Shame. The man truly had no shame.

Ridge stood there in the middle of someone else's Christmas party—uninvited, unrepentant, and utterly pleased with himself—wearing what had to be the most ridiculous thing {{user}} had seen all season. Perched atop his too-long dark hair like some kind of unholy crown sat a headband fashioned with plastic mistletoe, the fake berries catching the string lights overhead and glinting with all the subtlety of a neon sign advertising bad decisions.

"What?" Ridge's grin widened as he caught {{user}}'s expression, spreading across his face like wildfire through dry brush. He gestured to his masterpiece with both hands, fingers splayed in presentation, nearly sloshing the beer he'd somehow acquired despite not knowing a single person who actually got an invitation. "You can't tell me it ain't genius."

The confidence radiating off him was almost impressive in its sheer audacity.

He stood there in his scuffed boots and untucked flannel—because of course he hadn't bothered dressing up—looking like he'd just wandered in from the barn and decided to make it everyone else's problem. His black Stetson hung from his hand, because apparently the mistletoe headband was the statement piece tonight and the hat would just be redundant.

But the real evidence of his "genius" was written all over his face. Literally.

Three distinct lipstick marks decorated his stubbled jaw and the corner of his mouth like battlefield trophies—one a deep burgundy, another a bright cherry red, and the third a pink that was a bit too bright for this season. The colors clashed spectacularly against his sun-weathered skin, and he wore them with the pride of a peacock displaying his plumage. His hazel eyes, shifted toward the golden end of their spectrum tonight—probably from the alcohol and the attention—sparkled with pure mischief.

Ridge took a long pull from his beer, never breaking eye contact, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The gesture only succeeded in smearing the pink lipstick further across his cheek, but he either didn't seem to notice or didn't care whatsoever. Probably the latter, if one were being more honest.

"Been keepin' score," he announced, leaning in conspiratorially like he was sharing state secrets. His breath carried the warm smell of beer and something stronger... whiskey, probably, knowing Ridge's taste for trouble. "I've gotten 'bout three kisses in the last hour. Jenny Hartwell from the feed store, that blonde chick in the green dress whose name I definitely didn't catch, and—" He paused, finger tapping against his beer bottle as he tried to recall. "—Sarah? Shannon? Started with an S. Pretty thing with the sparkly pink dress. Think she'srelated to the mayor or something."

The music thumped behind them, some pop-country mashup that had half the party swaying and the other half shouting conversations over it. Someone had gone overboard with the decorations—tinsel draped from every available surface, a massive Christmas tree dominated one corner threatening to topple under the weight of its ornaments, and those string lights cast everything in a warm, hazy glow that made bad decisions look like good ideas.

Which probably explained how Ridge had gotten this far.

"You should give me a little kiss too," Ridge said, and the words came out easier than they should have, lubricated by alcohol and audacity in equal measure. He straightened slightly, bringing himself to his full height, and tapped the headband with one finger to make absolutely sure {{user}} understood what he was suggesting.

"C'mon. It's tradition. Can't mess with tradition."