Page 74 of 12 Days of Mistletoe

“Why do you think itmeansanything?” I keep my eyes on him.

“Okay—I might have googled it. But I thought I’d give you the chance to tell me about it. Your version.”

“You’re so thoughtful.” And because it’s just too easy, I add, “Your thoughtfulness ishuge, it’senormous. In fact, it’s almost as big as my lips.”

A rumble sounds from his throat. “I told you?—”

“Right. I know. You’re not a painter.”

He pulls into a parking space, a spot marked reserved, something I’m noticing for the first time. But I don’t get out. I twist around to look at him better and wait.

When he doesn’t say anything, I am forced to. “So? What did Google tell you?”

He clears his throat and runs a hand through his dark brown hair—something in that small action stirs up the butterflies in my stomach. “Google said it’s a symbol for strength, solidarity, and hope for people who have struggled with mental health.”

I’m not sure why that makes me nervous. I’ve been open about my anxiety. He even knows I carry medication in my pocket and that my dog will pressure me into taking a pill if I’m being stubborn.

“Is that… right?” he says.

My turn to swallow down the nerves. “More or less.”

“May I?” He leans a little closer, lifting his hand near my face but pausing before he touches me.

I turn my head to the left, giving him better access to my right ear. His fingers tickle at my jaw as his soft hold cradles my face in his hand. I keep my eyes on him, unable to stop, while he studies the mark behind my ear.

“Youarestrong. You know that, right?” His fingers are still a feather at my jaw, giving my arms goosebumps beneath my coat. But his eyes have found mine, locking there, keeping hold of me.

“I do.Mostof the time,” I whisper.

“All of the time,” he says, and for half a second, his eyes drop to my mouth. “You don’t give up—that’s why you’re strong. All of the time.”

I swallow and mentally calculate how close we are—his face is ten inches from mine, ten inches of Bonnie’s mental math. “You should stitch that on a pillow,” I say because I need something not-so-serious in the air right now. Something to distract me from those ten annoying inches.

“Oh, I will. I’ll have matching throws made for each of us.”

“Throws?” He learned that word from his gran. My lips twitch and I nibble the loose skin on my bottom lip. “Perfect.” I lean, deleting one, then two of the ten inches between us.

A loud tap on Elliot’s window has me back in my seat. Elliot’s hands fly to the wheel—ten and two as if he were being tested—and a whole slew of inches now lie between the two of us.

“Elliot! Yoo-hoo!” Mrs. Beard from A1 taps and taps and taps—though we’re looking right at her. She can see ourfaces, but the woman won’t stop tapping. My heart might leap out of my chest if she doesn’t stop that soon.

Elliot rolls down the window of his driver’s side door. Funny enough, the blue-haired woman might have the biggest set of lips I’ve ever seen—of course she outlines them in red an inch wider than her naturally shaped mouth, but still, the irony is too much.

“Would you be a dear and help me put my Christmas tree in its stand? It’s been lying on my living room floor for three days waiting for my son to come help.”

“Sure.” Elliot nods, and that one word is winded. It hints that his heart might be beating as fast as mine. “I’ll come by in a few minutes.”

“Oh, that would make me as happy as the little drummer boy. Thank you, dearest.” The older woman leans into the car and presses one large kiss on Elliot’s cheek. She’s left her mark and nothing but a decent makeup remover cloth is going to take that red stain off. “I’ll see you soon.” She stands straight and wraps her floral robe tighter around her. Her matching slippers have probably soaked through with snow and slush.

She turns to head back inside, but I can’t help myself. “Mrs. Beard!” I call. “Yoo-hoo!” I say, repeating her greeting to us.

The little woman turns back, one of her penciled brows lifting in question.

“Elliot painted a picture of you.” I hold up the painting of me for the woman to see.

“I—” Elliot starts but bites his tongue.

Janice Beard beams right at Elliot. “Well, isn’t that sweet?” She bends down, taking a closer look. “My eyes aremore brown than blue, but this was my exact hair color once upon a time. Maybe I’ll go back to red?—”

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