That Time We Kissed Under the Mistletoe (Abieville Love Stories #4)

Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Three

So yeah, I might’ve told Sara I’m a shower guy, but this bath she set up for me is pretty much heaven on earth. Or in this case, heaven in Abieville.

A wireless speaker on the back of the toilet is playing some kind of soothing classical music. Small tea lights flicker along the edge of the vanity. The water’s topped with pine-scented bubbles, so I slide under until I’m up to my chest, letting the heat soak through to my bones.

Not five minutes later, a knock sounds on the door. “You alive in there?” Sara asks, on the other side.

“So far, so good,” I answer, but her voice sends memories of us flooding through my brain. I guess that’s the side effect of these pain meds slowly filtering out of my bloodstream. The clearer my head gets, the more I’m freed up to replay images from the past.

Like Sara at a bonfire in my oversized sweatshirt, the bottom hanging almost to her knees.

Sara sipping my super-sized Coke, her lips leaving a ring of cherry Chapstick on the straw .

Sara on my lap while I steered my uncle’s boat around the lake. She’d lean back against me, her long hair blowing across my face, the sweet scent of her suntan lotion filling my lungs. She was young, but already so true to herself. Confident enough to wear her heart on her sleeve. Back then, she saw the good in everyone. She saw the good in me .

But that brand of innocence—the total certainty you can and will conquer anything—comes only once in a lifetime. And wishing for its return is probably more dangerous than taking a fire extinguisher to the head.

Inhaling a deep pine-scented breath, I try to stop the tide of memories from washing over me, but I can’t get them fully erased before Sara’s back and tapping on the door again.

“Still doing all right?” she asks. “You haven’t slipped under the water or anything?”

“Nope. Still breathing actual air.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then she says, “Sorry if I’m being annoying.” Her voice is softer now. “I just want to be sure you’re safe, since you’re only in there because of me.”

“You’re fine.” I tack on a sharp exhale, but the truth is, I kind of like that she’s concerned about my welfare. Whether her worry stems from guilt or genuine emotion, I haven’t had anyone looking after me—besides me—for the past ten years.

Not that my family and I aren’t tight. In fact, some people think the Original Fullers are disgustingly supportive of one another. But when you let your roots spread in the same small town where you were raised, you also risk feeling like you’re living at home forever.

So as soon as I graduated high school, I moved out and rented my own place. Took on multiple jobs to pay my way. Only came home on Sundays for dinner. At the time, I had independence, but that was only masking what I didn’t have: confidence. Faith in myself. Faith that anyone outside my family might believe in me.

I had no grand plan or any idea who or what I wanted to be.

Meanwhile Sara had her professional goals on lock since kindergarten. She was going to follow her father’s path. Undergrad at Stanford then law school at Columbia, with a couple years of prestigious internships in between. Her future was big law in the city. Mine was small-town, USA.

Hathaway vs. Fuller.

So I told myself I was just making things easier on Sara, letting her off the hook by ending things first. But the man in me now recognizes I was mostly protecting my own ego.

Truth is, I still am.

Back then, she didn’t understand why I pushed her away. And to this day, I don’t think she has any idea how I truly felt about her. Which is the way it should be. The way things have to remain. Our futures are still at odds. I’m a hometown teacher, she’s a New York attorney. No use denying that or hoping for something different.

By the time the bathwater’s grown lukewarm, I’ve resigned myself to the fact that my being here with Sara for the next few days won’t change anything between us.

It can’t change anything.

Years ago, I let my emotions dictate my behavior for way too long before I had to accept reality. And reality’s crashing in again on me. Sara’s only here in town for a short time, then she’ll be back to her full-time life, probably working at Hathaway Cooke. What I have to do now is resist any attraction I still feel for her until the doc clears me from her watch. Then I can go back to my house. Alone. And this houseful of memories will once again be a part of my past.

Sara and I won’t have to see each other again.

Stepping out of the tub, dripping water on the bathmat, I grab a towel from the basket to dry off. Too bad all I have to put on are hospital scrubs or my old clothes which still smell a little like smoke and?—

Knock, knock, knock.

“Yes, I’m still alive and awake,” I call through the door.

“Good to know, but I have a delivery for you this time. ”

“Hold on.” I wrap the towel around my waist and pull open the door to find Sara standing there clutching an over-stuffed duffle bag. Her eyes dip to my bare torso, then she garbles something that sounds like, “ACK!” When she tries shoving the bag at my body waiting for me to grab it, I glance down at the towel I’m clutching.

“If I let go of this …” I begin, my voice trailing off.

“Don’t let go!” Sara drops the bag and leaps backward, crashing into the wall of the hallway.

“Are you okay?” I ask, dipping my head.

“I’m great,” she squeaks. “Totally great!” But Sara doesn’t seem totally great. She’s coughing and pounding on her chest. Not to mention her throat’s getting blotchy. Still, a part of me likes that her gaze lingered on my abs. That she’s affected by me after all these years. I’m not proud of this part. It’s just the truth.

And also dangerous.

“No suitcase?” I ask.

Sara starts to sputter, nodding at the bag at my feet. “Ford said … he thinks … he told me to tell you this should be plenty for the next few days.” He’s probably right. And he’s also probably trying to remind me this whole situation is only temporary.

Message received, cousin .

“Is Ford still here?” I crane my neck over Sara’s shoulder.

She shakes her head. “He had to get to the airport. But he wanted me to tell you Merry Christmas, and he’s sorry for bailing on you. I told him none of this is his fault.”

“You’re right.” I bob my head. “It’s not.”

“Anyway.” Sara takes a small step back down the hall, like a getaway in slow motion. “You’re due for another dose of pain meds and antibiotics soon.”

I pull down my brow, still clutching the towel at my waist. “To be honest, I kinda like feeling a little more clear-headed.” Not to mention more in control of my reactions to you.

“I get that, but there are anti-inflammatories in the medication. Mary said that’s important for at least the first twenty-four hours.”

“Fine.” My shoulders slump. “Guess I can’t argue with Hairy.”

At this, Sara’s lip twitches. “I’m also supposed to check your stitches and reapply your antibiotic ointment. So I’ll just be in the kitchen when you’re—when you—” She swallows, her eyes dipping to my bare torso again—“get dressed.” She spins on a heel, fleeing across the house, but not before I notice her throat’s still blotchy.

I shut the bathroom door, and without waiting for permission, I peel off the gauzy bandage and tape. The last thing I need is Sara touching me more than absolutely necessary. She’d probably be all gentle and soft and good-smelling. So she’s not getting anywhere near my head if I can help it.

Luckily my forehead’s just bulging and bruised, and the stitches are tender but there’s no evidence of fresh blood. Not too bad, all things considered. Using the towel, I rake at my hair—damp with sweat—until the auburn strands are spiked up. I could use a fresh trim sometime soon. Right now, though, I just need to get dressed so I can handle my own re-bandaging and medication.

Inside the duffle bag on top of a pile of clothes, I find a pair of gray joggers, a soft white T-shirt, and my favorite hoodie.

Bless you, Ford Lansing .

I’ve been told the sky-blue fabric of the sweatshirt really brings out the color of my eyes. But I bury that thought as soon as it pops up. Impressing Sara Hathaway—with my eyes or abs or anything else—is not on my agenda.

Still, she is the one controlling the meds and supplies for my stitches. So once I’m fully dressed, I head off to find her in the kitchen. She’s wiping the walls around the oven, her black hair piled in a loose knot on top of her head. A few stray tendrils drape down over the nape of her neck, and my gut twists.

I remember my lips pressed there, the taste of her skin like a ghost from ten years ago. But I’m not about to start drooling over the woman like some kind of lovesick creeper. Because of course I’m not lovesick. Or a creeper. I’m just some guy who’s stuck with his ex for the next few days due to circumstances beyond his control.

Still, watching her now reminds me of her work ethic and determination. Even when we were young, she had such big dreams. She made me want to discover who I was. Losing Sara was the first step toward finding myself. Now I can’t help being drawn to the idea of testing out what I’ve learned.

“Hi.”

“Oh!” She startles and twirls around. The dirty rag drops from her hand.

“Didn’t mean to scare you.” I duck my head in the most nonthreatening way I can muster. “I kinda thought you were expecting me.”

“I was. I mean, I’m not scared. I was just … really focused on cleaning.” She stoops to pick up the rag, and when she stands again, she barely makes eye contact with me.

“Need any help?”

“No.” Her mouth goes crooked, and she finally meets my gaze. “Or maybe I should say, ‘nope thanks.’”

“Hey.” I force out a laugh. “You’re mocking a guy with a concussion.”

“Still too soon?”

“ Forever too soon,” I say.

“Fair enough.” She takes a moment to examine my head. “You took off the bandage yourself.”

“Yep.” I turn so she can see the back of my skull.

“Looks … not so bad. I just need to put some fresh —”

“I can do it,” I interrupt.

“But—”

“I’ll be fine before the next dose of pain meds gets me all loopy again.”

Sara narrows her eyes, but ultimately she fishes around in Mary’s bag of supplies for the tube of ointment and a clean bandage. Then she monitors me closely while I wash my hands, dab on a layer of antibiotics, and affix the new bandage.

“See?” I splay my hands when I’m done. “Perfectly capable.”

She presses her lips together. “At least let me get you something to eat. I’ve got some chicken soup I can heat up.”

“What?” I arch a brow. “No brownies?”

She takes a beat, then her lips curve up. “Forever too soon.”

“Fair enough.” I stuff my hands in the pockets of my joggers. “Anyway, I’m not hungry. Just tired.”

“In that case, I’ve got the guest room set up for you. But first … hold on.” She moves around the kitchen filling a glass of water and retrieving my meds. Then she watches as I swallow the tablets. I stick out my tongue to prove I did.

“For the record, I’m not trying to hover or treat you like a kid or anything,” she says. “But I am supposed to write down what you take and when to keep track.”

“In other words, you’re stuck being my mom?”

“Eww.” She grimaces.

I run a hand over my head. “Please forget I said that.”

“Agreed.” A spot of pink warms her cheeks. “Forever too soon.”

We’re both quiet for a moment, shifting our weight. When Sara starts to chew her lip, she doesn’t look like anyone remotely related to me. She looks like a woman I want to wrap my arms around and comfort. Which means it’s time to put some distance between us.

“Guess I’ll just call it a night,” I say.

“Okay.” She nods. “Sorry I’ll have to keep checking on you while you sleep.”

Yeah. You and me both.

I head back down the hallway past the bathroom to the guest room. Along one wall is a large antique dresser. A plush armchair sits in the opposite corner. A pair of mahogany nightstands flank a king-sized sleigh bed. The down comforter and duvet is a rich forest green. Piles of soft throw pillows and a quilt complete the lush bedding. The space feels cozy. Comfortable but elevated. Not bad for a rental property.

A Hathaway property.

After climbing into bed, I check my phone. There are a couple of missed texts from Nella and Ford, plus one voicemail from my mother. She’s probably scolding me for cutting my arrival so close to our departure time. So I decide not to listen to her message.

Her disappointment will only make my heart hurt worse than it already does. So I skip to the texts from my sister, sent separately from the Original Fuller House thread.

Smella

We got through security and bought some plane snacks in the gift shop. Mom and Dad can’t get over how expensive things are at the airport. In fact this may be the first and last time they ever fly anywhere.

They bought one package of Peanut M&Ms to split between the four of us. LOL! You’d better get here soon and save me, Free.

Free is what Nella started calling me when she was little and couldn’t pronounce the Th- in Three. It’s way nicer than what I called her. My sister is way nicer than I am. In fact, she’s way nicer than almost anyone.

Smella

FREE! We’re at the gate now. Where are you? Ford’s great and all, but I need my sibling buffer!

Oof. My insides twist, thinking about my sister waiting for me, with no idea I’m not coming. Unfortunately, the text from Ford don’t make me feel any better.

Ford

Hey, cuz. We’re about to board the plane. So far, I’ve managed to convince everyone you were just running late, but the jig will be up soon.

You want me to tell your folks what actually happened? They can’t hate me forever, right? After all, it’s almost Christmas.

On that note, I’m buying you a pooka shell necklace as soon as we get to Hawaii. Just call me Santa Claus. Love you, man.

At this my jaw goes tight.

My whole extended family might be a little nuts, but for the next two weeks, I’m going to miss their bone-crushing hugs, not to mention their particular brand of holiday chaos. Everyone was so ready to break from our usual traditions this year. We’d been dreaming of a tropical Christmas instead of a white one. Palm trees rather than noble firs. Umbrella drinks in place of eggnog. Flowered leis, not Santa hats.

I can only hope my parents and Nella will be too busy making once-in-a-lifetime memories to feel my absence too badly. Meanwhile, I’ll be stuck here in a house that’s not decorated for any kind of holiday—traditional or otherwise—with a woman who’s only here with me out of guilt.

Speaking of guilt, it’s time I text Ford back and let him off the hook.

Me

I’m going to fill my family in on what’s happening since you’re all getting on the plane now, and it will be too late for them to change course. Thanks for taking one for the team until now. Go have a blast for both of us. Love you too, man.

I hit send, then tackle the harder task: texting the Original Fuller House thread to tell them the truth. And I need to do that before the next round of pain meds kicks in.

One ripped-off Band-Aid coming up.

Me

Hey, fam. I have some news, part of which you may have already figured out. First of all, please believe me when I tell you I’m totally safe, but I won’t be flying to LA with you or taking the Christmas cruise.

I had a bit of an accident earlier today that resulted in a concussion. Don’t worry about me. I’m in good hands. I’m just not allowed to fly per doctor’s orders. And I didn’t want any of you to miss out on the holiday fun. So promise to have the best time ever, and I’ll celebrate with you in the New Year. Until then, mele kalikimaka.

PS: In case anyone’s thinking about catching a return flight when you land at LAX, don’t. I’m not at home, and you won’t be able to find me where I’m staying.

PSS: Don’t be mad at Ford for temporarily covering for me. He’s the best. I’m the jerk. That is all.

Love you all times Three. (See what I did there?) Aloha.

As I hit send on the final text, I start to feel a bit of pain-med wooziness descend upon my brain again. That’s bad enough. But to be honest, knowing Sara Hathaway will be watching over me in bed all night is also taking an unhealthy toll on my heart rate.

So I power off my phone, flip it face down on the nightstand, and climb under the quilt. If I wait to see who, what, when, or where someone in my family is replying to me, I’ll never get any sleep.