Can’t Fight the Mistletoe

11

“What is happening right now?” I murmur, totally confused.

“You called me boyfriend.”

Was I not supposed to? I mean, he doesn’t look upset, but I could be reading him wrong. My fingers start tingling, and not because Dan’s holding them. “I know we haven’t talked about it, but—”

“Oh, no. By all means. I love the title.”

Spiral averted. I can breathe.

“Me too,” I admit, the relief and joy causing my lips to twitch with the beginning of a smile.

It’s so weird how less than a month ago, I thought I loathed this man. Now, I wonder if I’m on my way to loving him. He’s so much more than I used to believe, but am I?

“So,” he’s still grinning, “permission to kiss my girlfriend?”

He’s such a goof. I can’t remember the last time a person made me smile so easily. Or felt my heart thump so erratically.

“By all means,” I say, echoing his earlier phrasing.

Dan wastes no time claiming my mouth like a hungry man at a steak buffet. Except less messy and more intentional because that initial image was kind of gross. And what he’s doing with his tongue is anything but gross. It’s exquisite, and I’m falling down a rabbit hole of sensations that are deliciously vibrant and fizzy and bliss.

Why’d I have to think of that word again? Now I’m battling the shadows, remembering my dream, the darkness, and the fear—

“Als?” He murmurs against my mouth.

“Mm-hmm?” I can’t think straight when his beard hairs tickle the bottom of my lips.

“Tell your brain to be quiet a minute and focus on the task at hand, huh?”

With one hand gently pressing me to him and the other buried in my hair, Dan’s touch brings the present into sharp focus. This moment with my newly minted boyfriend who’s willingly facing the frigid December weather to transform my house into a gingerbread wonderland is the only thing worthy of my attention.

I concentrate on the softness of his lips and the delightful roughness of his beard, and the shadows finally dissipate.

Dan

Laughter is the first sound to reach my ears as I stride through the halls of the main building at Valle Encantado in search of Alessia. It’s a chorus of guffaws, chortles, and giggles that dares the Grinch himself to resist joining.

One laugh in particular rises above the rest. Peering through the inset windows in the doors to the common area, my vision zeroes in on Alessia at the head of a semi-circle of chairs, wearing her antlers and sporting a bright red clown nose—an addition she wasn’t wearing earlier when she left me outside her house clipping strands of lights to the eaves. It’s adorable.

She’s adorable.

Her dark hair sways in a curtain as she throws her head back in a hearty laugh with Silas and another older guy I’ve never met. Folding a slip of paper and tucking it into her pocket, she closes her eyes and raises seven fingers. She shuffles hunched over a mimed cane, then spins and points to her antlers before running in place. The women on the other side of the room begin shouting as Alessia returns to her old woman with a cane stance, grimaces in horror, and falls to the floor in a classic playing dead pose.

Seeing an opportunity to slip inside unnoticed, I amble silently toward the semicircle. A timer beeps, and Alessia jumps up. The women groan as the men cheer.

“Seriously?” She playfully puts her hands on her hips. “It was ‘Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer’!”

The handful of men to my left—her right—chuckle. One calls, “Point for us.”

Alessia jogs to a nearby whiteboard and adds a point to their tally, but the women are still ahead by two.

“Danny Boy!” Silas booms.

Alessia jolts and flashes me a warm smile. I’ll never tire of her smiles. Nope, not ever.

“Hey,” she says shyly.

“Hey,” I reply, edging closer to press a kiss to her temple. “How’s my girlfriend?”

May sound juvenile, but that won’t stop me from using the honorific any chance I get. She rolls her eyes playfully as the crowd behind us launches into catcalls.

“Saw that!”

“Aren’t they cute?”

“Young love is precious.”

“When’s the wedding?”

Alessia’s eyes widen at that one. No doubt my face is on fire. I glance over at Silas, who gives me a knowing smirk.

“Come on, kid.” Silas pats an empty chair beside him. “You’re on the men’s team.”

“What are we playing?”

I survey the common area, and in each of the four corners of the large room there are games going on. From the looks of it, this one is the most popular.

“Christmas carol charades,” one of the women answers. “You’re up since the others have had a turn.”

With a nod, I reach into the bowl proffered by one of the men I’ve seen around but whose name slips my memory and retrieve a slip of paper. Unfurling it, my brow scrunches.

“Here goes nothing.”

I hold up five fingers, and Silas calls, “five words!”

With a nod, I form a giant O with my arms and drop to my knees. How do I emulate a town? I zigzag with my hands low to the ground hoping it resembles tiny houses, because other than this, I’ve got nothing. Cradling my arms to mime holding an infant, I flash the men a desperate look.

“‘O Holy Night!’” Mr. Greene shouts.

“That’s only three words, Stanley,” another grumbles.

“O Christmas… Baby?” He tries again.

“Not even a real title.” Not sure where the retort came from.

I repeat the hand motions, making my roofline still smaller.

“Time!” Alessia calls.

Man, I wanted to win a point for the guys. “‘O Little Town of Bethlehem,’” I say, shoulders sagging.

Alessia marks a point for the women. One of them whoops.

They’re a wild bunch today.

The doors open, and Ms. Peggy beelines for our group as quickly as her feeble legs can carry her. Silas scoops her into his arms and dips her backward into a kiss. The grin he’s sporting as they straighten is sheer pride.

“Still got it,” he crows. I didn’t miss the subtle twist he gave to stretch his lower back, though.

“Oh, you,” Ms. Peggy chides, waving him off as they part ways and wearing a pleased smile.

Mr. Greene elbows me in the ribs. “Now that’s how you kiss your woman hello.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Truth.

Peggy joins the women’s team with a breathless flush. I glance at Alessia. She’s fixed on Peggy with an expression that matches my thoughts exactly.

I want a love like theirs when we’re eighty.

Alessia swallows and averts her gaze, and I wonder about the cloud I saw behind her smile right before she turned away.

She can’t still be doubting me—us—can she?

I conduct an inconspicuous study of her the rest of the afternoon and into the evening as we join Silas and Peggy for dinner to discuss the final details of their wedding. Alessia excuses herself early, something about palm trees.

“Go help her.” Ms. Peggy nudges like she’s read my mind.

“On it.” I already intended to follow after Alessia, but I’m glad our friends aren’t offended by our hasty exit.

Something is bothering Alley, and I want to know what. Correction, I need to know. Our relationship has been building in the right direction since Santa Fe, and after adding labels and sealing it with a rather memorable kiss, I thought we were on the right track. Clearly, I’ve missed something.

I’m growing desperate, but I can’t find her anywhere. She’s not in her office, not in the other two on-site restaurants. Not in the pool house where the wedding will be. I check the library, the common area, and circle around to the dining room and peer into the kitchen.

Nowhere.

I heave a relieved sigh when I hear her muttering to herself inside the storage room. The door is partially propped open by one of those wooden wedges Tory has for her classroom, only Alessia’s is something off one of Tor’s Pinterest boards. I almost laugh because the intricately painted design is so very Alessia. No plain Jane hunk of wood for my girl.

I rap my knuckles on the doorframe, but she doesn’t notice.

Clearing my throat, I switch tactics to lighten the mood. “Enjoying more intelligent conversation, are we?”

A soft thud is followed by a string of Italian-sounding words I’m guessing aren’t exactly PG. Those are always the first anyone learns with a second language. She sighs.

My body craves the reassurance of having her in my arms. I can’t wait another second to hold her, so I fling open the door and trip over something, barely catching myself before falling headlong into a tall metal shelving unit loaded with plastic bins.

The door slams closed as I turn to reach for Alessia, but she doesn’t collapse against my chest as I expect. She’s staring at the door like it’s a ship sailing past the island she’s marooned on, hope extinguishing as the vessel grows smaller in the distance.

Ouch. That look is a little extreme, even for her.

Guess I’ll dive right in. Can’t fix what I don’t know is broken.

“Alley? What’s wrong?”

She crosses her arms and lets out another sigh heavier than the first. “You locked us in, ding-dong.”

Confused, I glance toward the door and back. “It doesn’t open from the inside?” Then, because I’m a genius, I march to the door and jiggle the handle.

She snorts. “Such a man.”

Rude.

“Yeah, and?” I retort, then catch myself. “Sorry.”

This isn’t an ideal situation, but we need to figure it out together without biting each other’s heads off.

“I’m sorry too,” she says, sliding to sit on the concrete floor. She nods toward the doorknob. “It needs a key to open from either side. That’s why I prop it open.”

Whoever installed this brilliantly thought out plan needs their head examined.

“Okay, so where are your keys? You had to use them to get inside, right?”

She exhales through loose lips making a lip-trill like the vocal warmups we used to do in choir—only instead of notes, hers resembles a horse greeting. It’d be cute if she didn’t look so forlorn.

“Pam couldn’t find hers, so I loaned her mine.”

“So, she knows you’re in here. Call her.” I take a seat beside Alessia and bump her shoulder with mine. “Brr. Floor’s cold.”

She reaches into the shelf behind her and pulls out a folded canvas tarp. We each take an end and create a makeshift pallet, then she hands me her phone. I chuckle when the screen remains black.

“Of course. I mean, why wouldn’t your battery die while we’re stuck inside a locked supply closet? Isn’t this a trope or something?”

Alessia snickers. “Trope, cheap plot device. Whatever you call it, it’s stupid. Right up there with the whole ‘only one bed’.”

“Tory’s favorite,” I chuckle as I slide my arm behind her and tug until she drops her head against my shoulder. “Want to tell me why you fled to the storage room?”

“I didn’t flee.”

I kiss her temple. “Okay.”

If she wants to pretend, I’ll play along.

Or not. After two solid minutes of silence, I’m over it.

“Now may I ask what was bothering you tonight?”

“Ugh, you’re not going to let me off the hook, are you?”

“Not really, kitty. Caring about you comes with that boyfriend title you bestowed earlier.”

I can’t see her face, but the shift of her cheek against my shirt feels like a smile. I’m about to give her another nudge when she employs a tactic I’m well-versed in myself: changing the subject.

“Pam’s not coming.” Alessia shifts within the crook of my arm, draping her forearm across my middle.

Her fingers toy with the lowest button on my open flannel. Always has to keep moving, this one.

“She texted me before my phone died to say she was so sorry, but she went home and forgot she left my keys at her desk. I didn’t think it was important with the doorstop safely in place, but then, I didn’t plan on a clodhopper barreling inside.”

“Clodhopper?” I laugh, mildly offended. “Never heard anyone but my grandma use that word. Maybe Silas.”

“Another seniorism I must’ve picked up here.” Her chuckle comes out throaty. “What about your phone?”

Having already checked my pockets, I grimace before admitting, “I left it at the table.”

“What? How?”

“You fled, remember?” I kiss the top of her head and give her body a gentle squeeze. “I needed to know you were okay.”

“We’re a couple of messes.”

“Truth. So, since we’re stuck here till someone mounts a rescue…” I let the nudge linger.

Alessia harrumphs, the vocal equivalent of her pouty frown.

“Fine,” she fake grouses. “My head? It’s a disaster zone. We’re talking, all four lanes of the interstate zigzagged with orange barrels and no speed limit signs. Sometimes I get trapped inside an intrusive thought and it’s difficult to refocus my attention on the right things or tasks.”

“That bothers you?”

“Shouldn’t it? I mean, it doesn’t seem normal to work myself into a frenzy of self-doubt and worst-case scenarios.”

“Part of what makes you, you. Who decides what’s normal anyway?”

“Um, normal people?” Her eyerolls speak volumes. This one embodies the full force of her added “Duh.”

It’s not easy to suppress my smile, but I’m keenly aware of the potential consequences should I fail. “Okay, Miss Stubborn, then what is this ‘normal’ you believe you’re supposed to be?”

“I don’t know, but it’s not whatever mess I’ve got happening up here.” Alessia scrunches her fingers at the side of her head.

Bending the knee closest to her, I shift to make room for her to sit between my legs. She moves without argument, thankfully, and I breathe easier as she relaxes into the circle of my arms. I kiss the outer edge of her cheekbone.

“God made your brain to work exactly the way it does. With a purpose and a plan. He doesn’t make mistakes.”

“I know, but—”

“No buts. You’re perfectly wonderful as you are.”

Alessia reclines more fully against my chest. My butt’s going to go numb here any minute, but I don’t complain, and I won’t be moving anytime soon. Getting her to talk like this is worth any discomfort I may endure.

I don’t expect one simple conversation to fix everything that’s been inside her head for so long, but I do hope I’ve added to the existing groundwork of Truth making it easier to accept she’s lovable as is, for who she is.

We sit this way until my toes start to tingle. I tap her on the arm. “Hey, I need to stand.”

“Yeah,” she says as though it’s painful to admit. “Me too.”

She accepts my proffered hand once I rise to my dead feet. I intentionally tug too hard at the last minute, so momentum thrusts her against my waiting body. Her delighted laugh is contagious.

“Hmm. Right where I wanted you,” I murmur into her ear.

I’m seconds from kissing her when she jabs her fingers into the sensitive skin above my hip. Despite my notable manliness, I shriek. In my defense, though, hips are prime tickle territory.

“You really want to go there, Alley Cat?”

“Meow,” she purrs, jabbing her claws in again, wiggling until I squirm.

My arms pin her to me, but she’s fast on her feet (as cats usually are), and soon we’re an upright tangle of motion until she trips over the stray doorstop and careens us into a shelving unit on the other side of the small space. A bucket on the top shelf wobbles onto its side, spilling its contents in a rain shower of—

“Is that mistletoe?” I reach for the cluster of green plastic with white berries stuck to her shoulder.

My gaze scans the floor, mentally calculating bunches. There is at least a dozen, and a quick peek into the toppled bucket reveals three more.

“Somebody paid for those bunches,” she shrugs. “I threw away the first few, but after a while I wondered if I should find the culprit and return them.”

I love her mind.

Also, I probably ought to tell her—

Nah. Later.

“It’d be a shame to let this much mistletoe go to waste…”

She gives me a coy look. I waggle my eyebrows.

“Wow. You really are smarter than you look,” she says, lips twitching.

“I know I should be offended, but I’m going to ignore your sass and kiss you now.”

Pressing my lips to hers, I tell her without words everything I think about her. She’s a brat (in the best way). She’s funny. Beautiful. Precious. Brilliant.

She’s worth adoring.

Worth everything.

We’re a jumble of lips and hands, and I’m about to lose my mind with wanting when she rips her lips away with an exclamation. I grunt in protest, reaching for her.

“Oh my gosh, I’m sorry, but I really have to pee.”

Not good. It’s eight o’clock, maybe later, we have no phones, and no one’s coming to look for us unless security is a Sherlock-level deductionist and figures out where to look simply by spotting Alessia’s keys on the empty reception desk.

At the desperation in her eyes, I see it’s time to be the man and get my woman what she needs.

Except I’m not dumb enough to attempt breaking down a solid door with my shoulder or foot. I work out, so strength isn’t the concern. I could do it if I wanted, but why risk a broken bone over the holidays?

Work smarter, not harder.

Hmm. How does that play out here?

“Do you have a toolbox?” I ask, examining the lock.