Page 42 of Sweet Silver Bells
Olivia reached in between a few of the poinsettia’s red blooms, pulling out a sprig of mistletoe, pale berries nestled among the sharp green.
“Well, I’ve got to go donate those items to the church. You know how the ladies get when I’m late.”
“We don’t go to church,” his dad grunted, earning another glare.
“I have to donate it somewhere, Mark. I love you, pumpkin. Have a good day. Mark, we are going,” she yelled even though his dad stood right beside her.
Hunter glanced at Olivia, who seemed half amused, half lost in thought as she turned the sprig between her fingers.
“Thank you for your kindness,” Olivia called after his mom. The woman turned and gave her a wink.
“Those crazy kids,” he heard his mom mutter with glee as the two exited. Hunter and Olviia were alone again as the cold wind violently slammed the door shut.
“How different parents are in this time,” Olivia murmured, lifting the mistletoe higher, inspecting its leaves.
“I’m sorry about them. I wasn’t expecting . . .”
Any of this.
She turned to face him fully. “What an interesting plant to bring. It's very up front about how it's poisonous; its jarring red warning signs are ignored, and instead, it gets worshiped as holiday decor.”
Olivia spoke to the poinsettias then, "Don't worry, little ones, I'm here."
11
CHAPTER ELEVEN.
It was hard to leave Olivia alone, even if he was just down the hall. Hunter returned to the living room feeling refreshed, dressed for whatever surprises awaited him now.
Olivia was in his living room unsupervised. Hunter chewed on his thumbnail until he gave up and went to check on her.
With fresh socks, his thicker snow pants, and a hoodie, Hunter stood under the entryway, staring at Olivia's back, as she sang to the plants his mom left behind, her voice light, hushed as if she were telling them secrets.
She probably is.
The stress that had pulsed through him—while he dressed with the urgency of an Olympic speed skater—began to fade. His heartbeat slowed as her song wrapped around his head, seeping into his blood. It was a haze, a poison he’d drink willingly.
His mind, drunk on the moment, whispered that nothing had ever felt so right. Not with her there, wistful and glowing, mistletoe held just shy of her lips.
There was no question—Hunter saw it move.
The mistletoe twitched, softened, seemed to breathe in her hands. Its leaves curled and relaxed, responding to her song the same way his body did.
But unlike him, it didn’t just react. It grew.
New life unfurled—leaves the deepest shade of green, berries a vivid crimson—spilling out from the original six-inch stem she’d held delicately between her fingers.
Hunter took it all in, awe oozing out of his pores. The leaves had reached the floor, falling in small circles like rope, a vine of thick, pointed holiday cheer.
The unbelievably soul-crushing beauty of her siren song stopped.
“That’s enough for now,” Olivia said to the vine. “Now, where to hang you where light can shine through the windows?” She turned, her face pensive, her lips pursed and pulled to the side.
Adorable.
His head was stuck in that haze, the spell from her song. He knew he didn’t need it; his thoughts of her were true, but it did help erase the anxiety that hid in his stomach, knowing what she could do, knowing it was likely just a part of what magic she had.
“I’d like to wrap this around the mantle.” She didn’t ask, as if this were her house.
