Mistletoe Not Required by Anne Oliver Page A

question his own life’s contributions—pretty damn ordinary.
    ‘I like to think so,’ she said on a note of cheer. ‘Thank you again for sailing with us and helping make a difference.’
    ‘I’ve not done much.’ Except chuck all over your lovingly polished deck.
    ‘Oh, but you have,’ she reassured him with abundant enthusiasm. ‘You’ve drawn attention to our foundation just by being here. I expect a huge influx of donations and sponsorships.’ Her grin was full of fun. ‘You can keep the T-shirt and cap as a thank-you.’
    She turned to him at the same time he turned to look at her. She was sharing the humour, her eyes sparkling in the night’s soft grey light, her bound hair coming adrift from its plait, tendrils spiralling behind her into the wind.
    And there it was again. That flare of attraction. Hot, bright, bewitching. Reciprocated.
    Despite his roiling stomach, lust smouldered along his veins. With her torso covered in a padded jacket, Jett’s focus narrowed to her smiling lips—lusciously plump and unglossed.
    They were still smiling when she said, ‘Your support means a lot to Brie too when clearly sailing’s not your thing.’
    Nothing like mention of his sister and seasickness to douse the lust sparks. He raked fingers over his skull, discovered his hands were disgustingly shaky, like his gut. What the hell had he been thinking, telling her they were going to finish...whatever this thing was between them? He’d be lucky to get past the starting line. She valued commitment, loyalty. Stickability. Her focus and her priority were with other people.
    He was a travelling one-man show.
    She’d been trouble from that first glimpse. Trouble from that first kiss. Trouble from that first glide of his hand over silken female flesh.
    Trouble.
    So why the hell was he hung up on her?
    ‘Leave you to it,’ he muttered, pushing up and listing to one side as the boat pitched and rolled.
    ‘Jett. Caref—’
    ‘I’m f — ’ His stomach revolted and he waved her away, hauled himself to the railing and retched pitifully over the side.
    Humiliation complete.

SEVEN
    Since they were on different watches and Olivia was occupied with duties that included keeping them on course, she didn’t see much of Jett. Still, there were four other women more than eager to see to his welfare. Cater to his every whim. In his current state of malaise she was pretty sure they were safe from his unique brand of charm. He was, to all intents and purposes, harmless.
    On the following morning when she forced her gritty eyes open after a fitful two-hour doze, she heard the sounds of feminine laughter and Jett’s low, husky rumble in the thick of it. Obviously seasickness was no longer such an issue.
    She checked the time, pushed up, eyes narrowing as Miranda’s laugh echoed with his. A mouth-watering aroma teased her nostrils as she reached the galley and her stomach gurgled.
    The threesome were relaxed around the tiny table, sharing some joke she hadn’t heard. The chick magnet working his irresistible charm.
    Not so harmless.
    Downright sexy, in fact, with one of the heavy vinyl aprons they used aboard moulded tight over his broad chest making him look disgustingly virile and domesticated at the same time.
    He didn’t notice her standing there practically salivating until she said, ‘Jett, I hate to spoil the party but isn’t it your watch?’ She lied—she didn’t hate it at all.
    Miranda and Flo paused at her no-nonsense tone, fluffy white scones with lashings of jam and cream halfway to their mouths. Flo looked apologetically flustered, straightened and pushed back from the table. ‘Livvie, Brie said—’
    ‘Breanna and Sam have it covered upstairs,’ Jett told Olivia smoothly, staying right where he was and reaching for his bottle of ginger ale. ‘My sister put me to work. Come and try them while they’re hot, skipper. I was just going to see if you were awake and bring you a couple...’
    Yeah, right.