Page 49 of Mistlefoe
And then something changes. He grows as still as a statue.
“What?” I ask.
He’s blinking up at the ceiling. “We have a problem.”
“Oh no. Did we forget something? I thought all we had left today was contracting the carpenters and starting the crafty part.”
“It’s not that. This problem is wrapped in a red ribbon.”
“What?” I look up… and groan. “Not again.” There’s a handful of mistletoe hanging from the elevator ceiling, the ribbon pressed between the ceiling panels. “I’m sure HR will besopleased about this.”
“Was this even here a minute ago? I don’t recall.”
“Great, what if we got bad luck already because we didn’t kiss before?”
“Shit, we don’t need that before the event but…” Conor takes a step back—the opposite of what I expected. “We can’t kiss again.”
No barb Camila Puig threw my way hurt anywhere as much as this moment.
Conor all but fuses himself to the opposite corner in an attempt to put as wide a berth between us as possible.
Like, I get it, he can’t fathom the idea of putting his mouth on mine again and that he’d rather earn a thousand years of bad luck or whatever. He doesn’t need to be so theatrical about it.
A small wrinkle appears between his eyebrows as I also take a big step back until my back hits the wall and fold my arms. “You’re right, we absolutely can’t. It’s just not gonna happen again in a million years.”
Self-preservation, baby. I’ll deal with the crack in my heart later.
The elevator dings and as the doors open on our floor, I find Rachel waiting on the other side. She takes one look at us, frowns in confusion, and then glances up.
“Oh, you guys. It won’t kill you to share a little peck.”
A little peck?
Conor doesn’t kiss like he doesn’t mean it. In fact, he even asked me how I preferred to be kissed, which is a first. And I’dneverprefer a peck. But knowing what I now know about him, even that would be enough to do me in.
“Did you put this thing here?” I grouch as I step out of the elevator and hold the doors open by keeping my hand on the sensor.
“No, it was Lewis. I think he was hoping for a different outcome.”
Reaching up, Conor grabs the offending plant and tears it down, ribbon and all. “Fool, he should just use words instead of tricks.”
“Totally.” Rachel steps into the elevator and presses a button in the panel. Looking at Conor, she says, “Nothing sexier than a man who knows what he wants and goes for it.”
As I move away and the doors start closing, a thought strikes me like a lightning bolt. Does that mean that if Conor isn’t using either words or tricks on me, then it’s a sign that he doesn’t like me that way?
And fine, that’s his prerogative. He’s free not to reciprocate my feelings. But I’m also free to wish he did.
Mierda, what do I do now?
CHAPTER 17
CONOR
Something’s not right, and it’s not just because I can’t get this damn felt wrapped around a baseball properly. Who came up with this garbage idea?
Ah, right. Us.
Sierra and I sit in my living room, or the disaster zone it has become. The coffee table between us is piled high with felt sheets in festive colors that we cut out to the size we need to wrap the baseballs with.
