Page 38 of Mistletoe, Mayhem & Mr. Grump
"That was fast," he observes.
"Small-town information networks are faster than light," I explain. "By tomorrow, everyone will have an opinion about us."
"What will your opinion be?" he asks quietly.
"That we're very good at pretending," I say, though the words feel like lies.
He stands, finally, reluctantly. "I really should go. Early morning at the garage."
"Right. Your actual job," I say, walking him to the door.
We stand there awkwardly, neither of us sure how to end this practice session that felt nothing like practice.
“About that spare room you have.”
I completely forgot. “Oh, yes. It’s down the hall. I’ll have it ready for you tomorrow night. Will that work?”
He nods. "Same time tomorrow?" he asks. "For more rehearsal?"
"Definitely," I agree. "We need all the rehearsals we can get."
"All of it," he confirms.
He leans down and kisses me softly, briefly. "For anyone watching," he explains.
"No one's watching," I point out.
"Practice," he says simply, and disappears into the snowy night.
I close the door and lean against it, my lips still tingling, my heart still racing. Tomorrow the committee watches. Tomorrow we perform for the whole town. Tomorrow, this becomes real in all the ways that matter except the one that counts.
But tonight, in my apartment that smells like blown-out candles and apple juice, I touch my lips and remember the way he said my name. The way his hand felt in my hair. The way we fit together like puzzle pieces that were never supposed to match but somehow do.
Section 3, subsection 2a feels less like a rule and more like a prophecy I'm helpless to prevent. Because I'm already falling, and all the laminated contracts in the world can't stop gravity once it starts pulling you down.
Or in this case, pulling me toward a grumpy man who makes charts about relationships and counts mistletoe for fire hazards and kisses like he's trying to tell the truth with his mouth when his words have to lie.
Three weeks to save my shop. Three weeks to fool the town.
And absolutely no time left to save my heart.
Chapter 8
Holden
The blizzard hits Snowfall Creek like a personal vendetta from the weather gods. One minute I'm attempting to change oil without creating an environmental disaster, the next Finn's shoving me out the door yelling something about ‘bread and milk panic’. "Go home before you get stuck here," he shouts over the wind. "I don't have enough food to feed both of us, and you eat like someone's paying you per calorie."
"That's not a thing," I protest, wrestling with my coat and my duffle bag.
"It should be. You'd be rich," he says, literally pushing me into the snow. "Check on Wren. Her heating system's older than democracy."
The walk to The Jolly Trunk takes approximately seventeen years. The wind has opinions about my life choices and expresses them by throwing snow directly into my face. By the time I reach the shop, I look like an angry snowman who's been through a blender.
Wren opens the door before I can knock, probably because I've been standing there for thirty seconds trying to remember how hands work.
"You look like you fought winter and lost," she observes, pulling me inside.
"Winter fights dirty," I manage through frozen lips.
