Sam's gaze drifted up, and his lips quirked.

“Well, this may help my cause.”

Her glance rose to the mistletoe dangling over

their heads, darted to his, then briefly down to his

lips, before meeting his again. When his lingered on

her mouth, a tiny hitch tightened her stomach.

“So, why do people kiss under the mistletoe?” he

asked softly, his voice as mesmerizing as his eyes.

“I-I don’t know.” Her words were as breathy as

they had been up on the mountain earlier. This time

she couldn’t blame the altitude.

Sam tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Something to do with Celtic tradition, isn’t it?”

A shiver slithered down Heather’s spine.

“Maybe.” She’d be hard pressed to come up with her

own name right now, let alone the ancient history of

some plant.

“It’s a nice tradition, don’t you think?” His

thumb brushed her cheek.

Her lips parted.

“Did I ever mention I’m a very traditional guy?”

She shook her head. A wave of dizziness washed

over her as he leaned closer. Her surroundings

blurred, until her vision narrowed to only his rugged

features drawing nearer to her in excruciatingly

slow degrees.

His mouth finally closed over hers as his hand

splayed across her back to draw her to him.