In a visual game of chicken, she kept her gaze locked on his, and continued to devour her snowman, limb by delicious limb. Mr. Mysterious didn't look away either, probably expecting her to flinch first. A tactical error on his part. Because she never gave in. Give a man an inch and he'd take a mile.

Anyway, if he was like most guys, he'd look away first and never look back.

Without breaking eye contact, he reached out his hand. “Petty Officer Foster, pleasure to finally meet you in person."

Annabelle blinked as her cold fingers wrapped around his large and surprisingly warm hand. “Should I know you?"

"Sure, if you watch the Food Network."

"I watch Law and Order and CSI."

"In other words, you live under a rock."

"Of course not,” she snapped.

"Did you know that Team Coast Guard won the Armed Forces Iron Chef competition and scored an invite onto the Food Network?"

"Well… no."

He sucked in a breath. “Must be a mighty big rock."

Wow. Five minutes and he was already ready for a throw down. Bring it on, buddy, bring it on. “You got a name, or should I just call you Smart Mouth?"

He smiled, eyes crinkling. “Food Service Specialist First Class, Petty Officer Tony Lombardi, at your service."

Annabelle eyed him up for a moment and then helped herself to a second snowman. “So, Lombardi, is this all you've got in your bag of tricks?"

"Not even close.” He winked. “Come on inside. You can help me package up the cookies for the kids."

As in… more than one kind?

Oh boy, she was in trouble. Just because she did her daily push-ups and training exercises without fail, showed up five minutes early to everything, and kept her gear clean at all times, just in case, didn't mean she was a frigging saint. If he expected her to bag cookies without touching a single one of them, he was in for a rude awakening.

Or a whole lot of empty cookie bags.

Annabelle shoved her duffel bag in the only corner not occupied by holiday paraphernalia, and followed Tony through the doorway of the small gray cabin.

Tony settled into the driver's seat, letting his long legs take up most of the space in the small cabin, and took the opportunity to study his companion for the evening. She was a firecracker, all right. All business. Down to the orange jumpsuit, tight auburn ponytail, and fresh, natural pink cheeks. So this was the new hard-as-nails rescue swimmer.

He shook his head. Something didn't compute.

Like that soft, sensuous mouth.

And the little groans of pleasure she'd made when she took her first bite of cookie. Probably didn't even realize it. She was that focused on the cookie. Any woman with appreciation for food was someone he wanted to know better.

She sat in the other seat and surveyed the spread of cookies he'd laid out on every available surface. She kept licking her lips, making them shine in the moonlight.

"Like what you see?” He more than liked what he saw.

She glanced his way, caught his gaze, and narrowed those big, hazel cat eyes at him. For whatever reason, she was sending him a very clear signal-get too close and you might get bitten.

Go ahead, sweetheart, give it your best shot

Cuz you might get bit back

"I hope you're hungry,” he said.

That perked her up. She tilted her head, arched a brow. “So tell me what's on the menu here."

How about… me?

Forcing back a chuckle, he gestured with his head to the first plate. “What do you say to butter balls to start with, followed by a second course of chocolate kiss peanut butter cookies, a main course of mini pecan pies-"

"Did you say pecan pie?"

"Sure did."

More lip licking. God help him.

"Is there anything else?"

"Greedy little thing, aren't you?"

She waited. Stared him down.

Hooooaa, she was feisty. He loved it.

"Last, but not least,” he finally said, “brown sugar chocolate fudge, which I have hidden away in a cooler for after the festivities."

She closed her eyes, and he could practically see little pecan pies and hunks of fudge dancing in her head. This was going to be fun. He pulled out a box of plastic Baggies and red ribbon, handed her a supply, and began loading each with a sampling from each plate. Annabelle followed his lead, but instead of mimicking his efficient assembly line, she added a step.

One for the bag, one for Annabelle, one for the bag, one for Annabelle…

"Gee, not much of a sugar junkie, are you?"

She laughed, a gorgeous sound he wanted to bottle up and take with him. “I could eat this whole spread in about five minutes flat."

He scoffed. “Yeah, right. What do you weigh, a hundred and ten pounds?"

"Didn't anyone ever tell you not to ask about a woman's weight?"

"It was a compliment. You're in phenomenal shape."

"In other words, you've been checking out my butt."

He threw back his head and laughed, putting his hands in the air. “Fine, guilty as charged.” She was a sharp one, for sure. Sobering, he swiveled to face her and scooted to the end of the seat. “Admit it, Foster, you've been checking mine out, too."

"Have not."

"Have too."

She sent him one of her ‘back off’ looks again, but she didn't move away. Instead, she licked her lips again, leaned back against the seat, and looked him straight in the eye. “All right. So what if I was?"

"The question is, what are you going to do about it?"

"Absolutely nothing,” she said.

"I don't believe you."

Her mouth fell open. “You sure are confident, aren't you?"

"Likewise."

She shrugged. “I'm good at what I do."

"As am I,” he said. “So I guess we have something in common."

Her brows shot up.

Oh, so she wanted to be all holier than thou because she was a member of the Coast Guard ‘elite.’ “Don't believe me?” He leaned closer, enough to smell the ivory soap on her skin and an unexpected hint of something floral, maybe her shampoo. “Come by the station holiday party this Friday night at the Northern Lights Rec Center. 1900 hours. You won't be disappointed."

The week breezed by in a flurry of training exercises, false alarms, and administrative blah. Annabelle retreated home each night to a steady diet of frozen dinners, leftover cookies, and fudge from the parade. Not exactly the fuel of champions, but it comforted her in her sparsely furnished, lonely one-bedroom town home located five minutes off base.

Not so comforting was the constant reminder of the dashing Tony Lombardi.

And that stupid holiday party. Which was-tonight.

She curled her legs underneath her, nestled into the hideous, brown mustard Barcalounger Dad had passed on when he moved to Florida. It was the only piece of furniture she'd paid to move all the way from New Orleans to Alaska. Some comforts of home were simply priceless.

Tonight, she loved the feel of the familiar, indented upholstery at her back. It would be so easy to stay right here, order a pizza, and polish off the couple of beers she had left in the fridge. Or had she finished those the other night?

Annabelle walked into her matchbox of a kitchen and yanked open the refrigerator door. The shelves were barren save for a bottle of hot pepper sauce, a mostly empty jar of kosher dill pickles, and the plate of fudge Tony Lombardi had sent home with her after the parade.

The one he'd exchanged for a promise to join him at the holiday party.

She dug the heel of her hand into her forehead. Parties were so annoying. She could see it now. Mucho decorations, blaring Christmas music, a bunch of holiday drunks, and her, wishing she was tucked under a blanket at home with a tub of chocolate peanut butter ice cream.