Can’t Fight the Mistletoe

3

“Oh! Wonderful!” Peggy swings the door wide and motions for us to come inside. “We’ve been talking, and Silas and I have agreed on a theme.”

Ha! I knew it.

“Th-theme?” Alessia sounds worried, which makes it both imperative and impossible to fully smother my grin.

She takes a seat on Silas’s couch, scooting to the corner. Ignoring her intention to sit as far away from me as possible, I plop right onto the middle cushion, recline with both arms spread across the low back of the ancient couch, and kick one leg up to rest over the opposite knee. I’m the picture of ease to counter her stiffness. Spine so straight she might as well be wearing a brace, she has both feet flat on the floor, hands crossed neatly in her lap.

“Yes, it’s going to be everything I ever dreamed of!” Ms. Peggy clasps her hands over her heart. “Silas and I often spent Saturday nights at the cinema when we dated the first time around.”

Satisfaction ripples through me. Wow, I love being right, especially when I was goofing around with the idea and not the least bit serious. Lucked out on that one. I’m about to elbow Alessia and mime a mic drop when Ms. Peggy clarifies.

“I always dreamed we’d run away and get married by the ocean,” she gushes with a happy sigh. “A tropical wedding like Joan Blackman and Elvis Presley’s in Blue Hawaii.”

Huh? I glance at Alessia. She’s staring at Ms. Peggy as though the woman announced she wanted to be married to Elvis himself. On Mars.

“I–I’m sorry, what?” she says after several vacant blinks.

Can’t blame her. I’m equally stupefied.

“Well, obviously, we’re too old to be running off to get hitched on the beach, so we’ll do it here. At Valle Encantado.”

“You want a tropical wedding. At Christmas. In New Mexico?”

Alessia’s stuck, but I’m already pushing ahead full steam, calculating how much help we’ll need to pull off something so insane. Sure, messing with her about a cheesy theme wedding was fun earlier when it was a joke, but I see the stress in her eyes. There’s no way she’ll be able to handle her regular job during the holidays and arrange an over-the-top wedding too.

She’ll try. That’s what Alessia does—everything, perfectly. By herself. Trust the guy who worked with her on enough group projects in school.

“With Elvis for our officiant.” Peggy adds earnestly.

I send a wide-eyed glance to Silas for confirmation. He’s giving Peggy an indulgent smile unlike any I’ve ever seen on the old man’s face.

“But—”

Alessia’s protest is cut off by Silas’s raspy voice. “If the love of my life wants a beach wedding here at home officiated by Elvis the day after Christmas, that’s what she will have.”

“Of–of course,” Alessia rushes to agree. “Are we firm on the date? Perhaps late spring outside would be—”

“December twenty-sixth.” The tone Silas uses kept me in line over half my life, including the mouthy middle school years.

I’m tied between being proud of Alessia for trying to put her foot down and finding humor in her hard swallow as she understands what I’ve always known—there’s no winning an argument with Silas Cooper.

Nor, apparently, Peggy James.

In unison, Alessia and I give the only logical response.

“Yes, sir.”

But I know another thing Alessia doesn’t. She won’t have to do this alone. Even if she thinks she needs to.

Alessia

“I may have to quit my job, Audrey.”

Her warm brown eyes stare unblinking, silently waiting for my rant to end.

“Yes, I barely got the promotion, but it’s not worth the headache. Who cares if I’d have to move in with Mom and Gerald? Well, Mom might. Though, she might be okay with it since they’ll have a live-in babysitter again...”

Audrey and I both know I’ll never quit. I’ve worked too hard to get this far, and while it’s not exactly a lucrative career, I’ve been happy at Valle Encantado. Besides, Mom’s high expectations programmed a hyperdeveloped sense of responsibility within me, probably to compensate for the loose cannon who contributed the other half of my DNA.

“No, you’re right,” I continue. “I can’t quit. I stink at babysitting. And besides, Mom will never let you come with me, and I love you too much to say goodbye.”

My five-year-old chestnut agouti mini-lop, Audrey HepBun, pokes her twitchy nose into the blanket nest I’ve created in my lap. She turns a circle before doing the same to my chest. I run a hand down her head, loving the way her soft fur feels under my fingers. People say dogs are man’s best friend only because they’ve never had a rabbit. Part bestie, part pet, one hundred percent emotional support animal. No dog could soothe my nerves the way Audrey does.

Better than any therapist, she’s already listened to me rant about the cowboy wedding Danger proposed, as well as a detailed rundown of my closet reorganization slash wedding planning fiasco today. I owe her a handful of cabbage and an hour running around the escape-proofed backyard after this.

Once she’s settled inside her hutch on the porch, I venture to the kitchen in search of sustenance, only to be reminded by my nearly empty fridge and cupboards I neglected to do my usual Monday night grocery run. This week I was reeling from an impromptu wedding announcement and worked two hours later than usual making a list that rivals Santa’s. Only instead of naughty and nice, I’m checking my to-dos twice.

I’m not a wedding planner. In fact, had I known how much of my day-to-day would be spent helping Valle Encantado residents with their love lives, I’d have gone running for the hills. Why didn’t Danae warn me about this part of the job, huh?

At no point during my interview process, nor in the totality of my time working under Danae, did anyone warn me I’d be working on a live set of The Golden Bachelor.

I wish I’d pitched the idea to the network when I first thought of it. Could’ve made a fortune and retired three decades early. Think about it. Valle Encantado is a beautiful setting with a large group of single seniors living in close proximity to a pool. Plus, they already turn my planned events into group dates. Instead of roses, they could give out, like, bingo cards or something.

Where was I going with this?

I don’t know. Maybe my brain’s reached a breaking point.

Clearly, I need food. Stat.

After double checking the back door is locked, I grab my keys and hit the Burque?o Burger drive-thru on the way to the store. The green chile cheeseburger will no doubt give me heartburn, but I can’t bring myself to care. It’s the only food I’ve eaten since the bagel I swiped from our on-site café this morning. One of these days, I’ll get smart and meal prep for myself.

If only I were as organized in my personal life as I am for work. Sigh.

A prime front-door parking space opens up (score!). The place is a total ghost town inside. Praise God for small miracles, since I am dead sexy right now. The first thing I did when I got home from work was ditch the bra before changing into my favorite joggers and oversized hoodie—both of which are ancient and more than likely sporting stains of unknown origin under a layer of rabbit hair.

The first cart I grab has a squeaky wheel, so I move to the second line of carts and try again. I’ve made a decent-sized dent in my shopping list and budget when a familiar masculine voice brings me to a halt. I can’t see him yet, but their voices tell me Danger Stevens is with a woman.

Shocker. Ugh.

“No, Mave,” he says, voice firm and sure. “You can’t have brownies.”

“Rude!” The female voice retorts. “Never tell a woman what she may or may not eat.”

You tell him, girl.

“What’s next? I still have papers to grade.”

He’s seriously not going to address his faux pas? No apology?

“Ice cream, pickles, and mayonnaise,” the woman says as if reading from a list. “Oh, and potatoes.”

Danger chuckles. “The actual list. Not your cravings, woman.”

“Don’t call me woman.”

The corners of my mouth edge upward. I should be making a beeline for the checkout line, but I can’t help my curiosity. Who is this person? She’s unlike his usual fan club of gigglers and hair twisters.

“Cravings are my list. And fine, I’ll forego the brownies and ice cream, but don’t you dare get between me and my potato salad.”

“But Mave, you’re—”

“Danger Immanuel Stevens, so help me,” the woman says with absolute authority. “If you end that sentence with fat, or any other comment about my weight, I will end you. Now get. Me. My. Pickles.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Stifling a chuckle, I push my cart forward. It’s getting late, and I’ve got to get these groceries home before the ice cream I ought to skip (but won’t) melts.

“Alley Cat.”

I freeze, only now realizing I’m standing in front of the pickle shelves. Wonderful.

“Danger.”

“Just Dan.”

“That’s not what she called you,” I say with a smirk, jabbing a thumb toward the next aisle. “Immanuel, huh? God with us. Did your mom take one look and say, ‘this kid needs to come with a warning label’?”

“Oh, I like her,” the woman with him snickers as she rounds the corner.

By now I recognize her voice, but as she comes into view, I’m not sure why she’s so familiar when I’ve never seen her before. She comes to a stop beside Danger and my gaze catches on her swollen midsection. The man’s a charmer, but I never pegged him for—

“Mave, this is Alessia Catano. Als, my sister Maverick.”

Oh. Okay, now I get the familiarity. They share the same wavy dark blond hair and grayish blue eyes. Hers are filled with the same teasing glint, too, though she’s about three inches shorter and lacks the beard (for which I’m sure she’s grateful).

“Hi,” I say after too long.

I know I should say more, but nothing’s coming out. Instead, I’m standing here like an idiot cataloging the other features they share, such as the twitch at the right corner of their lips as they smother smiles. I’d wager my pint of mocha Oreo their grins are identical.

This is weird. I’m being weird.

Can you blame me, though? I’ve been caught eavesdropping on Danger Stevens in my sweats with no bra, and now I’m meeting his sister. His very pregnant sister.

“So, this is the infamous Alley Cat, huh?” she says with a smile that confirms my suspicions.

Man, I’m glad I didn’t place any actual wagers because I really want my ice cream. Correction, I need it after today.

Also—did she say infamous?

My gaze darts to her brother, who avoids my gaze and studies the rows of pickles. His cheeks are beet red above the scruff of whiskers outlining his jaw as he reaches for a jar of spears, hesitates, and grabs a jar of dill relish with the other.

“These okay?” He extends both to Mave, who raises an eyebrow and nods toward the cart. He complies, deliberately avoiding my eyes.

Interesting. Does this mean he’s talked about me? I’m not entirely sure how I feel about that.

“She gets ice cream,” Mave says, pointing to my cart with a pout.

My lips twitch. I’d say she’s a couple years older than us, early thirties-ish, but her tone is reminiscent of my mom’s youngest, who’s six.

Danger tilts his head and gives her a pointed look. “She doesn’t have gestational diabetes.”

“Whatever.” Mave crosses her arms with a humph.

My smile breaks free at their interaction. Here I thought he was being a body-shaming jerk, but it turns out he’s a good brother watching out for his sister.

It’s cute.

Smile gone. Danger Stevens is a pain in my butt. He’s a flirt. A charmer. He’s a lot of things that drive me crazy, but cute is not one of them.

Except then he gives her an indulgent smile reminding me so much of the one Silas gave Peggy earlier today, a tiny piece of my heart melts.

Danger Stevens took his pregnant sister grocery shopping after work.

Another sliver melts.

Stupid sliver.

Fine, okay? Maybe he’s a little cute.

Dan

“So…”

Have to give Mave credit for making it a whole four minutes into our drive home from the store.

“Oh, come on,” she prods from the passenger seat of my 4Runner. “It wasn’t so bad.”

“Infamous, really?” I shoot her a glare before returning my focus to the road. “And you cornered her into giving me her number.”

She laughs, a sound I’ve missed these past five months. Longer, if you count the years I lived in Texas. But in the five months since her husband’s death and my move home… let’s just say hearing her laugh twice tonight gives me hope she’ll be all right. Even if her laughs came at the expense of my dignity.

“She’s pretty.”

“Mmm.” I’m not giving her more.

“Oh, come on. Don’t be a baby.”

“A baby? You made me look like a pimple-faced tween with a crush and no game.” Hearing the whine in my tone, I cough and drop an octave. “I’m plenty capable of getting a woman’s number if I want it, thanks.”

“Oh please,” she brushes a hand through the air. “If it makes you feel better, I think she’s into you.”

I scoff. Right. Alessia has never once, not ever, been into me. Still… women are rarely wrong about these things.

“How can you tell?”

“Ha! I knew you liked her.”

Outmaneuvered by my sister. Again. I have a sudden urge to fake getting lost and then prove I don’t need to ask for directions. Grunt. Bench press a car.

“You’re the worst, Mave.”

“All right,” she relents, albeit with a teasing tone. “I’ll tell you. But only because I know you’ve had a crush on her since middle school.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Danny. You think I don’t remember how red your face would get when Tory teased you about your Alley Cat? Or the way she’d air claw and hiss whenever Mom asked about girls you liked?”

I groan. “That was a long time ago.”

No need to tell her those old feelings came roaring back with a vengeance the first time I ran in to Als this summer while getting Silas moved in. I passed her in the hallway and instantly recognized the long, dark waves cascading to the sway of her back as she stapled something to the wall. She didn’t see me thanks to the pile of boxes I carried, but I promised myself I’d say hi once I’d showered and no longer smelled like a monkey.

The next day, Alessia had stopped by to welcome Silas to the community and give him a copy of the July activity calendar. Just my luck, the pizza delivery girl showed up at the same time. It was one smile—one—to be nice, and the girl giggled and flirted with me the entire time it took Silas to find his wallet. He insisted on buying or I’d have used my card and avoided the entire encounter.

“Some things never change, I see,” Alessia had said with her usual eyeroll and snark.

So much for a second chance at a first impression. My fate was sealed, and it’s been high school revisited since.

I pull the SUV into Mom’s driveway to ease unloading for Mave. She could cross the street if I parked at my place, but the floodlights illuminate the fatigue in the shadows under her eyes.

“Go on inside. I’ve got the bags.”

She nods with a yawn. “I should argue, but I won’t. Thanks, little brother.”

You know Mave’s tired when she waits for me to round the vehicle and get her door. As much as they drilled the habit into me growing up, she’s always been the one to insist if a woman wants to open her own door, a man should let her and not get offended about it. Same with paying for dinner, though I’ve yet to lose that battle.

“Her snark is a mask, Dan,” Mave grits through her clenched teeth as she accepts my hand and strains to unfold herself from the front seat. “She doesn’t want to like you, but she does, and it drives her nuts. So, she’s mean to you.”

My smile appears at her words. It’s nice to have my suspicions confirmed by a female. Maybe hopes is the more accurate word. Either way, I’m standing taller now than in the canned foods aisle.

“Ugh. To think I have two more months of this.” Mave groans, rubbing her lower back.

She waddles inside as I pop the lift gate and start slipping the handles of the reusable shopping bags Mom has us use over my arms. Mave’s nowhere to be seen by the time I lug everything inside.

“My hero!” Mom exclaims at the sight of my full armload, her exaggerated swoon putting a huge grin on my face.

I drop the bags on the island before accepting her hug.

She pats my shoulder blade, snickering. “There’s my smart guy, getting everything in one trip like I taught you.”

This has been our dance since I joined the ranks of licensed drivers. She’s always hated grocery shopping. Scout and Mave did it until they went off to college, then it was me and Tory. Sometimes Aunt Mindy and my cousin Candice would handle it, but more often than not, it’s me and whoever is free at the time.

Considering it earns me free meals on nights I don’t feel like cooking for one (which is most), it works out.

“Where’s Mave?” Mom glances behind me.

“Getting ready for bed, I hope.” I meet Mom’s concerned gaze and give what I hope is a reassuring smile. “She’s tired, but in a normal way. Actually got her to laugh a couple times.”

Mom’s shoulders relax as she leans against the counter with a sigh of relief. “You’re good for her. I’m so glad you’re home.”

“Glad to be here.”

“I know it wasn’t easy, leaving the life you’d built behind. But have I said lately how grateful I am you did?”

She has no idea how easy leaving Texas truly was, and I have no desire to correct her assumptions.

“Family comes first, Ma. You taught me that. Trust me, it was no great hardship.”

There’s no opportune time for something as awful as death, but Brian’s passing brought me home at a time when I needed my family as much as they needed me. I hate that my sister is grieving, and especially that Brian’s gone. He was a good man, a great brother-in-law, and the best partner to Mave. It sucks he won’t be here to see his baby born, to watch him or her grow up, and it’s not fair for the baby to never know their father.

I don’t understand why God allowed it to happen, but I’ve long since stopped asking God why He does anything and try instead to accept He knows the plan even when it makes no sense to the rest of us.

“Hungry?”

I chuckle. “No, Ma. You fed me two and a half hours ago, remember?”

“Which is why I’m asking. Been filling your hollow leg since puberty.”

“I’m good, thanks. Gonna head home. Papers to edit, tests to grade.”

“Books to read,” she adds with a wink.

Moms always know the truth. I shoot her an innocent grin on my way out of the kitchen, stealing a handful of cookies from the plate she left there especially for me. My students’ papers will still be there waiting after I indulge in a few chapters of the Garrett Wilson novel I’ve been reading.

After reparking the 4Runner in my own driveway across the street, I put away the contents of my single canvas sack and flop onto the couch, phone in hand. I’d give my left arm for a recliner like Silas’s, but I’m still rebuilding my savings after the move. While I’ll have to wait a while for a throne of my own, I don’t have to wait to contact Alessia now that I have her number. To ensure she has mine in case she needs it, that’s all.

Fresh humiliation over my sister’s antics—Maverick living up to her name, as always—washes over me as I tap the phone screen to search for Alessia’s contact. Takes a minute of scrolling, but when I reach the letter N, I burst out laughing.

Not A Feline

I knew from the slight upturn of her lips she’d saved her number under something besides her name. When I click the message icon, I notice she already sent herself a text. The message reads Mr. Warning Label.

It’s enough to know she has my number. Grinning, I put my phone away and crack open my book, ready to find out who this Trevor Delgado guy is and whose side of the fight he’s on.

Alessia

It’s days like today that tempt me to try coffee again. But no matter how many times I’ve tried, my tastebuds flat refuse to adapt to the flavor of burnt bean water. With or without cream and fancy flavor syrups. Tea alone doesn’t pack enough punch. It’s the first Friday in December, though, which means it’s officially peppermint cocoa season. I made do last month with caramel cocoa and the occasional cider, but there’s nothing like the opposing flavors of hot cocoa and cool mint to reinvigorate me when the afternoon lag hits.

“Here you are, Pam. One medium peppermint mocha.”

She beams as I set the hot paper cup on the twinkle-lit front desk. We share an affinity for peppermint and chocolate during December (maybe January, but it feels wrong any other time of year). Except, unlike me, Pam adores coffee.

“You’re an angel,” she sighs after her first sip. “Exactly what I needed to get over the three p.m. slump.”

She yawns, which of course means I follow, because who can even read the word “yawn” without their mouth stretching wide and a wave of sudden fatigue cresting over them? Not that I read. Who has the time?

“Ugh! Don’t start yawning, we’ll never stop.”