“You’re getting very defensive,” she says curtly. “I didn’t realize you thought so highly of Asher McGowan. Is that why you were kissing him at the Ragnar Estate this weekend?”

“I didn’t see Asher this weekend.”

“That’s not what I heard.”

“You hear a lot of things, Bree.” I push back my chair and stand up, pretending my sore muscles aren’t screaming in agony. “I suggest getting your hearing checked.”

I brush past Emanuel so quickly that I barely hear him whistle, “damn, Elsa’s got her gloves off today.”

I’m panicking.

Because apparently word gets around fast in the gossiping capital of the world and I’m sure, by now, it’s gotten back to Asher.

I’m not ready for him to end this.

You can’t just kiss someone under the mistletoe and wake up with their hand on your boob and not catch feelings.

Or maybe you can.

Because boob groping requires consent and unwanted touching can be very distressing.

But I woke up warm and fuzzy and very okay with the proximity of hand to boob. And face to neck. And the fact that we were very much spooning. With the way Asher almost jumped out of the window when he woke up, you would have thought I had the bubonic plague.

I think he caught The Feelings too.

They’re very contagious.

Sort of like the plague, but with less death and more boob touching.

But with a whole party of people talking about all the kissing we did, I highly doubt there will be anymore boob touching.

Which is a shame because I have really great boobs and Asher has very nice hands. I think about them on the short walk to his office.

When I get there, he’s banging his head against his desk as the Menopausal Momager from the Seventh Circle of Hell screeches through the speaker phone. Her voice is enough to turn a birthday sour.

Still, I find it hard not to smile. There’s something about Asher McGowan that makes every last atom inside of me burst into tiny pieces of confetti. He’s surly and dramatic and weird, but there’s something about his quiet breathy laugh and the way he smiles when he rolls his eyes at me. It’s the little things. Like the way he holds the steering wheel or how he fusses with his hair when he’s uncomfortable. It’s how he’s powerful and sexy but not domineering. When he touches me, it’s always soft and hesitant and careful. He doesn’t always show that side of himself, but I know it’s there.

“Are you having a stroke?”