Jingle Spells by Vicki Lewis Thompson Page A

forehead. She was relieved to find that “Moron” wasn’t written across it. She growled low in her throat, willed her rapidly beating heart to slow into some semblance of a normal rhythm.
    â€œHe’s just a man,” she told herself as she stared into the mirror. “Just a man. There is absolutely nothing special about him. He’s got the same parts as any other man.” She looked at herself, released a breath and whimpered, “Except that his parts are way more beautiful and compelling and hot and sexy than those of any other man I’ve met.”
    The stall directly behind her opened, startling her, and her gaze met a pair of twinkling dark brown eyes set in an equally dark brown face. “Mmm-hmm.” The woman grunted knowingly. “That’s the way of it, all right. The Curse of the Sparkly Penis.”
    Lark choked. The curse of the
what
? “I’m sorry.”
    The woman sidled forward and pumped the soap dispenser, then lathered her hands. “The Curse of the Sparkly Penis. Girl, you know what I’m talking about. There’s always one, sometimes two or even three, if you’re lucky,” she mused, her expression turning thoughtful. “And when a man has the sparkly penis, there’s nothing a girl can do. She’s powerless. Everything about him just shines a little bit more. Because he’s got the Sparkly Penis, see?”
    Though Lark had never seen Ethan’s penis to know whether it was sparkly or not—she snickered at the thought—her imagination nonetheless conjured up images of his undoubtedly impressive penis bedazzled with rhinestones and jewels, a little Christmas wreath proudly hanging from the root.
    A bark of laughter bubbled up in her throat, making the woman next to her join in until they were both nearly bent double, tears streaming down their faces.
    â€œThere you go,” the woman said, nodding approvingly, her gaze wise. “Next time that man’s got you tied up in knots you just imagine him with a few rhinestones on his junk and you’ll be right as rain, you hear me?” She mmm-hmm’ed. “Ain’t nothing a few sparkles can’t fix.”
    Lark giggled again. “Indeed.”
    A tentative knock sounded at the door. “Lark?”
    Lark gasped and her new friend’s eyes widened. “Is that him?” she hissed.
    â€œLark, is everything all right in there?” Ethan asked, anxiety tingeing his silky baritone. Heaven help her, the man had the
best
voice. Low and smooth with a soft rasp at the finish that put her in mind of tangled sheets and bare limbs, of candlelight and a whole hallelujah chorus of orgasms.
    Oh, who the hell was she kidding?
He
did that to her.
    Just him. Only him. Ever.
    It was hardly fair to blame it solely on his voice, when everything about him made her want to forget that he was her biggest adversary. She knew that she was supposed to hate him, that she was a champion for all the confused children in the U.S., the ones like her who had suffered heartache and insecurity and been the target of countless jokes and ridicule for clinging firmly to Santa Claus delusions. But it was hard—so hard—because Ethan Evergreen did the one thing that no other man had ever been able to successfully do for any length of time.
    He made her remember that she was a woman.
    He made her belly ache with longing, her lips tingle with the anticipation of an imagined kiss. Her palms itched to touch his bare skin, to thread her fingers through that glorious dark chestnut hair, to run the pad of her thumb over the full, unbelievably sensual curve of his bottom lip. She wanted to lick, taste and suckle every beautifully proportioned inch of his body, but more importantly, she wanted him to do those same things to her.
    On a rug. In front of a fire. In some remote cabin in the woods with no television, internet or cell phone reception.
    Indefinitely.
    â€œWe’re