Page 34 of Mr. Mistletoe
Jess
The inn is quiet,the kind of stillness that makes every footfall sound like a gunshot. Gran has arrived to take my place, settled in for the night. I’m packed and ready to go, but I can’t stop thinking about a man who smells faintly of pine and cinnamon, who has a smile that sneaks past every defense I’ve built.
“Too bad, Mr. Mistletoe,” I whisper to the quiet lobby on my way out.
I can always come back. Before Christmas. Visit the farm. Visit him. It’s not over, just… postponed. That thought settles something restless inside me as I reach for the door.
I hoist my bag over my shoulder and slip into the cold night air. My breath fogs under the twinkling lights draped from the trees as I cross the parking lot to my car.
Then I stop short. My knees turn to jelly.
There, parked right beside my compact car, is a familiar blue truck. My heart stutters like a record skipping. No way. MaybeI’m sleep-deprived and imagining things. Because why would he be here?
The driver’s side door creaks open.
Clark steps out. Wearing the same clothes as earlier—worn jeans that mold to his muscular thighs and a moss-green flannel shirt that makes his eyes look even darker, like chocolate drops.
His hair is mussed, his eyes bleary. He looks tired. Grumpy. Like he’s been sleeping in his truck. But there’s something in his gaze, brimming with heat. Something soft and hopeful.
It hits me like a gust of wind. My knees weaken further, and the fragile swell of longing in my chest blooms until I can’t pretend it’s just a crush anymore. I’m really falling for him.
“Jess,” he says, low and rough.
That voice stops every other thought in my head except him, the way he makes me feel in his embrace.
I clutch the strap of my bag like it’s the only thing tethering me to solid ground. “What are you doing here?”
He steps closer, twinkling lights catching the fledgling hope in his eyes. “I never got your number.”
A smile curves one corner of my mouth. “You’ve been camped out in front of the inn because you wanted my number?”
“Sam wouldn’t let me in.”
“He really hates you.”
“He really does.” His gaze drops to the bags in my hands. Brow furrowed. “Going somewhere?”
A stiff breeze rattles the trees. I shiver. “I got an opportunity I can’t pass up.”
“So, you’re going home?”
The hurt on his face is a knife to my heart. “I was going to come back.”
He nods, unconvinced. “Okay.”
“Before Christmas,” I say, stepping closer. “I was going to get a tree.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, just a little. “I’m glad to hear that. But can I still get your number?”
I stretch out my hand. “Give me your phone.”
He digs into his pocket and hands it over. “Here.”
I plug in my number and press call. When the ringing sounds from my bag, he grins with relief, then shivers as another drift of snow falls from the sky.
“You’re probably freezing.” I hand him his phone. His fingers are like ice.
“My coat is in the truck.”
