Page 35 of Mistletoe

She pulled away, her feet firmly back on the ground. “I shouldn’t have done that?—”

His arm tightened around her waist, lifting her until her toes barely touched the ground. He held her against him like it was nothing.

This was not nothing.

His mouth was back on hers, this time responding with a devouring hunger. This time, the tusks scraped and pressed, adding just the right pressure to make her open wider, their tongues working against each other. He moaned, teeth nipping at her lips, those tusks, and held her like she was delicate. Precious. Her. Farmer Emma in her muddy boots and heavy coat.

Heat surged through her. Some of it was him—his touch felt as warm as the sun—but it was also that thing from before. The smiley thing that made her fluttery and soft inside, which was ludicrous. Emma had been honed and sharpened by the dual forces of a harsh environment and hard work. Softness didn’t have a place in her world.

She’d make a place for him. With him.

The search party paused at the end of the alley to yell encouragement and moved on.

Hal lowered Emma to her feet.

She clutched his hat, the brim quite mangled, waiting for his response.

He leaned out, brushing his thumb across her cheek. It came away with a streak of white makeup. He grinned, lips twisting around his tusks in what should have been a horrifying expression, but she found charming.

“You are trouble,” she said.

“Good trouble?”

“I’m not sure, but I’m willing to find out.”

Chapter Ten

Emma

Mistletoe Farm

The next day,Emma found a rabbit in the snow on the front steps. Dead, dressed, and ready to be cooked.

Hal’s handiwork, she decided. When she told him to follow the train tracks out of town, she never specifically said to return to her farm. She thought that was implied, an unspoken understanding, but apparently, it needed to be spoken.

Another rabbit materialized the following morning and a pheasant the morning after. This carried on for a week.

She woke early to speak with Hal, but he never appeared. Instead, the day’s rabbit appeared in the usual spot in the afternoon. Agatha and Oscar had been in the house and heard nothing. No boards creaked as Hal climbed the steps. No snow crunched underfoot. He came silently as the falling snow.

“Another gift from your admirer,” Agatha said, preparing the rabbit for roasting.

“I have no such thing,” Emma replied.

“Jonathan Fairfax isn’t hunting and leaving courting presents?”

“JonathanFairfax? He’s twice my age.”

“He’s established. There are benefits to an older husband.”

“He’s sixty if he’s a day.” The adult son of their elderly neighbor was the last person Emma wanted to court her. “He just wants a nanny for his dozen children.”

“Three. Honestly, petal. Exaggeration is not becoming.” Once the rabbit was successfully placed in the oven, Agatha grabbed a dishcloth and wiped down the table. “If not him, then who? You’d tell your mother if you were stepping out with someone or had an understanding?”

Emma was far too old to blush this fiercely. “There’s no one.”

“Well, I know those trousers you’re sewing are far too tall for yourself. I hope he appreciates your work.”

Remarkably, Emma’s blush burned hot enough to combust. Even if she were stepping out with Hal—they weren’t—she did not have to explain herself. She was an adult, years past her age of majority, and could do as she pleased.

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