Booked for Christmas

fact. Science does not require belief, as Esther points out and explains.”
“So aliens are real but cardinals are not?” Sophie shot back.
“I never said cardinals—”
“Um, hey, Sophie?” Peyton was by the window now, looking out. “It’s starting to really come down out there.”
“What?” Sophie got up from the stool and walked over to the window to join her friends, and the other party guests jostled for space, too. “Whoa. But the forecast said it was supposed to be a light snowfall.”
In clear defiance of her statement, big, fat flakes were falling in a flurry from the sky, clinging to the window and quickly coating the ground in a thin layer of glimmering white.
Marco turned the TV on to the weather channel. “Yep,” he said, a moment later. “There’s a storm front moving in from the east. Pretty quickly, too. We should be fine if we leave now and head west, toward Portland.”
“But we didn’t even get to do Secret Santa yet!” Peyton said, pouting a little. Damien put his arm around her and she snuggled into him. She better text me all the details first thing tomorrow, Sophie thought.
“I know, but I’m with Marco on this.” Sophie studied the TV, frowning. They were predicting at least six inches of snow in the next hour, and none of her friends’ vehicles were equipped to drive over snowy country roads. At least the drivers were all sober enough now to get home safely. “Peyton, Marco, Jonah, will you guys grab the Secret Santa presents from the bedroom? And I’ll pack up some leftovers for everyone?”
“I’ll help with the leftovers,” Wolfe said, walking toward her.
Sophie raised her eyebrows.
He looked down at her, a half smile at his lips. “I was taught to lend a hand to the hostess, always.”
She shrugged, even though her pulse fluttered at that smile and his proximity. But her body’s reactions were irrelevant (and clearly a sign that her friends were right about her needing to get laid sooner rather than later). The point was, the others were all either watching the TV or marveling over the snow outside, and she could use the help if she wanted to get everyone out the door quickly. “Okay. Thanks.”
As they walked toward the archway and the kitchen beyond it, Sophie side-eyed him—that roman nose, that strong jaw and proud chin. Evan Wolfe was a paradox: so chivalrous in person and such a douchenozzle in his column. “I still don’t get how you can believe in UFOs but not cardinals.”
He glanced down at her. “I told you, it’s not the cardinal I don’t believe in. It’s the concept of ‘signs.’” He even did the sarcastic air quotes. Ass munch. “What even is a sign, anyway?”
They were under the archway when Sophie stopped walking and turned to him, glaring. “A sign is a wink from the universe. A nudge to let you know you’re on the right path.”
An exhalation of air that sounded like a goose honking left his mouth. “Or maybe there just happened to be a cardinal flying around.”
“No, no, you’re totally right. Maybe I mis-saw it. Maybe it was an alien spaceship with little green men having a dance party inside it.”
Wolfe thrust a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up like he’d stuck his finger in an electrical socket. “That’s not the kind of aliens I’m—”
“Hey!” a laughing male voice called out.
Sophie looked up in a daze to see Damien laughing and pointing at her and Wolfe. “You guys are under the mistletoe! Now you have to kiss!”
Quinn laughed, delighted, her arm slung around the waist of her pregnant wife. “That’s right! Those are the rules, Sophie!”
She darted a glance at Wolfe, who was looking at her with a similarly horrified expression. Sophie felt her cheeks warm. “Um, no, guys, I mean, we have to work fast—”
“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” Damien began chanting and pumping his fists, as if he were twelve years old.
Unfortunately, Marco, Peyton, and Jonah hadn’t returned with the presents yet to come to her rescue. What were they doing, anyway—building the presents?
“We might as well kiss,” Wolfe murmured, stepping closer to her. “I don’t think he’s going to let it go.”
“Fine. Let’s get it over with.” Holding herself stiffly, Sophie let Wolfe put his hands on her waist, his grip strong. He dipped his head down toward her, his hazel eyes some shade between moss green and steel gray as they stared into hers. He smelled like rum and leather and woodsmoke from the fire he’d been sitting next to, and Sophie found herself inhaling deeply. Wolfe’s hands tightened around her waist, as if he’d heard.
In the next moment, he was kissing her cheek, his stubble rough against her skin, his lips firm and warm and sure. Sophie felt her eyes slide shut just for an instant, her nerve endings coming vibrantly alive at his touch, at being this close to a man after who knew how long.
Actually, she did know exactly how long it had been since she’d been touched. Two hundred and eighty-six days.
Her cheek felt uncomfortably cool and lonely when Wolfe stepped back, his hands lingering at her waist for just a moment too long. His eyes held hers in that moment, framed by thick, luxurious lashes she suddenly wanted to touch with her fingertips.
Then Damien hooted, clapping his hands, and the moment slipped away.
Wolfe gave Damien a quick, tight-lipped smile before turning back to Sophie. “Let’s get the leftovers?”

5
They packed the leftovers in silence, and she handed them to her guests as they left clutching their Secret Santa presents.
“You sure you’re going to be okay?” Peyton darted a worried look over her shoulder at the window. The sky outside bulged with ominous snow clouds. “The storm’s building quickly.”
“I’ve been through storms before.” Sophie gave her a reassuring hug and whispered in her ear, “Damien. Details. Tomorrow.”
Peyton grinned back. Sophie saw through the window that Damien was standing by his car, obviously awaiting further instructions about where the night would