He tilted his beer cup to show her he was empty as well. “I need a refill too.”
Chelsea turned toward the kitchen, but the living room was still packed with people. Funny how she forgot about them while she’d been talking to him. One conversation and the rest of the room had vanished, becoming nothing more than white noise in the background.
She probably should ask him his name, but for some reason, she was enjoying the anonymity.
BFG stepped around her. “Grab hold of the back of my sweater. I’ll clear a path for us.”
She did as he said, impressed by how quickly they managed to cut a swath across the room. He didn’t even have to zigzag. Instead, he just plowed straight ahead, everyone wisely stepping out of his path. Which made sense. She would have stepped back to make way for the large man as well, if she saw him barreling toward her.
When they entered the large kitchen—which was, mercifully, less crowded—he took her glass from her. There was a bartender manning the makeshift bar. BFG requested Chardonnay for her and another beer for himself. They both thanked the bartender when he gave them their drinks.
“So, what should we do now?” He gave her a cocky grin that told her he had no plans to let her out of his sight soon. The best and most surprising part was, she didn’t want their conversation to end, either. She’d expected to spend the majority of the party hovering on the fringes of the crowd, since Allyson, the dancing queen, would spend ninety-five percent of the night shaking her ass in the dining room, the other five percent refilling her wineglass.
Hanging out with him was infinitely more fun than holding up a wall by herself. He was seriously attractive, with a ruggedness she wouldn’t have thought a turn-on for her.
Rick had been the epitome of clean-cut, while BFG was sporting a five-o’clock shadow she was tempted to run her fingers over, curious if it was scratchy or soft. Then she let herself imagine how it would tickle if they kissed.
Down, girl.
His hair was a shade too long, but not shaggy. He had laugh lines by his eyes—which were the lightest, most striking shade of gray she’d ever seen—and an incredible smile.
He shifted closer, and she resisted the urge to take a step back. Not because she minded him in her personal space but because her libido—after a long, looooong hibernation—had just now woken up, well rested and ready to play.
She was grateful her sweater was thick enough to hide the fact her nipples were budding, her body reacting to him in a very visceral way.
“I think you mean, what should I do now,” she corrected, practically daring him to come closer. “Drink level achieved,” she joked.
He wasn’t deterred. “We,” he stressed. “We’re just starting to get to know each other. So do you want to dance or spend a few minutes under that mistletoe?” He pointed to the doorway they just walked through, wiggling his eyebrows playfully. Hanging above it was mistletoe that she hadn’t seen on the way in.
“A few minutes?” She seriously considered taking him up on that option.
His gaze slid to her lips for a second. “Or an hour or so. I have a feeling you’re the kind a girl a guy could kiss for days without ever coming up for air.”
She had to hand it to the man. He was the king of flirts, quick with the smooth lines. She’d never considered herself susceptible to that kind of thing. God knew, Rick was the opposite, serious, introspective, and self-important, something she hadn’t recognized until after he’d dumped her. Because she and Rick had been high school sweethearts, and he’d been her only boyfriend—her only anything—she’d made his intelligent, staid, well-groomed style “her type,” but ten minutes with her sexy, funny, brawny BFG had her rethinking that.
She considered his invitation to visit the mistletoe, flushing not with embarrassment but with a need she hadn’t felt in so long, she feared it was gone forever. Her sex drive had vanished along with her fiancé.
Her libido had always been bigger than Rick’s. So she’d been no stranger to taking care of business herself with her battery-operated toys whenever Rick gave her the “I’m too tired tonight” excuse. She hadn’t pulled any of them out since June, her desire completely dried up.
“Where do you keep going?” BFG asked, and she frowned.
“What?”
“Every now and again, I feel like I lose you.”
Wow. She’d dated Rick for way too many years, and he’d never noticed when she was upset or preoccupied.
“Sorry. It’s not you. I’m easily distracted,” she lied.
He didn’t appear satisfied with that answer, but he didn’t call her on it. Instead, he placed his hand on the small of her back, guiding her out of the kitchen, through the living room. The mansion had previously been someone’s home, though she couldn’t imagine one family living in a house this large. The ticket taker at the front door confirmed that it really was haunted when she and Allyson asked, though she assured them the ghosts were friendly.
“What about the mistletoe?” Chelsea was sorry she’d stupidly lost her chance for a kiss because she couldn’t stop thinking about stupid Rick. “Maybe we should go back and top these up?” Her glass was filled nearly to the brim, but she would have no problem chugging wine, considering what was on the line.
BFG chuckled but he didn’t turn around, leading her farther away from the music and dancing. “Don’t worry. We’re going to revisit that mistletoe later, maybe a few times. I thought we could find ourselves a quiet corner and get to know each other first.”
“Okay.”
Apparently, this Ugly Sweater party had started when the inn first opened as a fun way to draw people in to tour the property. According to the chatty ticket taker, the turnout the first year had been so good, the owners decided to do it again the second year. This was year three, and given the size of the crowd, it was a safe bet a tradition had been established. The tickets—as well as every room in the inn—had been sold out for months. This party had become this inn’s equivalent to the New Year’s Eve packages so many other hotels offered.
