Page 27 of Mr. Mistletoe
“It wasn’t fake.”
She laughs, soft and unguarded. “Poor Joey.”
“Who’s Joey?”
“Some five-foot-seven guy who can’t grow facial hair.”
“What?”
She waves it off. “Never mind. Doesn’t matter.”
Her thumb traces faint lines in my palm, memorizing. A small gesture, but intimate. “I’m glad we found each other,” she whispers.
For a second, I forget where we are. The low lighting, the tree’s glow, her hand in mine—I could live here forever.
Sam arrives with steaming bowls of chili and sets them down. “Anything else?”
I glance at Jess. She shakes her head. “This is perfect. Thanks.”
Sam disappears, leaving us in our little snow globe of lights.
“What did you do to him?” she asks after Sam leaves.
“It’s not what I did to him,” I say, scooping a bite of chili. “It’s what I did to his son.”
Her brows lift. “His son?”
“I took his spot on the Eagles.”
She tilts her head. “The Eagles?”
“College hockey,” I murmur, tasting memories with the words.
Her eyes widen. “You played hockey in college?”
“Hockey was my life. School was just a way to keep playing.”
She studies me, piecing together the man before her and the one she must’ve Googled. “And after school, you took over the family Christmas tree farm?”
“There were some years in between.” I wrap my hands around my glass, grounding myself. “You’ve done your research.”
She grins. “I don’t go around kissing every Santa in a suit.”
Her teasing eases something tight in my chest.
“I was pro for a while,” I admit. “Had a lot of good years before the injuries started stacking up. Then Dad got sick—”
I stop. The memory presses like a fist against my ribs.
Jess doesn’t flinch. She reaches across the table, covering my hand with hers. Warm. Steady. Present.
“I’m sorry, Clark,” she says softly. “I can’t imagine how hard that must’ve been.”
I squeeze her hand. “Thank you.”
People usually trip over themselves trying to avoid this kind of subject. Not her. She’s here, holding the silence with me.
I clear my throat. “What about you?”
