Page 35 of That Time We Kissed Under the Mistletoe
Don’t stare at his lips, Sara.
Focus on something else.
Anythingbut that killer almost-smile.
“So.” I gulp down the heat in my throat. “Besides snowball fights with your cousins, what other special traditions did you have as a kid?”
He drags a hand down his face, like he’s considering the answer. “Are we talking about winter stuff in general? Or Christmas-specific things?”
My gaze swings to the sprigs of holly above the doors where the butcher disappeared. “Christmas, please.”
“Okay.” He pushes his hands into his pockets. “For one thing, my mom bakes about a billion Christmas cookies every year, but that’s not really special to our family.” He takes a beat. “She also keeps a pot of water with cinnamon sticks, nutmeg, and cloves simmering on the stove all season. I don’t know anyone else who does that.”
“Huh.” I tip my chin. “Is that to eat?”
“To smell.” He ducks his head, almost shyly. “That scent reminds me of Christmas every year.”
“Sounds heavenly.”
“Mmhmm.” He presses his lips together, and I snap my focus back up to his eyes. Not that his eyes are any less tempting than his mouth.
“What else?” I ask.
“We used to do something kind of unusual, for tree trimming.”
I grin at him. “Tinsel? Flocking?”
“Heh.” A soft chuckle brushes his lips. “I have no idea what flocking is, and I’m prettysure I don’twantto know. But at our house, while my dad got the tree set up, my mom, Nella and I would sew strands of popcorn together—like with actual needles and thread—then we’d wrap them around the tree.”
“Popcorn garland?”
“Yup.”
“Nice.” I arch a brow. “Sign me up for edible tree trimming at the Fuller House.”
A slow smile sneaks onto his face. “On the day after Thanksgiving, Nella and I would cut a bunch of strips out of red and green construction paper and glue the strips into rings to make a couple of long chains. The number of rings matched however many nights there were until Christmas Eve. We’d hang our chains in our rooms, and every night before bed, we’d tear off another ring.”
“Kind of like a homemade advent calendar?”
“Exactlylike a homemade advent calendar.” He pauses to work his jaw back and forth. “I’ve gotta say, all this nostalgic talk is really bringing me back.”
Before I can ask him if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, the butcher returns with a small turkey wrapped in white paper. “I found a fresh five-pounder for you.” He slips the turkey into a plastic bag, and passes it over the counter to Three. “Tiny bird this year, huh?”
“Yup.” Three bobs his head, placing the turkey into the cart. “Thanks, Raymond. Merry Christmas to you and Beth.”
Of courseThree knows the butcher and his wife by name.
Three knows everyone in Abieville.
We both fall quiet as we head to the bakery for our pecan pie and chocolate cake. I’m pretty sure Three’s thinking about his dinner-for-one on actual Christmas now.
Gee, Raymond.Thanks a lot.
As we make our way to the checkout line, I push ahead of Three a few steps, then turn the cart to block his progress. “Before we go, I think we should grab a big jar of popcorn kernels from the snack section, then check the stationery aisle for constructionpaper, scissors, and glue. If they don’t have a sundries section with sewing supplies here, we can make a pit stop at the Five and Dime for needle and thread. I’ll bet they’ve got cheap ornaments and twinkle lights in a sales bin we can pick up there too.”
“Listen, Sara.” He averts his gaze. “You don’t have to?—”
“Andthen,” I rush to add, “we’ll head over the bridge to the Christmas tree farm I spotted on my way into town.”
