Page 41 of Mistletoe, Mayhem & Mr. Grump
"Tell me something real," she says suddenly, her voice soft.
"The fire is real," I offer, deflecting.
"Something about you. Something that's not part of our fake history," she clarifies, turning to look up at me.
I'm quiet for a moment, weighing truth against the mission. "My father died at his desk."
"Oh," she breathes. "Holden, I'm sorry."
"He was reviewing quarterly reports. Had a heart attack midway through page forty-seven. The last thing he saw was a profit margin analysis," I continue, surprising myself with the honesty.
"That's the saddest thing I've ever heard," she whispers, her hand finding mine.
"He would have called it efficient. Dying while productive," I say, the bitterness creeping into my voice.
"Is that why you're here? Running from that life?" she asks gently.
"Something like that," I admit, which is both true and a lie.
She shifts to face me better, and the firelight makes her eyes look amber with gold flecks. "What was his name?"
"Richard," I say, giving her that truth at least. "Richard Pierce."
"Pierce," she repeats slowly. "Like the company trying to buy the town?"
My heart stops. "What?"
"There’s this big corporation from New York that keeps trying to buy large parts of the town. I think it’s called Pierce Industries. Delia mentioned them at a committee meeting. Said they've been sniffing around, looking for small towns to monetize," she explains, watching my face carefully.
"Coincidence," I manage, my mouth suddenly dry.
"Pretty big coincidence," she observes.
"It's a common name, Wren," I try weakly.
"Is it?" she presses.
This is it. The moment I should tell her everything. Instead, I lean down and kiss her. It's not gentle like our practice kisses. It's desperate and apologetic and full of things I can't say. Shemakes a surprised sound but kisses me back, her hands fisting in my disaster sweater.
"That's not an answer," she gasps when we break apart.
"It's an answer to a different question," I tell her, cupping her face.
"What question?" she whispers.
"Whether this feels real," I confess.
"Does it?"
"Every minute feels more real than the last twenty years of my life," I admit, and it's the truest thing I've said since I arrived.
She searches my face for something—truth, maybe, or just hope that I'm not the disaster I clearly am. Then she pulls me down for another kiss, and thought becomes impossible.
The fire crackles, the wind howls, and we lose ourselves in each other. My hands slip under my sweater, and I discover she's wearing at least three more layers underneath her visible sweaters.
"How many clothes are you wearing?" I laugh against her mouth.
"All of them. I'm wearing all the clothes," she admits, giggling as I find another zipper.
