Totally chill.
And really, maybe she’s playing this game with me to make her ex jealous because she might want him back. I’ve seen plenty of that kind of drama and manipulation in the hockey world.
My gaze trails back to Jaylynn, who just bent to pick up a peppermint-shaped pillow. I peel off my coat, suddenly boiling, even though the room is barely heated.
Yeah. Chill.
Right.
Except definitely not, if she keeps bending over like that.
Fuck me.
I move my duffel bag to the bed, and when Jaylynn moves toward me, a shrill, BZZZZZ screams from above.
“Holy—” I clutch my chest like I’ve just seen my playoff hopes flash before my eyes. “Is that a fire alarm?”
Jaylynn nearly doubles over laughing. “Nope,” she says, pointing upward like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “That would be the mistletoe alarm.”
I blink. “I’m sorry, the what now?”
“No idea how it works,” she says with a shrug, stepping back from me. The moment she moves, the alarm cuts out with an abrupt click. She glances up, then down at the space between us. “Maybe it’s a pressure sensor or something? Like if we get close, the alarm is an indication that we should, you know…kiss.”
“Wow.” I stare up at the offending sprig of mistletoe dangling from a ribbon like it’s mocking me. “That’s not festive. That’s disturbing.”
She smirks. “Welcome to the peppermint honeymoon suite and I really do hope it’s a weight thing that sets that off and no one from the lobby is watching.”
I chuckle, even as my pulse tries to catch up from the surprise buzzer. “This whole room is a booby trap. Next thing you know, Cupid’s going to pop out of the mini fridge.”
She laughs, then trails off, her gaze dropping to my groin area. “Though, I mean… This is the honeymoon suite and that alarm is, well, let’s just say it’s more likely to trigger a heart attack than a rise…”
She pauses, cheeks suddenly blooming a soft, rosy pink, and her hair tumbles forward as she ducks her head.
“More than what?” I ask, casually, but my voice comes out a little too low. A little too interested.
Abort mission. Shut it down, man. No time for jokes.
Her head snaps up, brown eyes sharp. “You know what I mean.”
I lift a brow. “Can’t say I do.”
Her glare says I’m about three seconds from getting smacked with a festive pillow.
“A rise in…” She pauses and huffs out, “Let’s just say you have one, and I don’t.”
I stare at her, wanting to push this just a little bit. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because she looks so damn cute when her cheeks flush. “A gallbladder? You think that is causing a rise in gallbladder attacks? I remember when you had to have yours out in high school.”
She lets out the most dramatic sigh known to mankind.
“Yes, Penn,” she says, tone pure sarcasm. “Exactly. That mistletoe alarm is more likely to cause a rise in gallbladder attacks than anything else. Nailed it.”
I laugh, full on now, and she rolls her eyes so hard I’m surprised she doesn’t pull something.
She points at the bed. “Anyway. Which side do you want?”
I eye the mountain of heart-shaped pillows with suspicion. “Whichever you don’t. This is your room, your rules.”
She flops backward onto the mattress. “I usually sleep in the middle. Starfish style. Limbs everywhere.” She throws her arms and legs out dramatically, kicking up a few peppermint pillows in the process. Unfortunately, physics decides to get involved, and the motion makes her breasts bounce beneath her flannel top.