Page 22 of Mr. Mistletoe
“I met someone,” she says softly, almost to herself. “He could’ve been my soul mate. But he wasn’t.”
The words hit me square in the chest.
“Why not?” I blurt before I can stop myself.
Her head jerks back, eyes wide. Then I see it—recognition, sharp and sudden, like a struck match. Her lips part.
“Mr. Mistletoe?” she whispers.
I tug the beard down. “Better known as Clark.”
“So you’re not Santa?” she blurts—way too loud. A couple of kids whip their heads toward us, suspicious.
I lower my voice, leaning close enough to breathe her in. “Out of all the Santas in town, you had to sit on mine.”
She narrows her eyes. “Was that aCasablancareference?”
I wince. “You’ve seen it?”
She laughs. “Hasn’t everyone?”
“You’d be surprised. Not everybody’s into old movies.”
Her hand presses against my chest like she’s checking if I’m real—or just feeling me up. My hand finds her hip in response, fingers curling.
“It’s really you,” she murmurs, sliding her hand higher to my shoulder. Definitely feeling me up.
I don’t mind. Not even a little. “Why didn’t you call?”
“I did,” she says. “You gave me a fake number.”
I’m so hung up on the fact that shecalledthat it takes me a second to process the rest. “Wait—what?”
She shifts like she’s going to stand, but I hold her there. “I called,” she says. “A woman answered.”
“You didn’t call me. Must’ve been the wrong number.”
“That’s what I said.”
She wiggles again, and I let her go—because, dear God, that wiggling is doing things to me no Santa should feel.
“Jess,” I say, hopping down from the sleigh. “I swear on Rudolph’s nose, I didn’t mean to give you the wrong number. Maybe you misheard me over all that noise at the arena.”
She studies me for a long beat, then her expression softens. “Maybe. It was pretty loud in there.”
“And you were already halfway out the door trying to escape me.”
“Maybe,” she admits with a small laugh. “You seemed too good to be true.”
“I swear, I’m not too good. I’m a lousy Santa—I made a kid cry earlier.”
A voice crackles over the loudspeaker. “It’s time forSkating with Santa!Everyone head to the rink, where Santa will join you for this Starlight Bay tradition!”
“That’s me,” I mutter. “Skating Santa.”
The kids in the Christmas Cabin cheer and bolt for the door. I groan. The last thing I want right now is to skate in front of half the town—especially with Jess here.
“What are you doing in Starlight Bay?” I ask, even though I know it’s too much to hope she came for me.
