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

Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

Sara

Car trouble.

That’s why Ryan Detweiler postponed his visit until tomorrow. Monday morning, ten o’clock. And while I’m sure the glitch was unintentional, the man’s timing couldn’t be worse. We were already cutting things close trying to secure Platinum Stay’s approval before the gala. Christmas Eve is only three days away. So the sooner my mom can add the lake house to the silent auction, the better.

Then there’s the fact that the evaluator interrupted Three and me.

For a moment there, out in the yard, we seemed to be on the verge of enjoying ourselves—putting the past behind us and letting the present be not so bad. But in the end, a few snowballs couldn’t erase the fact that I ruined Three Fuller’s Christmas.

I mean, sure, I’m with him for now, but as soon as this evaluation is over and he gets the all clear from the doctor, I’ll be heading back to the city. And Three will be stuck in Abieville on his own .

Home alone for the holidays.

To distract him from the inevitable—and stock up on enough food to feed two people for the next few days—I drag him to the market on Main Street. All the street lamps are wrapped in garland. Jingle bells hang above every door. The midday sky is bright and sun-drenched despite the cold. Still, Three plods along beside me, one tall shadow with hunched shoulders.

His mood doesn’t improve inside the shop, although the owners have done their best to turn the place into a Christmas wonderland. Thousands of paper snowflakes hang from the ceiling. Strands of red and green garland swoop over the end caps of each aisle. The bases of the fruit and vegetable bins are wrapped up like presents. It’s all very fun and festive. But it’s also a reminder of exactly what Three’s missing.

The holidays with his family.

Ho ho ho .

As I steer our squeaky, half-full cart toward the canned goods aisle, a jubilant rendition of “We Wish You A Merry Christmas” starts playing over the sound system. The choir warbles their request for figgy pudding, and I hazard a peek at Three. “So what are your thoughts on figgy pudding?”

He harrumphs. “This may come as a big surprise, but I’ve never given much thought to figgy pudding.”

“Then you’re in luck.” I puff out a laugh, trying not to sag under the weight of my guilt. “Because now’s your chance to weigh in.”

“Fine.” Three shrugs, tipping his chin. “Better than fruitcake, I guess. Worse than pie.”

“ Obviously worse than pie,” I squawk, pausing the cart by the relish shelves. “Pie is practically top tier, coming in just below chocolate cake.”

“Disagree.” Three shakes his head. “Pie is superior to cake.”

“I see. So you’re okay being wrong.”

“Never.” His mouth tugs up at one corner, and a flicker of hope warms my chest. I want Three to be happier. But I also have to keep a tight rein on my emotions.

Focus on food, Sara.

Stomachs not hearts.

So I add a jar of olives to the cart, then collect a can of cranberry sauce, several gravy packets, and a jumbo container of mashed yams. When Three reaches out to straighten a display of stuffing boxes in danger of toppling, I ask him to grab us a box. He tosses one into the cart, and we push our way to the meat department.

The frozen turkeys on display are a little too big for two people. So while the ruddy-faced butcher tries to locate a smaller turkey in the back, I pepper Three with more Christmas-themed questions.

Distraction. Distraction. Distraction .

“Do you like marshmallows on your sweet potatoes?” I ask.

He scoffs. “Of course. I’m not a monster.”

“Whipped cream or ice cream?”

“Both.”

“Pumpkin pie or apple?”

“Neither,” he says. “Pecan.”

“Ah. Good choice. But not as good as chocolate cake.”

“Incorrect,” he says. “Chocolate cake is inferior to pie.”

“Objection, your honor.”

Three coughs out a laugh. A small one, but still. “Stop being a lawyer.”

“Too late,” I say. “And now I’m thinking we should hold our own trial.” I nod toward the bakery across the shop. “When the butcher comes back with our turkey, we can grab a pecan pie and chocolate cake and have a dessert competition after dinner. We’ll just have to swear to be impartial when we render our verdicts.” I turn to meet Three’s gaze again, and his eyes lock with mine.

“You don’t have to do this, Sara.”

I blink. “Do what?”

“Try to cheer me up. ”

“What if I want to?”

“What if it’s not possible?”

I cross my arms. “I can be very persistent.”

“Yeah. I vaguely recall that about you.” His mouth curves up on one side, just enough to increase my pulse rate.

Don’t stare at his lips, Sara.

Focus on something else.

Anything but that killer almost-smile.

“So.” I gulp down the heat in my throat. “Besides snowball fights with your cousins, what other special traditions did you have as a kid?”

He drags a hand down his face, like he’s considering the answer. “Are we talking about winter stuff in general? Or Christmas-specific things?”

My gaze swings to the sprigs of holly above the doors where the butcher disappeared. “Christmas, please.”

“Okay.” He pushes his hands into his pockets. “For one thing, my mom bakes about a billion Christmas cookies every year, but that’s not really special to our family.” He takes a beat. “She also keeps a pot of water with cinnamon sticks, nutmeg, and cloves simmering on the stove all season. I don’t know anyone else who does that.”

“Huh.” I tip my chin. “Is that to eat?”

“To smell.” He ducks his head, almost shyly. “That scent reminds me of Christmas every year.”

“Sounds heavenly.”

“Mmhmm.” He presses his lips together, and I snap my focus back up to his eyes. Not that his eyes are any less tempting than his mouth.

“What else?” I ask.

“We used to do something kind of unusual, for tree trimming.”

I grin at him. “Tinsel? Flocking?”

“Heh.” A soft chuckle brushes his lips. “I have no idea what flocking is, and I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know. But at our house, while my dad got the tree set up, my mom, Nella and I would sew strands of popcorn together—like with actual needles and thread—then we’d wrap them around the tree.”

“Popcorn garland?”

“Yup.”

“Nice.” I arch a brow. “Sign me up for edible tree trimming at the Fuller House.”

A slow smile sneaks onto his face. “On the day after Thanksgiving, Nella and I would cut a bunch of strips out of red and green construction paper and glue the strips into rings to make a couple of long chains. The number of rings matched however many nights there were until Christmas Eve. We’d hang our chains in our rooms, and every night before bed, we’d tear off another ring.”

“Kind of like a homemade advent calendar?”

“ Exactly like a homemade advent calendar.” He pauses to work his jaw back and forth. “I’ve gotta say, all this nostalgic talk is really bringing me back.”

Before I can ask him if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, the butcher returns with a small turkey wrapped in white paper. “I found a fresh five-pounder for you.” He slips the turkey into a plastic bag, and passes it over the counter to Three. “Tiny bird this year, huh?”

“Yup.” Three bobs his head, placing the turkey into the cart. “Thanks, Raymond. Merry Christmas to you and Beth.”

Of course Three knows the butcher and his wife by name.

Three knows everyone in Abieville.

We both fall quiet as we head to the bakery for our pecan pie and chocolate cake. I’m pretty sure Three’s thinking about his dinner-for-one on actual Christmas now.

Gee, Raymond . Thanks a lot.

As we make our way to the checkout line, I push ahead of Three a few steps, then turn the cart to block his progress. “Before we go, I think we should grab a big jar of popcorn kernels from the snack section, then check the stationery aisle for construction paper, scissors, and glue. If they don’t have a sundries section with sewing supplies here, we can make a pit stop at the Five and Dime for needle and thread. I’ll bet they’ve got cheap ornaments and twinkle lights in a sales bin we can pick up there too.”

“Listen, Sara.” He averts his gaze. “You don’t have to?—”

“And then ,” I rush to add, “we’ll head over the bridge to the Christmas tree farm I spotted on my way into town.”

He drags a hand along the bandage at the base of his skull. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I’m not a kid anymore. I don’t need magic and Santa Claus.”

I huff out a breath. “Well, maybe I do. Need magic and Santa Claus, I mean. Come on, Three. If we’re going to be stuck together for the next few days, we might as well try to have some fun. And besides. It’ll be good for your brain.”

He squints at me. “How do you figure?”

“Because you’re going to have to teach me how to do all this stuff you were talking about.” I splay my hands. “I’ve never made my own advent-calendar chain or strung popcorn on a tree. I’ve never even gotten to pick out a tree, let alone trim it. My mom always has a professional designer decorate our house for the holidays.”

“But—”

“Douglas or noble?” I blurt.

“Huh?”

“Your fir trees. Noble or Douglas? Which do you prefer for Christmas?”

Our gazes meet, and Three tips his head, light flickering behind his eyes. “Wow. You really are persistent.”

A grin splits my face. “That’s the right answer.”