Holly And Mistletoe

Footsteps sounded in the hallway.

“Jordan?”

It was Holly. She would be relieved to find out he wasn’t naked under his sheet but instead wore shorts over his briefs. Then his eyes closed, and he couldn’t think about anything but the pain.

“Jordan, what happened?”

“I heard something. Howling. Tried to get up.”

“You fell. Are you hurt?”

He hurt like a son of a bitch. She raised his head to her lap, then stroked his face. He opened his eyes.

For a moment he stared at her, then he blinked, certain he must have hit his head when he fell. She was wearing a white robe and nothing underneath. He knew because the robe had parted, exposing the curve of one breast and the first hint of the rosy skin around her nipple.

He sucked in a breath. Her hair was wet and tumbling around her shoulders. Her eyes darkened with concern, and the fingers on his face were gentle and comforting.

Maybe he was dead. If this was heaven, who was he to complain?

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