Page 21 of Mistletoe Bargain with the Billionaire

The bed was still warm when I opened my eyes but it was only Mr. Jinglebell by my side. Nick was already in the shower.

When he came out, unfairly making my brain short-circuit with only a towel slung low around his hips, showing off the delicious V of his hips and his happy trail, he’d said he’d left me plenty of hot water and that he’d grab us some breakfast for the road while I got ready.

I'd stood there bumfuzzled (and horny) not sure what to say.

But with ten hours left of our drive, I figured we’d talk about what happened at some point during the day.

Well… we didnot.

Oh, we talked about all kinds of things but not that and not what it means going forward. I couldn’t seem to bring it up and neither did he. Does he regret it? Or was it so forgettable to him that it’s not worth talking about?

Such is the gist of my anxious thoughts when we arrive in Whistler where we’re supposed to have dinner with Nick’s family in less than an hour.Fa la la la-awkward.

Before I can spiral further into my worries though, I find myself suddenly spellbound seeing my hometown for the first time in years. At Christmastime.

Whistler’s hung onto that small-town, idyllic charm without being too firmly stuck in the past. And, during the holidays, we really shine, pulling out all the stops to make things as festive as possible. I mean, people drive over from as far as Bar Harbor and Millinocket to see Whistler at Christmas so I know we’re doing something right.

“Was it always this pretty?” I murmur in awe.

Nick glances at me from the driver’s seat, an odd look on his face. “It’s the town square,” he says at last, probably perplexed by my deep admiration of the town square lit by fairy lights.

“Pull over.”

“What?”

“Just do it, Nick.”

I can’t wait to hear the snow crunch beneath my shoes. I can’t wait to feel the flakes clinging to my lashes and dotting my cheeks. I have to breathe andfeelWhistler right this second.

He finds a spot and parks. I scramble out the passenger’s door, leaving my cat, my winter hat and my fake boyfriend behind.

The snow goes crunch-crunch under my Tevas – I should’ve switched shoes earlier – and my heart sighs. I’ll never forget this sound. It’s in my bones. And the drifting snowflakes sweep over my face, like butterfly kisses. Magical.

Somewhere, out of sight, soft Christmas carols play but they don’t overpower the rich silence that a heavy snow brings, the way it dampens sound so that one may actuallyhearfor a change.

I hurry up to the garland and light-bedecked gazebo at the center of the square, my heart beating fiercely as my nose turns as red as Rudolph’s in the biting cold.

It’s empty this evening but what makes this spot special is the Newlywed Bell.

Installed a couple of centuries ago to warn of danger, it’s become a symbol of something far sweeter the last several decades. Anyone who gets married in Whistler is encouraged to come to the gazebo and ring the brass bell to declare their happy tidings to their fellow citizens. Anyone who hears the bell will clap and give the newlyweds a hearty cheer.

And, this close to Christmas, in addition to the bell, the gazebo always has a sprig of…

“Mistletoe,” I whisper to myself, looking up at the greenery wrapped in red velvet ribbon. Not fake plastic stuff either. It’s the real McCoy.

This was the place I first dreamt of receiving a mistletoe kiss from Nick Frost, the place I thought of when I wrote ‘Mistletoe Muse.’ Not Mrs. Frost’s fancy sitting room with a couple of dozen observers goading two teenagers into their first kiss. I imagined this spot and being alone with Nick here.

“Carol?”

I spin and realize Iamalone with Nick here and there’s even mistletoe. Just like in those old daydreams.

My mood dips just as quickly as it had soared. After last night and the strange way we’ve not addressed it today, I’m not sure what I mean to him or ever could.

But perhaps Nick isn’t totally without Christmas spirit. He climbs the steps to join me in the gazebo and his warm eyes latch onto the sprig above us as he grins. “I think this looks like a good place to practice more kissing.”

Practice. Right. It’s all fake, isn’t it?

The mistletoe is real.

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