Page 68 of Under the Mistletoe
“You know, we can probably get a tree too. I’ve never had one, but I’m feeling festive this year.” His eyes sparkle, and my smile widens.
“Maybe we can decorate it together?”
He nods in agreement and his hand comes to my cheek, pushing my hair back as he looks right at me.
“I’d love that.”
My next words are taken from me as his lips hit mine, and he pulls me close, kissing me under the mistletoe, just like I always dreamed of.
27
Donovan
It’s two a.m. I’ve been up for hours.
I rub my eyes, wondering how I became such a simp for her. Lying here next to her, watching her sleep, hearing her little snores on every second breath is almost like meditation.
Seeing her notice the mistletoe, seeing her rooted to the spot, staring at it, her eyes watering because someone would do something like that for her hit me so deep in my chest I almost cried with her.
It’s a piece of plastic. I went hunting for it and found it at the convenience store down the street on one of my morning runs. It was hanging in the window as a cheap plastic holiday decoration. But I knew the minute I spotted it I had to have it.
It brings love into the apartment. Into our home. I ensured I placed it in the same spot where her uncle and aunt have theirs. I did it for her. I’d do anything for her.
She murmurs in her sleep as she turns to her side, now facing me, so close our noses almost touch. I start to count. I got up to fifty last time before she moved. The small scattering of brown dots covering her skin around her nose is captivating.
I want her to move in. The fact she hasn’t agreed yet eats at me. But I need to go slow. I need to give her time. She likes to think things through before she comes to a conclusion. But I know she’ll say yes. This penthouse will become ours, no longer just mine.
Things are perfect. I’m happy. Happiest I think I’ve ever been. But I can’t help the niggle in my jaw that tells me that despite Jessica being my happily ever after, I’m a realist, and nothing stays happy forever.
Especially not for me.
Gordon pulls up on Third, and I step out, buttoning my suit. I told Jessica I was in an all-day meeting and couldn’t be interrupted and she was busy packing for Milan so I was able to sneak away. I want this to be a surprise.
“I’ll wait here, sir,” Gordon offers, and I stride across the sidewalk and into what can only be described as Fifth Avenue taste meets East Village edge.
“May I help you?” A woman approaches me, and I know it’s Mabel immediately.
“Mabel?” I extend my hand. “Donovan York.”
She eyes me suspiciously but takes my hand. I guess she’s pushing eighty, but I can already tell she has more energy and spunk in her than most twenty-year-olds I meet. I see the moment her eyes register who I am. Her head tilts in keen interest.
“How can I help you, Mr. York?” Her hair is blue gray, quaffed high on her head. Lips are red, eyeshadow blue, and she has so much jewelry on that if she fell off a boat out at sea, she would sink straight to the bottom.
“I wanted to come and pay you a visit. I’ve heard a lot about the place. About you. I was hoping you had some time to talk?” I don’t know her at all. I have no idea what her plans are for now or retirement. But I see the way she dresses Jessica. I also know that Jessica won't be friends with just anyone. She picks people in her life who are like her. Genuine, honest, warm, and friendly.
“Well, you better come out back. I have a lovely lemon slice that I made last night that we can share.” She turns and starts to walk toward the back of the shop, and I follow her, looking over the pieces she has on display. This isn’t just a thrift shop. She has curated this space to look more like a museum. A high-fashion vintage museum. There are pieces in here that you can’t find anywhere. Not even Paris.
“This is…” The words die on my lips as I see an outfit that exudes high fashion with a vintage twist that I recognize.
“Ahh, do you know this piece?” We stop to admire it on the mannequin.
“Is this the…” I can’t even get the words out. This is an outfit that inspired an entire fashion line.
“Grace Kelly’s outfit she wore back in the fifties? Yes. Yes, it is.” She watches me sharply.
“Where did you get it?” I look at her with interest, in total awe.
“From my own collection. I worked with her for many years as her stylist. I was a junior, barely legal age. I met her on the Mediterranean once and she hired me on the spot. Many of her clothes were given to me after she passed.”
