Connie Lane - Christmas At Cupid's Hideaway

“Perhaps you’re right, dear.” The lobby phone rang and, shaking her head, Maisie hurried out of the kitchen to answer it. “Perhaps you’re right, after all.”

“Of course I’m right.” Meg finished with the dishes, added detergent, then slammed the dishwasher door closed. “I was right all along,” she mumbled. “I said he wasn’t going to notice, and he didn’t. Well, not for more than a few minutes. I said he wasn’t going to fall for the Meg-as-a-seductress act and he didn’t.” She punched the buttons and when the dishwasher started its cycle, she crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back against the counter, absently rubbing at the spot on her hand where Gabe’s fingers had brushed hers. The spot where the skin still felt tingly. And hot.

“He’s definitely not interested,” she told herself. “He’s got a lot of nerve.”

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