Or maybe he tried and failed. That would be both embarrassing and not entirely impossible given the above facts.

I note the soft pillow tucked under my head—not the cross-stitched one I was hugging last night. I’m also covered in a blanket that smells like Ronan. On the table beside me is a glass of water.

The food and drinks from last night have been cleared away and sit on the counter across the room. I must have passed out so hard. I check the time. It’s barely after seven, but I have to stop at home to change at the very least and manage my makeup situation, so there’s no way I’m going to make it in before eight thirty. I’m glad I had the foresight to prepare most of the cupcakes for today last night, otherwise we’d be in real short supply this morning.

I throw off the covers, consider leaving them in a heap, but decide that’s super rude, so I fold everything—half-assed folding, but still—and look around the floor for my crinoline.

I spot all my stuff—purse, laptop, clipboard, and crinoline—on the club chair across from the couch. I can sincerely appreciate Ronan’s tidiness.

Once my mess is straightened up, I find a piece of paper, scribble an apology and a thank you, and gather up my things, shoving the crinoline in my purse because carrying it is awkward.

Of course my attempt to make a stealthy exit is thwarted when my purse knocks into a wooden sculpture of a beaver and it clatters to the floor. I carefully put it back, glad it wasn’t glass, and tiptoe to the door, careful not to bang into anything else. I realize I’m still wearing Ronan’s socks, so I have to take those off before I can slip my feet into my shoes. This also requires me to set down all the things I’m carrying because the socks are clinging to my tights.

“Morning.” The gravelly voice gives me pause.

“I’m so sorry I fell asleep on you.” I turn to give him an apologetic smile to go with the verbal one, but I’m pretty sure all I’m capable of is drooling. “Oh.” I’m excessively breathy as I murmur, “Good morning to me.”

Ronan is standing about ten feet away, wearing the same gray sweats as last night. Except he’s gloriously shirtless, all his artwork and his lovely, defined muscles on display. There’s a lot of both to appreciate.

I’d like to say I make an attempt to conceal my gawking, but I don’t. I scan his torso, drinking in the ink that covers the left side of his chest and merges with the ink running down his arm. I also admire the delicious V of muscle that disappears under the waistband of his sweats.

Eventually I make it up to his face. Even the smirk he’s wearing is adorably delicious. A five o’clock shadow covers his jaw and sleep lines cut across his face. His hair sticks up all over the place. This is a sight I wouldn’t mind waking up to more often.

“Blaire?” His right brow arches.

Damn it, he’s asked me a question and I’ve been too busy thinking about how it’s too bad he doesn’t sleep completely naked to be bothered to pay attention. “I’m sorry if I woke you. I knocked a beaver over.” I thumb over my shoulder. “But I didn’t break it or anything. And I’m sorry I fell asleep on you. I know I’m impossible to wake up.”

He runs a hand through his hair, making more of it stand on end. “I would’ve moved you to the spare bedroom, but you were out like a light and I figured you probably needed the rest. I hope you slept okay.”

“Like the dead, actually. I should go, though.” God, this is awkward.

Ronan gives me a lopsided grin. “You don’t want to stay and make me breakfast?”

It’s my turn for my eyebrows to climb my forehead. “I need to shower and change before work.” Plus Daphne said she was going to stop by this morning with a few things she thought might be helpful for the New Year’s celebration and she seemed particularly excited. No matter how many times I tell her I can manage, she always makes herself available on the nights with special events.

“It’s only just seven, and I’m kidding about you making me breakfast, Blaire. But I could make you breakfast.”

“Oh, you don’t need to do that. I’ve already overstayed my welcome.”

“If that was true, I would’ve stayed in bed and let you leave. You can let Callie open up, can’t you? I won’t make you late. I can whip up a mean breakfast sandwich.” His tone is light and playful, but his expression is earnest.

Warmth courses through my veins and pools in my stomach. “I guess I could stay for breakfast. I need to call Callie, though.”

“Great. I’ll put on a pot of coffee while you do that.” His warm fingertips graze the back of my hand as he passes. I don’t think it’s an accident.

After I call Callie, who’s happy to open up for me, I message Daphne about coming in a little late this morning.

Her response is immediate:

Daphne: Are you sick?

Blaire: No. Late night planning with Ronan. I’ll explain when I see you.

Daphne: Please tell me he has a big and you rode it all night long.

I ignore her text.

Blaire: See you in a couple hours.

“Everything okay? You still good to stay for breakfast?” Ronan asks.

“Yup. All set. What can I do to help?”

He hands me a mug. “You can get this ready to be filled with coffee. I’m going to throw on a shirt, and then I’ll start breakfast.”

“Okay.” I can’t remember the last time a guy made me breakfast. Especially not after an accidental sleepover, which did not include sex. I think I kind of like it.

He pads across the living room and I get a look at his back, also covered in art. He’s a living, breathing canvas. One I’d love to explore every inch of. And not just with my eyes.

chapter fifteen

Miss Mistletoe

Blaire

Look at the traction this post is getting!” Daphne shoves her phone in my face and waves it around, making it impossible to focus on the image.

I grab it from her, so I can see what she’s so excited about. I frown, not because it’s a bad image, but because I have no idea who took it or why it has so many comments or likes. It’s a picture of Ronan and me, his arm slung over my shoulder and mine wrapped around his waist. We’re smiling at each other, and while it’s on his feed, it was taken in my shop. Based on what’s happening in the background and my outfit, it was taken a couple of days ago when we had a post-Christmas, pre–New Year’s collaborative event—which is what most of our events are at this point.

And it’s turned out to be incredibly positive in terms of the Best Bar competition. We both made it through to the quarterfinals, although The Knight Cap managed to secure spot number twelve, while B&B ranked as number fifteen. I think it has a lot to do with our duets during karaoke nights, not that I’ll say it out loud.

I read the caption. I’m aware that Ronan leaves that stuff to Lars and one of his servers, who sometimes pass things by me or Daphne, so they can manage what to post and when. This is clearly not a pre-approved post, but people seem to love it. Because they’ve dubbed us The Knight Cakes and have given us a hashtag.

“Who approved this hashtag? It’s terrible.”