Page 71 of That Time We Kissed Under the Mistletoe
Three is back. And he’s got Ryan Detweiler with him.
“Anyway, I’ve gotta go, Mom.”
“I’m just worried that?—”
“Everything’s all right.Betterthan all right.”
“Sara.” She stares at me. “Are you absolutely sure?”
“Just trust me.” I swallow hard.
Everything has to be all right.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Three
“Thanks for the tour.”
Ryan’s standing awfully close, but in her defense, this porch isn’t exactly huge. So I back up until I’m practically pressed against one of the Adirondack chairs.
Am I supposed to invite her in now? I honestly have no idea. It’s not like we were on a date. I was just killing a couple birds with one stone: buying Sara time to clean up any out-of-place decorations, and presenting Ryan with the very best our town has to offer future guests.
For the record, Abieville understood the assignment. And I’m not just talking about obvious stuff, like street lamps decked with garland and colored lights on every roof. She liked those things, sure. But what really impressed Ryan was something more subtle: all of Main Street smelled like Christmas.
Hot cocoa and candy canes and cinnamon.
I kept thinking, if I’d been there with Sara, I wouldn’t even feel like I’m missing out on the cruise. Who needs a mai tai when Spill the Tea offers peppermint mochawith whipped cream?
Okay, a mai tai doesn’t sound totally terrible.
My point is, Main Street gave us the holidays on steroids.
Afterward, Ryan and I drove across the bridge to check out the other side of the lake. The property at the Beachfront Inn isn’t exactly Rockefeller Plaza, but the big tree out front of the main lobby is always grand. And Thornton Tavern was packed for lunch. People were bustling in an out in pairs and small groups.
Man, I’d love to take Sara there.
“I must admit, I was impressed,” Ryan says, snapping me out of my fog. “Abieville is just the right combination of quaint and rustic. Very homey, even if it’s not your home.”
“I agree.” I stuff my hands in my pockets. “I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.” Even as I say this, though, the twinge behind my solar plexus suggests that may no longer be true.
If Sara’s feeling even a fraction of the things I am, I’d be willing to at least discuss seeing where this goes. Surely the New York City public school system could use another history teacher with a penchant for lifeguard shifts, swim lessons, and girls’ basketball.
A coach can dream, can’t he?
“Well, I’m not surprised,” Ryan says.
“Surprised by what?”
“That you love this town.”
“Ah, yes. I sure do.” I shift my weight, feeling … awkward. I’ve been putting on a show, trying to impress Ryan for Sara’s sake, but I’m still a man with a concussion who slept on a couch last night. I’m exhausted. And foggy.
And have I mentioned awkward?
“Anyway.” Ryan cranes her neck, trying to see between the curtains in the front window. “You’ve convinced me the town itself will attract Platinum Stays guests. I just hope the Hathaway’s home will meet our standards.”
“Oh, it will.” I tip my chin toward the yard. “Sara got the flamingoes and tiki torches put away,so I’m guessing she’s ready for us.”
