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

Chapter 19

Chapter Nineteen

Three

Sara and I spend the drive back from Humboldt Farms listening to Christmas music with the volume cranked. Occasionally she sings a line or two, out loud and off key, but there’s zero talking between us. Which makes sense, I guess. Back in the barn, we agreed not to speak about the kiss afterward. The thing is, being that close to Sara again is literally the only thing on my mind.

I’ve got nothing else to talk about.

Our past together came roaring back to me in a brilliant flash of warmth and light. The taste of her lips. How perfectly she fits in my arms. The way I felt about her back then.

The way I feel about her now .

So even though the ride is just a few miles, those miles feel like an eternity of contemplation.

For the kids, she suggested.

Just charity , I agreed.

These are the declarations running through my head as we return home, and Sara heads straight to the kitchen. “I’m going to unpack the groceries and try reaching my mom,” she calls out. Guess we’re still not talking.

So I decide to bring the tree inside, set up the stand, and wrap the branches in twinkle lights.

Sara bought too many strands by half a dozen, but the evidence of her enthusiasm couldn’t be any more adorable. My heart swells with the desire to make this Christmas special for her. That is, until I remember she’s only doing this so she can feel better about leaving me behind in a few days.

I’m about to stuff the extra strands of lights into a bag so we can return them, when Sara comes in and hands me a full glass of water with my next dose of antibiotics.

“I just love the scent of a real pine,” she says, inhaling deeply. While I take my meds, she checks out the tree, nodding her approval. “My mom’s fake trees always smell like … plastic and …”—she fumbles for a word—“giving up.”

She puffs out a small laugh, but her statement shifts something in my chest. A decade ago, I spent a whole lot of time being jealous of the Hathaways. But now I wouldn’t trade an authentic hometown holiday with my family for that kind of artificial perfection.

“I’m sure your mother’s trees are … majestic,” I say, before draining the rest of the water.

“Oh, they are.” Sara shrugs. “Thanks to the professional team The Queen pays to make every branch a masterpiece.”

“Heh.” I arch a brow. “Must be nice.”

“In its own way,” Sara says.

As she takes back the empty glass, it occurs to me we’re officially talking again. I also notice she’s not blushing or stammering anymore. For better or worse, she seems to have gotten over our kiss under the mistletoe pretty quickly. I guess she must’ve really meant it when she said there was nothing more for us to discuss. So if ignoring what happened at Humboldt Farms is this easy for her, I can continue to pretend it never happened too. In fact, I’m glad this is so easy for her.

Never happened.

Done and done.

“Speaking of your mom, how’s she handling the news about the evaluator postponing until tomorrow?”

Sara blows out a breath. “She wasn’t thrilled, but I promised her I still have everything handled.” She bunches up her brow. “I did not tell her we’re setting up a Christmas tree in the living room, because she’d probably just send her designer out to take over.”

I let out a low chuckle, nodding to indicate the tree. “Well our eight-footer may not end up on any magazine cover, but at least we get to decorate it ourselves.”

“My first time ever,” Sara says, a smile dancing across her face. So, yeah. I’ll do this one small thing for her this year, then get on with the rest of my life without her.

As she moves toward the bag of Five and Dime ornaments, I throw up a hand. “Hold on. I just need to clean up a little first, if you don’t mind. I like the smell of pine trees as much as the next guy, but I’ve got sap all over me.”

“You’ve got sap, and I’ve got good news.” She nods in the direction of the guest bathroom. “It’s been twenty-four hours, so I’m officially clearing you for a shower.”

“No more baths?”

“Not if you keep the bandage on to minimize the water on your stitches. We can put on a dry one after.”

“It’s a Christmas miracle,” I say. Or more likely, it’s because Sara doesn’t know how off-balance I’ve been feeling. I probably should’ve copped to the brain fog, or to the roll of nausea in my gut. But I don’t want Sara to think these symptoms have anything to do with our kiss. No, as far as I’m concerned, these lingering side effects will remain my little secret. They’re just a result of yesterday’s accident. After all, this isn’t my first rodeo.

Or concussion.

So I take my time enjoying every minute of my first post-injury shower. The spray of hot water feels amazing, but I’m careful not to get my head wet. I don’t want to lose future showering privileges. Afterward, I reapply a fresh bandage, slip on some jeans, and a navy blue henley. Then I head for the kitchen like a hound dog being led by the scent of something absolutely delicious.

Not the pine tree.

Rounding the corner, I come upon Sara at the stove. She’s changed into a pair of forest-green leggings and a soft white sweater. Her new Santa hat’s pulled over her glossy hair. Christmas music’s spilling from a portable speaker across the room, more specifically a classic rendition of “Silver Bells . ”

This song reminds me of cross-country skiing with my Uncle Phil, so it’s always been one of my favorites. But I can’t tell who’s singing this version. It might be Bing Crosby. Or Frank Sinatra. One of those old-time crooners. It’s smooth and nostalgic and stirs something deep in my gut.

Happiness .

That’s what this is.

Sara must sense someone behind her because she spins around and drops the ladle. “Oh!” Her hand flies to her collarbone.

“Sorry.” My shoulders slump. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You’re forgiven. At least I didn’t throw a fire extinguisher at you.” She stoops to grab the ladle. While she rinses it in the sink, I take a couple big appreciative sniffs, like the hound dog that I am.

“What smells so good?”

“Cinnamon sticks, nutmeg, and whole cloves.” She tips her chin at the smaller of the two pots on the stove. “Just like your mom does.” But when her eyes light up and her mouth curves into a smile, she looks absolutely nothing like my mom.

“I grabbed the spices as a surprise while you were getting the construction paper and glue,” she says. “And you’re right. This combination really does make the whole place smell like Christmas.”

“Hmm.” I nod at her, slowly. Threads of steam curl up toward the exhaust fan. “What else am I smelling?” Something rumbles in the larger pot, and the lid bubbles up as I move closer to the stove. “Is that popcorn?”

“Yup.” Her smile spreads even wider. “This batch is almost ready for us to make some Fuller family garland. So why don’t you wait for me in the living room?” She turns off the heat, jiggling the handle of the pot. A final few kernels pop-pop-pop . But instead of leaving, I watch her, mesmerized. After a long stretch of seconds, she turns back to me. “Go on. I’ll meet you in five minutes.”

She reaches a palm up and gently presses my chest, prompting me into the other room. I’m sure the gesture’s innocent, but my throat goes dry and my pulse accelerates. So I make my escape to the living room, hoping to distract myself by stacking logs and getting a blaze going in the fireplace.

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

But soon enough, the leaping flames bring me back to those summer bonfires with Sara. We’d hunker down on the sand, my arm wrapped around her, safe and warm. She’d drape her legs across my lap. Eyes sparkling. Laughter on her lips.

Keep it together, Three. By Christmas, Sara will be gone.

As if my thoughts conjure her from the kitchen, Sara appears over my shoulder, setting a stack of napkins and an enormous bowl of popcorn on the coffee table. The scent of cinnamon, nutmeg and cloves clings to her. Like all the sweet spices of Christmas just took on a human form.

“I made enough popcorn to eat and to sew,” she chirps, dropping onto the couch beside me. Her leg brushes mine, and heat shoots straight up my spine. I might as well be a chestnut roasting on an open fire.

“Are you ready?” She pulls a velvet pouch from the pocket of her cardigan.

“What’s that?”

“Our sewing supplies,” she says. “I got these at the Five and Dime.” From the pouch she plucks two spools—one with green thread, the other red. There’s a needle stuck through the center of both. “I’ve never actually threaded a needle, though,” she admits.

“No Home Ec for you at prep school?”

“Hardly.” She coughs out a weak laugh. “And it’s not like my mom showed me how to sew. She wasn’t exactly into darning old socks or replacing lost shirt buttons.”

I reach for the red spool. “I can teach you.”

Sara hikes her brow. “Well, aren’t you Mr. Confident.”

I try to ignore the warmth spreading up my throat. “There are plenty of things I’m not good at, believe me.” Like controlling my feelings around you, for example . “But this is my family tradition, so I’ve done this once or twice. Or a couple dozen times. And I teach teenagers, remember? Surely I can teach you . ”

“Hey, now.” Sara sneaks out a tiny snort.

“No offense.” With a chuckle, I unravel at least a yard of thread, then I guide one end of it slowly through the eye of the needle. Finally something else to focus on other than Sara.

“See?” I say. “Easy.”

“Okay, my turn.” She draws her bottom lip up under her teeth in a move so tempting, I’m surprised I don’t groan.

So much for keeping it together .

She slides the needle free from the green spool, unwinds a long stretch of thread, and cuts it. After pinching the length of thread between her thumb and forefinger, she takes a stab at getting the tip through the eye. She misses completely. “Hmph. This feels like trying to push lasagna noodles through a strainer.”

“That’s because your thread’s split at the top. It’s not going to fit in the eye like that.”

She squints down at the thread. “I guess it does look a little … thick. So what do I do?”

“You have to lick the thread.”

She eyes me sideways. “Excuse me?”

“Like this.” I stick my own thread into my mouth to demonstrate. “This joins the two split ends. Now it’s just one point. Easier to get through.”

“I see.” Sara takes her thread and puts it between her lips. Then she clamps down, sliding the rest of the strand out of her mouth. A flash of pink tongue peeks through her teeth, and she holds up the thread, presenting it to me for inspection. “Did I do that right?”

Whoa. I bite my cheek to stifle another groan.

“Yeah, you did,” I choke out, but my voice is obviously husky. So I clear my throat, gathering myself. “Now try again.”

With her gaze laser-beamed on the needle, Sara slides her green thread straight through the eye. “I did it!” she cheers. She tosses a look of triumph my way, but by now my jaw’s come completely unhinged. In fact, I’m pretty sure saliva’s about to dribble down my chin.

Sara looks up and meets my gaze. Her dark eyes sparkle like two hot coals, and her cheeks flush pink. “Now what?”

Great.

How am I supposed to teach Sara anything else when my heart feels like it’s just been shocked by a defibrillator?

Tearing my focus away from her lips, I grab a piece of popcorn from the bowl. I might as well have tree trunks for fingers, but I can’t let Sara know how much her closeness still affects me. So feigning a nonchalance I don’t feel, I push the threaded needle through the puff of popcorn a little too enthusiastically and pierce the pad of my pointer finger.

“Ouch!” Dropping the popcorn, I shove my finger in my mouth. A whiff of salt and copper hits my nose. When I pull out my finger, it’s still throbbing. So I whip my hand around like I do after I get stung by a bee.

“Stop!” Sara commands. “You’re going to make it worse.” She reaches for my hand to examine my finger. When the wound blooms red with fresh droplets of blood, she presses a napkin to the spot. After a long moment, she slowly peels the napkin away to check for more bleeding. “Does it hurt?”

“I’ll be all right,” I croak, already embarrassed by my overreaction. But Sara just nods, with her gaze still settled on the pinprick. Then she parts her lips and oh so slowly gently blows on the tip of my finger.

One long, soft stream of air.

Whoa .

Her warm breath against my wet skin ignites something inside me. And as she lifts her gaze to meet mine again, her eyes are black and achingly tender. She gulps, and the vulnerability in her expression makes me want to … apologize.

For what? Well, I have a few ideas.

Maybe I’m sorry for busting into this house when I saw smoke instead of calling 911.

Maybe I’m sorry for letting her take care of me instead of finding someone else to do it.

Or maybe I’m just sorry for being too proud and young and stupid to be fully honest with Sara ten years ago.

I lean toward her now, waiting for her to either pull away or to make her own move. As I hold my breath, she shifts closer to me, then her gaze drops to my lips.

There’s your answer, Three .

This might be the dumbest instinct I’ve ever been tempted to give into in my life, but when Sara exhales, the sweetness of her breath is an elixir I want to suck up and savor forever. My face inches nearer to hers, and she blinks, eyes locked on mine. Ten years without Sara in my life. Without tasting her kiss. Without her warmth and reassurance. And I’m about to end that decade of drought, when my phone starts vibrating on the table. Sara gasps and pulls away.

Great.

My sister’s calling.