Page 71 of Mad About Yule

So lost, I’m utterly bewildered when a loud “Caw caw!” echoes around us.

Before my brain can register we’ve stopped kissing, Hope leaps away from me like she did when the woman donating the nutcrackers saw us playing around this afternoon. She smooths her hands down her sides, casting a look next door.

Over in the bakery, Wren Krause grins away at us, her elbows on the counter, her blond ponytail swinging.

I look at Hope. “Was that a secret message, or—”

The bells over the door to her shop jingle. Ah. An alarm system.

“Welcome in.” Hope’s husky voice makes me wonder what other sounds I can get her to make.

I turn to see an older woman unwinding a long scarf from around her neck. At least it isn’t Ada or Isabel, but she looks like a close second in the Opinionated Old Lady Brigade.

When I look back at Hope, she’s put another couple of feet of space between us. Her eyes are still a little glazed over from our kiss, her lips pink and rough, but her body language betrays something like guilt.

Is it because we almost got caught, or because she would have been caught withme? I don’t care much about the whispers that sometimes trail me around town, but she might.

After a lifetime, but probably only three seconds, her mouth eases into a smile. Relief floods through me at that gorgeous sight. It isn’t the showy fake one. Seeing her pretend self after a kiss like that would have hollowed me out.

This one telegraphs a clear message:Act natural. Too bad for her. Kissing her is the most natural thing in the world now.

“Did you find everything you were looking for?” She’s gone all prim and proper on me, likely to throw off her beady-eyed customer.

“No, not quite,” I say in a low voice. “I think I’m going to have to put in a special order.”

Color rises on her already pink cheeks. “You might have to wait for a special order.”

Her lip twitch proves she knows exactly what she’s doing.

“I’m a very patient man.”

She raises one perfect eyebrow.

“I don’t have the patience of a saint or anything, but I’m in no rush.” Not that I would put up a fight if she wanted to run every red light through town to her apartment right now.

“Why don’t you come back tomorrow, and we’ll see if we can work something out?”

“I’ll do that. Thanks for your help, ma’am.” I tip an imaginary hat. “I’m much obliged.”

Her eyes narrow, but her smile ruins the effect. What I wouldn’t do for those lips. I might have ignored the woman wandering around ten feet away and kissed her again, but Hope is pretty clearly not here for the PDA. Her mouth drops open—possibly to shoo me on my way—but her customer cuts her off.

“I hate to interrupt,” the woman says. The playful turn of her voice says that even if she didn’t witness anything, she’s connected the dots between Hope and me. “But do you have any other colors of these pretty crocheted hats?”

Hope gives her an indulgent smile. “I’ll find them for you.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, boss.”

“I look forward to it.” Her voice comes out almost chilly, but the look she shoots my way holds nothing but heat.

I won’t get any sleep at all tonight.

TWENTY-FOUR

HOPE

My face is probably redderthan Santa’s suit.

I show Mrs. Howell every variety of crocheted hat in the shop before my heart slows its frantic race—first from that incredible kiss, and then from mild panic. I want to believe Wren’s goofy warning kept Griffin and me from getting caught, but the way Mrs. Howell keeps smiling at me, I don’t count on it.

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