Mistletoe

"Ready?"

"Never been readier," she confirmed, hoping he knew she wasn’t just talking about the bike ride.

* * *

The ride into town was much too short as Rafe pulled over in front of the Italian restaurant less than ten minutes later. Brooke pulled off her helmet and shook out her hair, feeling like a new woman.

"That was amazing! No wonder Mia’s in love with your motorcycle. That was easily better than sex."

"If that’s the case, it sounds to me like you’ve been having sex with the wrong men."

She shivered at the heat—and the confidence—in his tone that told her in no uncertain terms that sex with him would be miles better than any ride on a motorcycle would ever be.

"Maybe," she agreed in a voice made breathless both by the ride and by the way his words had affected her, "but I think I want a motorcycle anyway."

She could tell by his expression that he didn’t like the thought one bit. "You can ride with me whenever you want."

She raised an eyebrow. "You don’t think I can handle one?"

"At this point, I don’t think there’s anything you can’t handle, Brooke...but I’d rather you rode with me."

She would go absolutely anywhere he wanted to on his motorcycle. Anywhere, anytime.

"I loved riding with my arms wrapped around you, too." As his eyes darkened even further, she had to ask, "Do you still think waiting twenty-four hours is a good idea?"

Clearly realizing he’d just trapped himself, he sighed and said, "You’re planning to torture me for every last one of them, aren’t you?"

She laughed. "I have a feeling you’ll do a perfectly fine job of that yourself. Especially," her newly wicked streak had her adding, "when you find out about my pajamas."

"Your pajamas?" The two words came strangled out of his beautiful mouth.

"Mmm," she said with a nod as she headed for the front door of the restaurant and tried not to betray how amazed she was with herself for the things she was managing to say to him. "I don’t wear any."

* * *

Brooke and the gray-haired hostess hugged hello, and then after Brooke gave her a couple of boxes of chocolate as a gift, she said, "Elise, this is Rafe Sullivan. His family used to own the house next door, and he’s just bought it again. Rafe, you remember the Lombardis? They’ve owned this restaurant since we were kids."

"Sullivan?" Recognition registered in the woman’s eyes as they narrowed. "Wait a minute, weren’t you and your brothers the ones who egged our front window on July Fourth way back when?"

He grimaced. "Guilty as charged. I know my apology is coming years too late, but I’d be more than happy to wash dishes for you tonight to make up for it."

Thankfully, she only laughed, although she was looking between him and Brooke with a clear question in her eyes. And a warning, if he wasn’t too far off the mark, that he should be careful not to do one damn thing to hurt the sweet woman standing beside him.

"You already made up for it by finding that little boy in the woods," Mrs. Lombardi said, and then, "Are you back for good, too?"

"For a summer vacation."

"Well, this welcome-back dinner’s on the house for both of you," she said as she showed them to a table in the corner. A rather romantic table for two, Rafe thought.

Then again, sitting close enough to Brooke that their knees touched was nothing compared to the ride into town with her soft curves wrapped around him. By the time he halfway recovered from that, they’d be getting back on his bike and heading home.

He’d assumed that, after their super hot kiss on the beach, things would be weird. Awkward. Strained. But apart from the way she kept teasing him, Brooke was her usual cheerful, sweet self. At no point had she tried to use emotional blackmail on him to get her way, like most of the other women he’d met.

Was it really possible that the two of them could have a sexy summer fling? Two friends who knew the score and wanted nothing more than to give and receive pleasure when the lights were out?

That’s what this twenty-four-hour moratorium was supposed to be about: a time-out to let those initial raging impulses settle so that both of them could rationally think things through.

Rafe figured most of the mistakes he’d made with women in the past might have been averted with a little cooling-off period. Only, something told him there wasn’t going to be anything cool about his evening with Brooke...and that there was a distinct possibility his plan could backfire. Instead of taking a clearheaded step back in twenty-four hours, he was afraid he’d be shredding Brooke’s clothes as he ripped them off her.

Hell, he’d already been about to do that on the beach. Especially when she’d informed him that she was determined to be "wild" this summer, with or without him. What if he did the right thing by walking away from her and then she turned around and picked up some creep to try out her newfound urges?

She was too trusting and it made Rafe sick to his stomach to think of all the things he knew for a fact, after seven years as a P.I. and five as a cop, could happen to her.

Damn it, an hour in and he was already rationalizing how sleeping with her himself was the only way to protect her and keep her safe.

Right. Wrong. After all these years, Rafe thought he knew exactly where the lines were drawn. But Brooke had him second-guessing everything. Everything except the sure knowledge that she’d freak out if he actually tried anything remotely kinky with her.