Mistletoe Mischief: Chapter 2 - Too Many Kisses, Not Enough

 It’s just a party. Just one night. That’s what she keeps telling herself as they smile for photos, dodge nosy coworkers, and keep getting caught under strategically placed mistletoe.

Asher’s playing the role of fake boyfriend a little too well—and she’s starting to forget it’s all pretend.

One kiss turns into two. Then three.

And when someone asks if they’re real, her answer cuts deeper than she expects.

Chapter Two 

Asher 

Too Many Kisses, Not Enough

She’s been pretending this is no big deal all night.

But the way she keeps glancing over her shoulder? The way her hand hasn’t left mine for more than ten seconds at a time? She’s not as unaffected as she wants to be.

And I’m trying to play it cool. I am.

Except I’ve wanted this—her, us—for longer than I care to admit. So, yeah. Maybe I’m leaning in a little more than necessary. Maybe I’ve whispered a few too many fake-boyfriend things in her ear just to watch her shiver.

Sue me.

“This place looks like a holiday card threw up on itself,” Jenna mutters under her breath.

She’s not wrong. The lights are strung so tight across the ceiling it’s like walking under a Christmas-themed spiderweb. The music’s loud, the drinks are strong, and someone just tripped over a reindeer-shaped ice sculpture near the bar. I think it was management’s idea of whimsy.

But all I can focus on is her.

She looks good tonight. Too good. Her dress hugs her curves like it was made for her, her hair’s curled just enough to look accidental, and every time she looks at me, I feel like I’m in way over my head.

“You okay?” I ask, keeping my voice low.

She nods too fast. “Yeah. Totally. Fine.”

She’s not fine.

Her ex is still hovering on the other side of the room like a smug, well-groomed ghost. His hand’s on that woman’s lower back again—the one he said was just a friend. Jenna’s jaw tightened the first time she saw it. Now, she’s trying not to look at all.

So I lean closer. Touch the small of her back. Let her feel it.

We’re a team tonight. Even if it’s fake.

“Drink?” I ask, nodding toward the bar.

“God, yes.”

I lead her through the crowd, staying close enough that anyone watching can fill in the blanks. And people are definitely watching. We’ve been the subject of rumors since July. This is just giving them fuel.

At the bar, I order two drinks and pass hers over. She takes a long sip, sighs, and mumbles, “I already regret this.”

I grin. “The drink? Or me?”

“Yes.”

Fair.

I hand my card to the bartender and turn back just as someone yells behind us—loud and obnoxious and way too excited: “MISTLETOE!”

Jenna’s body tenses beside me. I follow her gaze and yep, there it is. A giant sprig dangling above us like it’s lying in wait.

“We can skip it,” I say quickly. “No big deal.”

But then the crowd sees. And suddenly, we’re a spectacle.

“KISS! KISS! KISS!” someone chants.

More voices join in.

And she freezes.

I don’t even think. I just lean in and press my lips to hers—light, careful, no pressure. Just a brush. Barely even there.

But even that small kiss destroys me. Her lips are warm, softer than I imagined, and yeah, I’ve imagined. More than once. My hand’s on her waist, and the second she exhales, I feel her relax just enough to make my heart stutter.

But she doesn’t pull away.

She exhales against my mouth. I feel it, warm, soft, involuntary. Like she forgot for a second that we’re not real.

When I pull back, her eyes are wide.

“We can fake-date without tongue,” she mutters.

I smirk. “That was without tongue.”

“Barely.”

Before I can answer, we’re bumped from behind. Someone laughs. We turn and find ourselves under another damn mistletoe.

“You have got to be kidding me,” she groans.

I hold up my hands. “Not my fault.”

She glares, but her mouth twitches like she’s trying not to smile. Then, because there’s no escaping it, she leans up and kisses me first.

Just a peck.

But it burns. Because she lingers. Her lips brush mine like she’s not entirely ready to end it. And my hand—traitorous, eager—rises to her hip, like maybe I can keep her here a second longer.

My hands find her waist. Her fingers brush my jaw. And when we finally step back, I swear half the room is watching.

We wander off to the cookie table, but the tension doesn’t ease.

She brushes crumbs off her dress and mutters something about gingerbread trauma. I laugh. She rolls her eyes. Then she looks up—and freezes.

“Oh, come on,” she whispers.

Another one.

Mistletoe. Again.

She turns to run, but someone stumbles into her from the side and knocks her right into me.

Our faces are close. So close I can smell the cookie on her breath.

“You okay?” I ask.

She nods, breath catching. “Yeah. Just… crowded.”

I could pull back. I should. But her hand’s on my chest, and her eyes are locked on mine.

This time when I kiss her, she kisses me back.

Not a peck. Not a joke.

A real kiss.

Her lips part under mine, her fingers curl against my shirt, and for a second, everything else fades.

There’s heat now, undeniable, messy, and sharp. I taste her breath. Feel the shift in her body when she leans into me instead of away. It’s not for the crowd. It’s not for show. It’s for us.

And I forget it’s fake.

When we break apart, her cheeks are flushed. Her eyes flick to my mouth, then away.

Someone stumbles past us, sloshing eggnog. She takes a step back, and mutters, “This party is a disaster.”

I want to say it’s not. I want to tell her that every second with her, fake or not, is exactly where I want to be.

But before I can, one of our coworkers walks up, Rachel, I think. Drunk. Cheerful.

“Oh my God, are you two actually together? Because if not, you should be. That was hot.”

Jenna laughs, a little too quickly. “It’s just for tonight.”

Just for tonight.

The words hit harder than they should. Like she kissed me with her whole heart, then slapped me with the fine print.

The words hit like a slap I didn’t see coming.

Rachel winks and disappears into the crowd.

Jenna turns to say something else, but I can’t. Not right now.

I step back.

“Asher—”

“I’ll be right back,” I lie.

Then I walk away.

Not far. Just enough.

Because if I stay any closer, I might forget this isn’t real.

And I’m not sure I’d come back from that.

Come back tomorrow for the next Chapter

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: December 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix