Page 32 of Dancing in Lake Mistletoe

“You don’t need a past full of traditions to build your own,” I say. “You can start now.”

“I guess. Christmas has always been just another chilly day. You don’t really miss something you never had, but if I have a family of my own one day, I’ll make sure they do. I’ll be one of those over-the-top moms every holiday. My kids are going to think I’m insane.”

I chuckle at that. “I live here. I don’t think over the top exists.”

She glances at our surroundings, which looks like a scene straight out of a Christmas fairy tale. “I think you’re right.”

Mindi

We’re standing on the pedestrian bridge, looking out onto the lake, surrounded by twinkling lights.

“Wow,” I gasp.

“Yeah, you never get used to it. Every year, it seems better than the last,” he says as we take in the natural beauty of the lake.

He’s the kind of man who seems like he was built for this place in his wool-lined jean overcoat. His cream thermal stretches across his chest like it was made for him. He’s got that scruffy chin that makes him look like he just came down from chopping wood somewhere in the mountains. And the way he’slooking at me now, with a slow, sexy smile, I feel my stomach flip.

“What?” he asks, his voice low and smooth, like melted chocolate.

“You’re annoyingly good-looking,” I say.

His brows rise. “Annoyingly good-looking?”

I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, suddenly aware of the bite in the air and the way my cheeks are probably flushed pink from the cold—or maybe from him. “Yeah. And not in the sleek, athletic way I’m used to, but in a rugged manly-man way.”

He chuckles, his breath visible in the frosty air.

I laugh, glancing around at the cozy scene around us. The square is buzzing with activity—families bundled in scarves, couples holding hands, kids tugging at their parents as they make their way around the water’s edge. All are highlighted by the gorgeous lights and holiday decor. The whole town feels like it was plucked straight out of a Christmas movie.

And yet, despite the crowd, it feels like it’s just the two of us standing here. Dutch and me, with the cold nipping at our noses and something unspoken hanging between us.

“So, what else is on the agenda for tonight?” I ask.

“This isn’t enough?”

I shake my head, abruptly conscience of how close he’s standing. “It is. I don’t mind just wandering, I guess.”

He leans over the railing next to me. “Wandering’s not a bad way to spend a night.” His gaze drifts upward, and I see a mischievous smile creep across his face. “Seems like we’ve wandered into something.”

I follow his gaze, and my heart skips. Dangling above us, nestled between two strands of lights and tucked into a garland of evergreen, is a sprig of mistletoe with plump white berries and glossy leaves, practically begging for attention. I don’t know ifit’s the cold or the fact that Dutch is less than a foot away from me, but I suddenly feel very warm.

“Well, this is … unexpected,” I say, trying to sound casual, but I can hear the edge of nervousness in my own voice.

I steal a glance at him. He’s watching me with a mixture of amusement and something else I can’t quite place. Something darker, deeper.

“Although this is Lake Mistletoe.”

“Lake Mistletoe, huh?” he says, glancing above us before standing back up and taking a small step closer, his boots crunching softly in the snow. “Guess it lives up to its name.”

My heart is pounding now, my breath catching in my throat. He’s close enough that I can see the snowflakes that have landed in his hair sticking out from his black beanie, tiny crystals melting against the warm skin of his neck. His scent—pine, woodsmoke, and something faintly spicy, like cinnamon—fills the space around us. My pulse is racing, and I don’t know if it’s from the cold or the fact that Dutch is staring at me as if he sees something he wants.

There’s a tension hanging in the air between us, the kind of tension that makes everything else—the laughter from the folks on the square, the hum of voices—fade into the background. All I can hear is the sound of my own heartbeat, and all I can see is him—Dutch, the sexy mountain man.

He reaches up slowly, brushing a hand over the mistletoe, as if to confirm its presence, his smile lifting into something more wicked. Like he knew exactly where this little walk would lead us. His eyes drop back to mine, and for a moment, neither of us moves.

“Mistletoe’s got rules, you know,” he says softly, his voice dropping lower. “Can’t just walk away when you’re under it.”

I swallow, my lips parting slightly as I try to think of something clever to say. But all my words have melted away, justlike the snowflakes on his skin. The only thing I can think about is how close he is, how warm his breath feels against the cold air, how badly I want to close the gap between us.

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