Page 14 of Mr. Mistletoe
“What do you know? You’re an old married lady.”
“Yeah, but I’m not stupid.”
We get out of the truck and start the trek back toward the popular boutique where Laura swears we will find the perfect Christmas present for my soon-to-be-born niece or nephew. After driving an hour into the city, I’m not planning on going home empty-handed.
Even though the sky is heavy with rainclouds, the city looks like it’s been dipped in Christmas cheer. Every lamp post has a wreath, shop windows sparkle with fake snow, twinkling lights, and painted murals of Santa on a snowboard.
Inside the store, it smells like cinnamon and Douglas fir. Twinkle lights hang from the exposed-wood ceiling beams, fresh garland drapes the tops of counters, and Christmas songs drift from hidden speakers.
Every display looks like it belongs on the cover of some lifestyle magazine. And I’m sure the prices reflect the high-end merchandise.
It’s the kind of place where you feel guilty if you don’t buy something. Salespeople hover around every potential buyer, buzzing with suggestions. I already feel out of my league.
The racks are full of impossibly tiny sweaters with hand-stitched snowflakes, hats topped with pompoms, and matching wool blankets soft enough to make you want to curl up with a nursery rhyme right there on the floor.
Tables are laid with delicate glass ornaments, gilded picture frames, and candles that cost more than I’d spend on a full tank of gas for the pickup.
We wander through, Laura gasping every three seconds. “Oh, look at this onesie. And this blanket. Clark, touch this sweater—it’s softer than heaven.”
I pretend to roll my eyes, but end up buying the blanket anyway. And a stuffed reindeer with bells on its antlers because, why not?
I’m putting away my credit card before I can buy anything else when the first crack of thunder sounds. Seconds later, rain slams the windows like somebody flipped a switch.
Laura groans. “Perfect. Just when I got my hair to cooperate.”
I jerk my thumb toward the door. “Stay put. I’ll bring the truck around.”
“Chivalry’s not dead,” she says with mock swoon.
By the time I jog through the downpour to the truck, I’m soaked. When I pull in front of the shop, Laura darts from the door, shielding her bag of baby treasures, and hops in the passenger seat, dripping.
“You arenotgonna believe this,” she pants. “I swear I just saw her. Mystery girl. In the shop.”
My fingers tighten on the wheel. “You’re seeing things.”
“Nope. It was her. Clark—” she pokes my arm like we’re kids again—“this is fate. Your perfect opportunity.”
My gaze drifts back to the glowing boutique windows. Through the rain-streaked glass, I catch a flash of someone—a tall woman with shiny dark hair, standing near the counter. My heart lurches. For a second, I’m sure it’s her.
My hand goes to the door handle. I picture it: walking back in, catching her eye, seeing if that spark from the arena still exists. And maybe accidentally falling into bed together.
I shake my head to get rid of the image of our long legs tangled together in the sheets. Suddenly, reason kicks in. If shewanted to see me, she would’ve called. I let go of the handle and put the truck in drive.
“She has my number,” I say, more to convince myself than Laura. “If she doesn’t call. It’s not meant to be.”
Laura groans. “You’re insufferable.”
“Stubborn,” I correct, pulling onto the rainy street. “It’s different.”
But as we drive away, I can’t stop myself from glancing back at the boutique. And in the golden light spilling through its windows, I swear I see her silhouette turn toward the street—like maybe she’s looking for me, too.
Chapter Seven
Jess
I slipinside the boutique just as the sky opens, escaping the rain just in time. At least I’m dry. My hands, however, are a lost cause. No matter how many times I wipe them on my skirt, they’re still clammy.
This is it. The meeting I’ve been waiting for.
