Page 24 of Dancing in Lake Mistletoe

I lift my hand. “You have a little something,” I begin.

She dips her head as her tongue darts out to lick the creamy froth from her lips. And the action causes my words to catch in my throat.

She grabs her napkin and dabs at her mouth.

“Well?” I ask, quirking a brow.

“I’m not usually a beer drinker. Wine’s usually my beverage of choice, but it’s good. Like black coffee or dark chocolate,” she says.

“Exactly.”

The server returns with our dishes. I dig into my bangers and mash, savoring the savory flavors, while Mindi’s fork dips into her shepherd’s pie. For a few minutes, everyone’s focused on their food, and the laughter and conversation around us fill the silence.

“So, Mindi,” Sela—never one to stay silent long—says, “what do you do for fun when you’re not working?”

I glance at Mindi, curious to hear her answer.

“I have a lot of downtime between work and rehearsals, but I enjoy yoga, and I like pottery,” she says. “There’s a studio around the corner from my apartment, and I’ve taken some lessons fromthe owner. There’s something relaxing about sitting at a wheel, working a lump of clay.”

“So, you’re artistic. That’s something you and Dutch here have in common.”

I shake my head. “Let’s not exaggerate, Sela.”

Mindi glances at me, her interest piqued. “You’re into art?” Her voice is soft, and there’s a hint of surprise there, like she didn’t expect that side of me.

“I wouldn’t sayintoexactly,” I say, feeling a little sheepish. “I do a little leatherworking. Belts and wallets mainly.”

“He’s made a couple of journal covers for me, and he made some gorgeous messenger bags that Lydia sold in her dress shop. Oh, and the saddlebags you made for your dad. Oh, you should make Mindi a dance bag.”

Isaac tries to hide his laugh with a cough, but he’s no help, and Sela’s suggestion hangs in the air between us. I look at Mindi, and she’s biting her bottom lip, trying to stifle a smile.

“I don’t think my work is up to Mindi’s professional quality,” I say, giving Sela a pointed look.

She tilts her head. “You’re better than you think.”

The conversation drifts back to familiar territory—old stories, inside jokes, plans for the weekend. And each time my arm or leg brushes against Mindi’s under the table, it feels deliberate. Like my body instinctively wants to touch hers. And each time our gazes meet, there’s a spark that feels impossible to ignore.

Eventually, Sela leans back, finishing her cider, and gives me a look that feels like both encouragement and a warning, as if saying,Don’t let this one slip away, Dutch.

I give her a small nod.

After we’ve finished eating and the plates are cleared, the four of us sit there, lingering over our drinks. I’m half-tempted to find an excuse to ask Mindi to stick around once Isaac andSela leave, but before I can say anything, Mindi turns to me, and her gaze is steady and warm.

“I like your friends,” she says, her voice just loud enough for me to hear over the pub’s noise. “They’re … fun.”

“Yeah, they are,” I reply. “They like you too. I can tell.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah? Or are they just being nice?”

“They’re not nice just for the sake of being nice,” I say with a grin. “Trust me, if they didn’t like you, they’d have made it obvious.”

We share a laugh, and something shifts between us, an easy familiarity. Sela and Isaac finally call it a night, and as we say our good-byes, I’m left standing outside the pub with Mindi, the crisp night air sharp against my skin.

She shivers, rubbing her arms, and I have to resist the urge to pull her close.

“Cold?” I ask, and she nods, glancing up at me with a soft smile.

We linger there, not quite ready to say good night.

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