Page 42 of That Time We Kissed Under the Mistletoe
Just charity, I agreed.
These are the declarations running through my head as we return home, and Sara heads straight to the kitchen. “I’m going tounpack the groceries and try reaching my mom,” she calls out. Guess we’re still not talking.
So I decide to bring the tree inside, set up the stand, and wrap the branches in twinkle lights.
Sara bought too many strands by half a dozen, but the evidence of her enthusiasm couldn’t be any more adorable. My heart swells with the desire to make this Christmas special for her. That is, until I remember she’s only doing this so she can feel better about leaving me behind in a few days.
I’m about to stuff the extra strands of lights into a bag so we can return them, when Sara comes in and hands me a full glass of water with my next dose of antibiotics.
“I just love the scent of a real pine,” she says, inhaling deeply. While I take my meds, she checks out the tree, nodding her approval. “My mom’s fake trees always smell like … plastic and …”—she fumbles for a word—“giving up.”
She puffs out a small laugh, but her statement shifts something in my chest. A decade ago, I spent a whole lot of time being jealous of the Hathaways. But now I wouldn’t trade an authentic hometown holiday with my family for that kind of artificial perfection.
“I’m sure your mother’s trees are … majestic,” I say, before draining the rest of the water.
“Oh, they are.” Sara shrugs. “Thanks to the professional team The Queen pays to make every branch a masterpiece.”
“Heh.” I arch a brow. “Must be nice.”
“In its own way,” Sara says.
As she takes back the empty glass, it occurs to me we’re officially talking again. I also notice she’s not blushing or stammering anymore. For better or worse, she seems to have gotten over our kiss under the mistletoe pretty quickly. I guess she must’ve really meant it when she said there was nothing more for us to discuss. So if ignoring what happened at Humboldt Farms is this easy for her, I can continue to pretend it never happened too. In fact, I’mgladthis is soeasy for her.
Never happened.
Done and done.
“Speaking of your mom, how’s she handling the news about the evaluator postponing until tomorrow?”
Sara blows out a breath. “She wasn’t thrilled, but I promised her I still have everything handled.” She bunches up her brow. “I didnottell her we’re setting up a Christmas tree in the living room, because she’d probably just send her designer out to take over.”
I let out a low chuckle, nodding to indicate the tree. “Well our eight-footer may not end up on any magazine cover, but at least we get to decorate it ourselves.”
“My first time ever,” Sara says, a smile dancing across her face. So, yeah. I’ll do this one small thing for her this year, then get on with the rest of my life without her.
As she moves toward the bag of Five and Dime ornaments, I throw up a hand. “Hold on. I just need to clean up a little first, if you don’t mind. I like the smell of pine trees as much as the next guy, but I’ve got sap all over me.”
“You’ve got sap, and I’ve got good news.” She nods in the direction of the guest bathroom. “It’s been twenty-four hours, so I’m officially clearing you for a shower.”
“No more baths?”
“Not if you keep the bandage on to minimize the water on your stitches. We can put on a dry one after.”
“It’s a Christmas miracle,” I say. Or more likely, it’s because Sara doesn’t know how off-balance I’ve been feeling. I probably should’ve copped to the brain fog, or to the roll of nausea in my gut. But I don’t want Sara to think these symptoms have anything to do with our kiss. No, as far as I’m concerned, these lingering side effects will remain my little secret. They’re just a result of yesterday’s accident. After all, this isn’t my first rodeo.
Or concussion.
So I take my time enjoying every minute of my first post-injury shower. The sprayof hot water feels amazing, but I’m careful not to get my head wet. I don’t want to lose future showering privileges. Afterward, I reapply a fresh bandage, slip on some jeans, and a navy blue henley. Then I head for the kitchen like a hound dog being led by the scent of something absolutely delicious.
Notthe pine tree.
Rounding the corner, I come upon Sara at the stove. She’s changed into a pair of forest-green leggings and a soft white sweater. Her new Santa hat’s pulled over her glossy hair. Christmas music’s spilling from a portable speaker across the room, more specifically a classic rendition of “Silver Bells.”
This song reminds me of cross-country skiing with my Uncle Phil, so it’s always been one of my favorites. But I can’t tell who’s singing this version. It might be Bing Crosby. Or Frank Sinatra. One of those old-time crooners. It’s smooth and nostalgic and stirs something deep in my gut.
Happiness.
That’s what this is.
