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Her hair's falling out of its ponytail. There's a faint crease on her cheek from where she must've leaned against something during the drive. She's wearing jeans and an oversized sweater.

Nothing fancy.

Nothing like the black dress she wore to the gala.

And somehow, I don't think I've ever wanted to pull her into my arms more.

“Are you listening to me?”

I blink. “Absolutely.”

She narrows her eyes. “What did I just say?”

“Something about your dad trying to send me an entire turkey.”

She points at me. “Lucky guess.”

I grin. “I'm a great listener.”

“You're a terrible liar.”

“Also true.”

She laughs and turns back to the containers.

I step behind her, slide my arms around her waist, and pull her against me.

She makes a small, surprised sound.

“Bishop.”

“What?”

“I'm trying to put food away.”

“Looks like you're doing a great job.”

“Hard to do with a six-foot-three hockey player attached to me.”

“Sounds like a personal problem.”

She leans back against my chest.

I lower my mouth to her neck and press a kiss just beneath her ear.

She goes still.

Then tilts her head slightly.

And fuck me if that doesn't nearly undo every good intention I've had since she walked through the door.

“You know,” she says softly, “if you're going to distract me, you could at least help.”

I laugh against her skin. “Bossy.”

“Efficient.”

I kiss her once more before letting go. “Fine. Put me to work.”