Page 29 of Mr. Mistletoe
Amusement flickers in her eyes. “A do-over?”
“Please,” I whisper, voice rougher than expected.
She lifts the mistletoe herself, grinning. “I love a do-over.”
I step forward, taking her free hand in mine, brushing my lips over her knuckles. Her eyes burn bright blue under the twinkling lights. I turn her hand, kissing the center of her palm.
She shivers. A small sigh escapes—hers or mine, I’m not sure.
I lift her hand over her neck, guiding her close. Our bodies fit together like puzzle pieces. Another sigh escapes her. Hers? Mine? Doesn’t matter. We are one.
Her eyes, the snow, the lights, the world—narrow to her mouth.
I lower my head. The kiss sparks like flint meeting steel. Tentative at first, then deeper, her hands sliding into my hair, tugging, claiming. My hands curve to her waist under her coat.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know we’re in a parking lot. Small-town gossip queens are probably texting already. But her mouth… addictive.
She lets out a soft moan against my lips. My body reacts like we’ve done this a hundred times before.
A sharp buzz cuts through the night.
We jump apart, breath visible in the cold. Lips swollen, hearts racing.
“Should probably get that,” she murmurs.
I want to ignore it. God, I want to.
I reach for my phone. One glance at the screen and my blood chills.
Ingrid: EMERGENCY
“Shit.”
Her brows knit. “What is it?”
“It’s Ingrid.”
Jess doesn’t ask questions. She just says, “Go.”
I hesitate, wanting—stupidly, selfishly—to kiss her again. But reality crashes in. I run for the driver’s side.
“I’ll call you,” I say, glancing back once.
She stands under the falling snow, mistletoe limp in her hand. And I remember—I don’t have her number.
Chapter Thirteen
Jess
The rumbleof Clark’s truck fades down the street, leaving me alone with frozen toes and seriously confused hormones.
I press my fingers to my lips—just to make sure they’re still attached. Because wow. That kiss? That was more than a kiss.
Snow flurries swirl in the air, and I tilt my head back, staring at the soft glow of the Christmas lights above the inn’s door. Somewhere, a romantic-comedy heroine is handling this with poise and grace. Me? I’m standing in the parking lot like a lovestruck Hallmark extra, talking to myself.
“Okay, Jess,” I mutter. “He didn’t run away because you’re a terrible kisser. It was an emergency.”
Or maybe I’m just a fool, reading too much into one perfect, mistletoe moment.
