Can’t Fight the Mistletoe

8

My face and neck are blazing with embarrassment, but that’s what I get for telling her, “I got this,” like a cocky nitwit and then completely misjudging my angle when she smiled. The second time, I managed to avoid looking at her as I pulled forward, lined myself up, backed in… and hopped the curb.

Performance anxiety is a thing, okay? I’m not proud of it, but I am man enough to admit I messed up. Three times.

I’m never living this down. Alessia won’t let me. Guaranteed.

“Can we go, please?” I huff.

“Ooh, somebody’s testy,” she says pushing her lips out in a funny grumpy-baby voice as she pokes my bicep.

Fighting a smile, I give her the stink eye before placing my palm to her lower back and guiding her around to my left so I’m on the street side. “No, I just made a fool of myself.”

She bumps into me too hard to be accidental. Glancing down, my pulse stutters at the beautiful smile on her face. Not teasing or pitying, it’s an honest smile filled with affection and humor that steals my breath. It’s the kind of smile that would tempt me to drag her into an adjacent alleyway and press her against the wall as I dive in for the kiss of our lives… if I didn’t think it would result in a swift knee to the groin.

“If I tell you an embarrassing secret, will it help you feel better?” Her softspoken words curl white into the chilly night air.

“Absolutely.”

It won’t, but I’m not about to miss the chance to learn something she wouldn’t ordinarily admit to.

“I can’t parallel park at all. It would’ve taken me way more than four tries plus extensive damage to the vehicles in front and behind.”

Impulse overtakes me as I spin her away from oncoming foot traffic into the alcove of the nearest doorway and sweep her into a tight hug. Pressing a kiss to her temple, I set her on her feet before touching my forehead to hers.

She’s stiff as a board in my arms, so I release her awkwardly, humiliation cascading over me fresh and hot.

“I’m sorry,” I choke out. “Don’t know why I did that.”

Alessia closes the distance I put between us and wraps her arms around my middle, pressing her cheek to my chest.

I don’t know what to do with this. Aside from the comforting side-hug I gave her last week, we’ve never hugged before. She’s certainly never initiated contact. Tentatively, I let my arms enfold her once more. No way she doesn’t feel the pounding of my heart against her ear.

My mouth is full of the words I’ve wanted to tell her for ages. How much I like her, how I will treat her the way she deserves, what her smile does to my insides. Before I get the chance, her arms drop to her sides, and I’m forced to let her go.

The fragrance of oranges tickles my nose as she steps backward and resumes walking toward the Plaza. My brain’s absolute mush as I turn to catch up, once again putting myself between her and the street despite the thickening crowds spilling over into the streets.

I should say something. Clear the air.

“Magical,” she says in an awed whisper as we approach the Palace of the Governors.

“Mm-hmm,” I agree, and the mood between us shifts.

A large lit Christmas tree glows from the middle of the Plaza. Mature trees are strung with white and colored lights, and electric luminarias line each tier of the surrounding buildings. Santa Feans call them farolitos, but the terms are interchangeable, and a sight unlike anywhere else.

Each time I’m in Santa Fe, I’m reminded of why it’s called “The City Different.” With a blend of cultures and history from the 1600s, each visit is a new experience. It’s clear from the throngs of people this is a bit of local tradition that goes back decades or longer. A multitude of people line the street across from the Palace of the Governors, an ancient adobe building and the anchor of the Plaza.

Alessia reaches for my hand. I glance down in surprise, meeting her gaze in the warm glow of light. She shrugs with a nonchalant smile. “I don’t want to lose you.”

She means in the crowd, but the sappy part of me hears what it wants.

I squeeze her gloved hand and tug her toward a bundled-up volunteer distributing white candles with cardstock disks around the base. Somebody tips their flame onto Alessia’s wick. It catches, and she tilts hers to light mine. I spot the pair representing Mary and Joseph ahead to the right, and a crowd behind them begins to follow.

Those at the front of the line carry large lit candles in hurricane glass mounted as torches. Behind them, musicians pluck their guitars. Oddly enough, there’s a violinist in the mix. Someone begins singing along in Spanish, and soon after much of the crowd joins in. The procession walks past us, picking up in size, before coming to a stop in front of an “inn.” Someone knocks loudly, then a booming voice cries out in Spanish.

Alessia leans toward me and asks, “Do you know what they’re saying?”

I shake my head. Spanish would’ve been more practical, but I took French in school because the girls were cuter.

An older man in a brown coat and cowboy hat pipes up from behind us with a heavy Spanish accent. “Posada means inn. They’re asking for a room at the inn. Look up.”

Our gazes follow his outstretched hand to a man dressed in biblical-style garb standing outside on the second level behind a row of farolitos, arms crossed with a frown on his face. He shouts harshly, waving his arm in the air.

The older man translates again. “The innkeeper says to go away, there is no room here.”

“Thank you,” Alessia tells the man, gifting him with her smile.

His eyes crinkle with a return smile, though his mouth is hidden behind the thickest, most amazing mustache I’ve ever seen. My hand runs along the beard I’ve maintained since No-Shave November.

The crowd boos. The innkeeper repeats his declaration, and the throng follows Mary and Joseph to the next “inn,” where the scene is repeated. This happens a few more times until everyone returns to the Plaza center. After cider and cookies, the crowd thins, though a considerable number linger around the gazebo.

“Ready to head home?” I ask, missing the warmth of Alessia’s hand, which I had to release so she could hold her Styrofoam cup of cider.

A band plays the intro to “Silent Night” from inside the gazebo. All around, the crowd begins to sing along.

“I know the words to these. Let’s stay and sing.”

We find a spot in the crowd and join in on the next stanza of “Joy to the World.” It’s one of the few carols I know the verses to, so I let loose. I did a few years of choir in high school, and occasionally sing backup with the worship team at church. So, unlike my parking job earlier, my singing skills won’t embarrass me in front of Alessia.

It takes another song for the crowd to warm up, but everyone mostly sounds pleasant. Except for one truly horrendous voice coming from my left. The poor lady sounds like a goose gagging on a kazoo.

Oh no. It can’t be.

But it is.

Alessia’s singing along for all she’s worth. Loud, with a passion that would be admirable if it weren’t so painful.

I wince as the band flows into “O Holy Night,” easily the most butchered song in the entire holiday music repertoire, and it’s as bad as I feared. As in, she’s trying to hit the last high divine with delusions of Celine Dion while everyone in a fifteen-foot radius steals wide-eyed glances.

I’m never going to hear the beloved song the same again.

After this, I may never hear at all.

The song ends, and the assembly disperses as the band packs away their instruments. The murmurs from a few people nearby aren’t exactly kind, so I hope Alessia remains oblivious to whom they’re murmuring about. She catches me frowning after them and puts a hand on my forearm as though she’s worried I’ll give them a piece of my mind. Which I would if I weren’t more interested in protecting her ignorance.

“I know they’re grumbling about my horrible singing voice. It’s okay.” Her brown eyes glisten above flushed pink cheeks as she smiles. “It’s the worst, or so I’ve been told. Mrs. Cranston banned me from helping with the holiday choir and Senior Sing-a-Longs years ago, so now I only sing when I can get lost in the crowd.”

She has no idea that voice could never be lost unless the crowd were in the aviary of the zoo. But I’m not about to tell her so. Not with how she’s looking at me.

“The psalmist said to ‘make a joyful noise,’ right?” She grins, bouncing on her toes with her nose pink from the cold and looking so completely adorable I might risk the knee to the groin and kiss her. “There’s no sweeter worship music than Christmas carols in my book.”

“You’re a believer?” I ask, breathless, because if her answer is yes, she’s no longer merely a crush. She’s my perfect woman.

She nods, her eyes rounding as she asks, “You too?”

I’m done for.

Now to convince her I’m her perfect man.

Alessia

“I’m in trouble,” I tell Paige after church on Sunday as I attempt to hold a squirming Audrey HepBun.

Audrey’s natural flight instincts are kicking in since I’m a ball of tension. With my emotions in such a jumble, all I wanted was to cuddle my bunny, focusing on the softness of her fur against my hand in hopes it would help settle my mind. Instead, I’m upsetting her. Sigh.

I set her free on the small patch of grass and adjust my grip on the phone pressed to my ear. Audrey glares at me, thumping her foot loudly against the ground in displeasure before hopping away. If I weren’t so stressed, I’d laugh.

“What’s wrong? Should I come early? What do you need?” Paige pelts me with questions, her own natural instincts taking over for a sister in need.

After a swig of lukewarm cocoa, I inhale deeply and assure her I’m fine. “No, I’m being overdramatic.”

“You? Never.”

“Rude,” I say, suppressing a laugh. “It’s nothing life-threatening, okay? Just potentially earth shattering. For me.”

“Spill,” she commands. “Everything. Is this about that guy?”

Danger Stevens may have been the subject of more than a few calls the past month or so. Still, this is a big step for me. If I tell Paige, then my feelings become real.

“Les,” she says. “You called me, now spill.”

“Objection. Badgering,” I retort.

“Overruled.”

“Fine. I…”

Why is this so hard to say? I’ve been thinking the words on a loop ever since the drive home from Santa Fe the other night.

“I maybe… like him.”

Once we found the 4Runner and I harassed him one last time about his parking job, we talked nonstop the whole ride home in the warmth of the heater and our shared experiences. We skirted the serious topics, but the conversation was no less meaningful. I never imagined we’d have so much in common.

And ever since, I’ve had these crazy feelings.

Only since then?

Shush, brain. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

Paige squeals. “Like him? As in, no longer want to claw his face off, or you’re considering kissing his face off?”

For the love.

“Um, is there an option in-between?” While I’m not adverse to the latter someday, it’s a skosh faster than I’m ready for.

No one has ever accused me of being a fast mover when it comes to relationships. A third date would be moving faster than I historically go. Most guys tend to show their true colors a few minutes into the first date, and the rest by date two. I’ve yet to date a man who’s been able to ignore anyone else with boobs while on a date with me. Is it too much to ask a guy to control his gaze and not return flirty smiles from other women?

Call me crazy, but I think that’s a pretty low bar.

“Sure,” Paige answers. “You could ask him out.”

I scoff. She chuckles.

“You could ‘accidentally’ get stuck in the storage room.”

“I should have known you’d use my fear against me.”

She laughs. I don’t.

“I’m serious, Paige. I think I might really like him, and after this week, I don’t think I’m alone in my feelings.”

Maybe longer, if I’m being honest. He’s always flirted, skirted the edges of messing with me. And there was that one time he completely ignored Mrs. Mahoney’s bombshell granddaughter. Each time I recall her confused look, as if no one had ever walked past her without a double take, a tiny thrill zings through me. Along with Las Posadas, it’s in my top ten all-time favorite Danger Stevens moments.

Paige exhales, making the ticking noise with her tongue on the roof of her mouth she does when she’s thinking. “Okay, so maybe you start with, ‘Hey, I like you.’ Ten bucks says he’ll ask you out. Or with any luck, he’ll kiss your face off. Win-win.”

My stomach revolts at her ten-dollar ante. Whether in books or movies, bets are an icky trope.

“No wager. But fine—I’ll try telling him,” I say, frowning with a dash of whiny groaning as we say goodbye.

Yes, I’m being a baby about this.

But you try crushing on a boy who’s the epitome of every fear your father instilled at the tenderest age of a girl’s life, turn around and antagonize that boy for the next ten to twelve years, only to have him reappear after a six year absence a bearded hottie who’s sweet and accommodating and doesn’t blink an eye when you goad him into arguing with you about movies like the creepy film freak you are, and not catch feelings again.

Out of breath? Confused? Me too.

But also, not. Because after doing the math after admitting exactly how long I’ve been fighting and denying my feelings for Danger Stevens, kissing his face off doesn’t seem fast moving at all.

Sundays are our highest visiting days, so in my pre-holiday event-planning hubris, I thought a family-inclusive cookie decorating party would be a fun, festive activity. And it would have been, had I remembered to require reservations and have guests pre-pay the fee to offset our costs.

You know, and staff it properly.

Four times as many people as I was prepared for showed up this afternoon, so now I’m scrambling to assist our guests in the main dining room at Valle Encantado with a handful of staff I bribed with overtime. We need another ten people in the kitchen, but I’d settle for four.

Sadly, it’s only me in here on what’s supposed to be my day off, mixing dough and shoveling pans into the oven with haggard efficiency as the kitchen staff does their daily choreography for tonight’s dinner service.

Do you know the feeling when you’re alone in the dark and suddenly your arm and neck hair prickles at the sensation you’re not actually alone? Usually, it turns out to be nothing more than a perfectly normal random house noise or maybe a pet, but you can’t settle until you know for sure. That’s how I feel as I measure ingredients for more cookie dough in the corner of the busy industrial kitchen. I glance over my shoulder, knowing who I want to see striding through the doors into the kitchen.

There’s a smile on my face and a yearning in my chest to ditch the dough and tell Dan exactly how I feel, right here, right now. Only he’s not alone, so I need to play it cool. Following him to the stainless-steel countertop I’ve claimed as my workspace are his mom, Grams, and Tory.

“You guys! What are you doing here?” I dust my dough-globby hands off on a kitchen towel before greeting each of the women with a hug.

“Dan said you might need some help,” Grams says. “Where do you want us?”

My insides feel as if two flocks of birds take flight in opposing directions. One, a ballet of swans, light and happy with relief over not having to cut and bake three hundred more cookies myself. The other, a murder of crows, dark and suspicious. I’m unused to help, and I don’t trust it. Especially when I’m managing quite capably on my own.

Except, weren’t you just wishing for four more people?

True, but history and brain-wiring aren’t always reliable, so forgive me for needing a second to right my thinking instead of leaning into old habits.

Dan hangs back from his family, most likely giving me space since whatever changed between us in Santa Fe is new and untested but different from before. It’s weird how ready I am to test the waters now after keeping him at arm’s length for so long.

My gaze locks onto his as I sidestep his family to greet him directly. His dark blond eyebrows climb upward with each step closer until I’m fully in his space. I’ve astonished him, which is amusing enough I’m already thinking how to shock him again. It’s the same thrill I used to get with my petty digs, only without the niggle of remorse afterward.

Impulsively, I lift to my toes and wrap my arms around his neck. Paige’s words this morning flit through my brain, but a kiss is not what I’m after. Though I’m growing more amenable to the idea as his hands graze my hips tentatively, like he’s not sure how to handle this abrupt new addition to our relationship.

“You’re quite the recruiter,” I say with a grin, unable to tear my eyes from his. “How did you know I needed help but would never ask for it?”

“Have you ever asked for help before?” His knowing smirk has me rethinking which side of the kiss-or-claw fence I’m on.

“Hey, I called in extra staff today.”

He chuckles. “How about people not in it for the overtime?”

“Nobody does anything without incentive.”

“Oh? Explain them.” He chin-nods toward his family.

I glance over my shoulder, fighting the urge to hide my face in his rather well-sculpted chest and feeling sheepish and silly for continuing to drape myself over Dan like this in front of them. From their matching smirks, they aren’t the least surprised.

“Thank you,” I say, including everyone, but especially Dan.

And then I kiss him soundly on the cheek before dropping my heels onto the floor.

I know. Totally not a “me” move, but I’m not exactly myself around him these days. I’ve never experienced this rush of feelings before and it’s as exciting as it is disconcerting.

My arms turn to noodles as I release Dan and step back with impressive restraint to reach for the bowl of dough. Cool as a cucumber, that’s me. Pay no attention to the trembling hands inverting said bowl onto the counter.

Where is the rolling pin? It was here a second ago.

Tory nudges the wooden cylinder out from against the side of the bowl… inches from my fingers.

“Thanks, Tory,” I say, ultra composed and not at all red-faced.

She snickers.

Grams steps to the industrial sink and washes her hands after tying on an apron she retrieved from a canvas tote I failed to notice in my excitement to see Dan again.

“Put us to work, girlie. What are we making?”

The timer on the oven I’m using buzzes. Oof, we need to hurry before the cookies our pastry chef made on Friday run out. Why hadn’t I anticipated more than fifty people attending when our community has close to four hundred?

“Tory, will you take the pans of biscochitos out of the oven and hurry them into the dining room? One pan to each of the two tables with bowls of cinnamon sugar. They’ll need to dip the cookies while they’re hot.”

“On it!” she says, springing into action.

The traditional New Mexican spice cookies are for eating, not icing, but they’ll keep everyone happy until I get more sugar cookies out to decorate.

The other three give me their full attention, causing me to stand a bit straighter. This commanding-the-troops feeling is amazing. Is having help always so gratifying? I could definitely get used to having help if this is how it works.

Surveying the tasks at hand and mentally assigning them to the best person for each, I ask, “Grams, will you oversee biscochitos?”

“Of course,” she answers with a short nod. “Got a recipe card for quantities?”

“Right here.” I slide the card across the counter to the waiting bowl and measuring cups. “Danny Boy, I’ll roll this batch and you cut out shapes. Ms. Stevens, will you mix more sugar cookie dough?”

“Call me Lena,” she says while slipping a second apron out of Grams’s tote. Lena tosses me a wink before stepping up to the sink to wash her hands. “Or Mom.”

Good grief. I’ll admit I’m crushing on her son, but Mom is the definition of moving fast.

After my stomach quits flipping, the four of us settle into a rhythm easily, and I catch myself smiling at the sense of rightness. We get a groove going, and in no time at all, our corner of the kitchen is clean and Tory’s delivering the last of the cookies.

Lena and Grams have already migrated into the dining room with Silas and Peggy. I peek through the small windows in the kitchen doors and smile at the roomful of happy families bopping their heads to Harry Connick Jr.’s Christmas swing playlist, swirling, sprinkling, and laughing together.

This is why I love my job. Why I love adding family-inclusive activities despite this being a 55+ active-life community focused primarily on adults living their best lives.

Events such as this remind me that everyone is welcome to the table in God’s kingdom. On earth as it is in heaven, there’s a seat for every heart who seeks Him—young, old, or in between.

But also, I remember how awkward it was to visit Nonno near the end. It killed me to watch him decline, and carrying on one-sided conversations was uncomfortable. Working on puzzles helped take away some of the pressure to talk. Even before then, hanging out with my grandparents was so much more fun when we had our hands busy. I loved to cook beside Nonna, to prune the roses and pull weeds with Nonno.

Tonight, there’s no awkwardness. Everyone is having fun. Including crusty Mr. Greene, who I’ve only seen smile once in six years. Mrs. D’Angelo’s three-year-old grandson offers him a mangled cookie, and instead of sneering, Mr. Greene beams at the child like it’s the gift of a lifetime.

“You did well, Alley Cat,” Dan murmurs at my back.

I lean into his warmth, and I’m delighted when he slides his arms around my waist in a gentle hug. The cacophony of kitchen sounds fades as I turn to face the man I’d ordinarily correct for using the nickname I’ve always hated.

Except it’s growing on me.

In fact, I’m so content right now I might purr to give him a reason to keep using it.

“Thank you, Danger,” I say softly, the fingers of my right hand tracing up his chest to fiddle with the button he’s left undone near the top of his collared shirt.

His forehead dips to touch mine, and until this moment I’ve never appreciated why characters do this in romance scenes.

My heart’s a cascade of winged creatures, and I’m not sure what we’re doing anymore. This man is so much more than the box I tried to keep him in for all those years. He’s kind and funny and handsome, and I love how he jumps right in to help the people he cares about.

Which I’m beginning to see includes me.

The realization emboldens me to lift my gaze to his.

Food prep continues in the background at a near frantic pace, and I know we’ll need to get into the dining room any second to thank everyone for coming then get the place cleaned up before dinner service, but for now I can’t break myself from this bubble of him and me in each other’s arms. It feels so right.

Why did I waste so many years fighting this, fighting him?