Page 25 of Mr. Mistletoe
Maybe I am under a spell.
I toss my phone aside and flop onto the soft comforter. Gran’s book waits on the nightstand—a Regency romance she swore would change my life—but the only man I can picture right now is wearing a Santa suit and a grin that makes me weak in the knees.
Two hours later, my phone is still stubbornly silent.
No missed calls. No texts. Nothing.
Surely he’s done skating by now. It’s fully dark outside. Maybe he’s playing hard-to-get, following that dumb rule about waiting a day. But I can’t wait. I’m only here for the weekend, and my patience expired about an hour ago.
My stomach growls, loud enough to rattle the Christmas spirit right out of me.
I sigh, zip up my boots, and head downstairs in search of food—leaving my phone behind so I can’t keep checking it every five seconds.
The Sugar Plum dining room looks like it’s been lifted straight from a snow globe. Garland curls around the banisters, twinkle lights spill from every corner, and the air smells like butter and garlic—dangerous scents for a hungry woman nursing heartbreak and hope.
“Evening!” the host booms, cheeks glowing as bright as the Christmas lights. “Hungry
“Starving.”
“White Christmas Chili coming right up.”
I slide into a small table near the fire and take a deep breath, willing myself not to think about Clark—or my phone.
When the innkeeper returns with a tray, I try to sound casual. “You wouldn’t happen to know a guy named Clark, would you?”
His brows lift. “Course I do. Everyone in town knows Clark. Keeps to himself these days, ever since he moved back.”
My heart does a hopeful flip.
“He runs the Christmas tree farm on the edge of town,” the host says, lowering his voice like he’s sharing a secret.
Of course he does. A Christmas tree farm. It fits him—steady, strong, a little prickly around the edges.
But then the man sets my bowl down and gives me a look that makes my heart stutter. “Word of advice,” he says. “Stay away from him. Wouldn’t want you getting hurt.”
I blink. “Hurt? From the guy selling evergreens to happy families?”
The host shrugs. “He’s not the man you think he is.”
Gran’s teasing echoes in my head—Love potion cider—but the innkeeper’s warning lands heavier.He’s not the man you think he is.
Maybe I’m falling for someone who only exists in a cider-fueled fantasy. He did give me a wrong number. And he still hasn’t called.
My heart sinks. “Maybe I’ll take this to my room.”
“I’ll send it up on a tray,” he says.
I head for the stairs, my steps slow and heavy. My phone is waiting upstairs—probably still silent.
But halfway up, the front door bursts open, and a rush of cold air sweeps through the lobby. Snowflakes swirl in the light, and standing in the middle of it all is Clark—dark hair dusted white, coat half unbuttoned, looking like he walked straight out of a Christmas miracle.
“Jess.” He breathes my name like he’s been holding it in for hours.
I freeze mid-step.
“I lost your number.” His voice is rough, breathless. “It came off because of all the sweaty kids’ hands I had to hold.”
I blink. “You… sweated my number off?”
