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"Welcome to the Captain's Couples Christmas Challenge!" Big Mike booms. "Each competing player and their resort representative will complete three festive challenges designed to test communication, trust, and their ability to survive prolonged exposure to one another!"

The crowd cheers.

And at the back of the room, I see Miles walk in.

Oh no.

Oh no, no, no.

He's wearing a tight red thermal shirt stretched across his chest, black trousers that are a little tight, suspenders, and a tall green elf hat with a bell on the end.

The outfit should make him look ridiculous.

It's a fucking elf costume. Elves are not sexy.

Elves make toys and have pointy shoes and squeaky voices.

But Miles Stratton has the arms of a lumberjack and thighs that turn those black trousers into something I want to rip off just so I can see exactly what that bulge pressing at the front really looks like.

He doesn't look like an elf.

He looks like Christmas pornography.

Great. I have officially reached the point in my life where I want to sleep with an elf. This is who I am now.

His blue eyes find me across the ballroom, and of course, they drop straight to my neckline. The journey back up to my face takes long enough that I could have made a coffee, and by the time his gaze meets mine, I know that borrowing Stevie's dress was an excellent decision.

Miles comes to stand beside us without a word, and soon, as the teams around the room begin to assemble, Big Mike appears between us with two aprons before either of us can recover.

Mine reads NICE in glittering white letters. Miles's reads NAUGHTY.

"The classification seems accurate," Miles says, pulling his over his head.

"Yours should say UNSUPERVISED," I inform him, tying my strings. "Or possibly HAZARD."

"Yours should say THAT DRESS IS A WORKPLACE VIOLATION."

"Don't be ridiculous." I roll my eyes and scoff. "That wouldn't even fit on the apron."

We're already arguing before Celeste even announces the first challenge.

"Round one!" she calls from the stage, tablet raised like a royal decree. "Decorate your partner! Each hockey player becomes a Christmas tree. Your task is to decorate him with tinsel, ornaments, flashing lights, and a star secured above the shoulders. Most festive player wins!"

The murmur and excitement around the room rumbles around us as Stevie looks on from the side of the room, giddy with excitement. I turn to Miles with the smile of a woman who has just been handed a legal reason to touch him.

"Hold still, tree."

Our station has everything—gold tinsel coiled in baskets, ornaments in every color, strings of battery-powered lights and one glittering star the size of my palm.

I grab the tinsel first and start wrapping it around his chest, which requires me to circle him with my arms, press close enough to feel the heat pouring off his body through that criminally fitted shirt, and inhale that intoxicating scent.

"You're breathing on my neck," he says.

"I'm decorating you. Now hold still."

I reach beneath his arms to pass the tinsel around his back, and his chest expands under my hands.

"Stop that," I hiss.