Page 3 of Gotta Have Mistletoe
Some of the passengers stand, then more. I follow their gazes.
Totally worth it.
A blond man in his forties walks in the glass hallway. He’s wearing a suit, like he’s someone important, and he’s flanked by other people in suits and fedora hats. They look this way and that.
Something about him looks familiar.
The light hits the blond strands of his hair in an interesting manner. He turns to me, and for a wild moment, we’re staring at each other through the pane of glass. His mouth parts. Can he see me?
But I’ve been in that hallway. I’m working on that wall. Of course he can.
Pink spreads over his cheeks, and he looks sort of cute and adorable, and I smother my grin.
“That’s one handsome man,” I murmur to myself, then blink.
Haven’t noticed any man since Dean passed.
Casey might be right. Maybe I am ready to date.
His pretty lips part, then he jerks his gaze away, startled.
Recognition slams into me. I just saw him on TV.
“OMG! That’s the king!” The crimson velvet blazer wearing passenger shouts.
More passengers rush to the window, a practical stampede.
That’s also a Mistletoe Springs tradition, though normally it’s done by cows.
Suddenly, the world tilts.
“Oh, no!” Mr. Brenner shouts.
Next thing I know, I’m flying through the air. Someone must have knocked over my ladder. In the next half second, I’m thrust against the tree, and the scent wafts through my nose. I squeeze the branches and grip the trunk as the tree topples, and I’m still holding on when the tree crashes through the unfinished glass wall.
CHAPTER TWO
King Erik
A shatter sounds, then a tree crashes through the glass wall. It sprays glass shards and ornaments.
I freeze.
Because really, there’s no way a tree is actually careening through the glass wall. That’s not something trees do. This particular one seems to be ridden by a cowboy in a red sweater and a cowboy hat. The same cowboy I noticed moments earlier.
“Your majesty!” Sven flings himself on me.
I’m not sure if you’ve ever been thrown onto the ground by a bulky ex-wrestler, very currently capable bodyguard.
It’s an experience I do not recommend.
Vehemently, in fact.
Sven’s muscular body is massive, as if he’s considered the afterimages of Popeye after a few dozen cans of spinach and laughed hysterically, deeming him an amateur who belongs on the easy side of the gym.
I’m slammed against the floor, then pelted with shattering glass. Ornaments roll around me in the cheerful manner normally found in Christmas commercials, clinking and clanking every time they bump into a piece of glass.
I am living what may be my least dignified moment.
