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

Chapter 54

Chapter Fifty-Four

Three

“Merry Christmas.”

I’m vaguely aware of Sara’s lips brushing mine, and the smell of something sweet hovering in the air. “Carol of the Bells” hums in the background. Obviously, I’m dreaming. So I groan, shifting on the couch and willing myself to stay asleep.

“Three.”

“Noooo,” I mumble. “I don’t want to wake up.”

“Merry Christmas,” the soft voice says again.

Wait. What?

I bolt upright so quickly, I almost bonk Sara’s head.

Just what we need. Another concussion .

“Wait. Are you real?” I croak, rubbing at my sleep-crusted eyes. I must’ve drifted off when Kevin McAllister was dealing with the Wet Bandits for the second time.

“I am.”

“I thought I was dreaming.”

Sara’s perched beside me on the couch in yet another pair of Christmas pajamas, this set with a reindeer print, including Rudolf with a big red nose. On the coffee table next to my laptop is a plate of frosted cookies she must’ve brought from home—gingerbread, sugar, snickerdoodle—all covered in plastic wrap.

“Nope. Not dreaming.” She reaches out to stroke my messy bedhead. “But if you really want to sleep more …”

“I don’t,” I blurt, lurching forward to gather her into my arms. She smells like fresh shampoo and clean laundry. I never want to let her go again. Eventually, though, Sara detaches herself from my barnacle grip, leaning back just far enough to gift me with the best smile of my life.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi.” I grin back at her. “When did you get here?”

“Just now.”

“Did you knock?”

“I let myself in.”

“And you put the Christmas station on Pandora?”

“I did.”

“What time is it?”

“You’re sure full of questions this morning.” Her mouth twitches. “But for the record, it’s almost one o’clock.”

“Seriously?” I do a quick calculation, but my brain’s still sleep-drunk. “That means I’ve been out for—like—a lot of hours.”

“I tried calling you late last night,” she says, “and again first thing this morning, but you didn’t answer. Either time.”

I glance at my phone stuck between my laptop and the plate of cookies. “I must’ve been pretty dead to the world not to hear.”

“Well. You’ve had a busy week.” Her shoulders pitch up. “But I did get your text last night that you were over here, watching Home Alone .”

“Oh, there were multiple viewings.” I roll my neck around to stretch out the stiffness. “Kevin McAllister and I rocked around the Christmas tree more than once. He’s quite the prankster.”

“He sure is.” Sara lets out a chuckle, eyes sparkling at me. “Anyway, I would’ve been here sooner, but I had a celebratory breakfast with my mom and dad, then raced here as fast as possible.”

“You raced here?” I screw my face up in a mock scolding. “ That doesn’t sound safe.”

Sara’s mouth angles sideways. “Your honor, I’d like to rephrase. What I meant to say is, the drive back to Abieville was executed slowly and safely.”

Your honor. Right.

“So, did your dad give you the job, then?” My body tenses waiting for the answer. “Is that the reason for the celebratory breakfast?”

Sara glances at our tree, twinkling by the window. On the other side of the glass, a marshmallow world sits bathed in white. “The breakfast was about Christmas,” she says. “And my birthday. Plus the best night of fundraising the Hathaway Gala’s ever had.”

“That’s amazing!” I nod, genuinely happy for her. “And really great for Children’s Village.”

“It is,” she agrees. “Also … I did get the job at Hathaway Cooke.”

I meet her gaze and my pulse picks up. This new position means I’ll either be moving to the city, or spending a whole lot of time apart from her now. “Congratulations, Sara.” I muster up a slow smile. “You deserve this.”

“I’d like to rephrase.” She shakes her head. “What I meant to say is, the partners will be extending me an official offer tomorrow, but my dad let the news slip.”

“That’s still huge,” I say, reaching for her hand. “You’ve been working toward this goal for as long as I’ve known you.”

She quirks a brow. “Longer.”

“Well, I have some news too,” I tell her, squeezing her hand. “I’ve been doing a little research.” I nod to indicate my laptop. “And you might be surprised to learn how many high school history teachers are needed in your neck of the woods. ”

“That doesn’t surprise me in the slightest.” She shrugs. “Teachers are incredibly important. And one high school history teacher, in particular, is incredibly important to me .”

“I sure hope you’re talking about yours truly.”

Sara ducks her head, feigning shyness. “You know I am, Mr. Fuller.”

“Good.” A grin creeps across my face. “Then I assume you won’t object if I apply for teaching jobs out your way for next school year?”

“I do, in fact object,” she says.

My smile wavers. “Wait. Are we still joking around?”

“I’m not.” She lifts her shoulders. “I don’t want you to apply to teaching positions in the city.”

Whoa.

My gut twinges, and I pull my hand away, struggling to absorb what she’s saying. I didn’t see this coming, and I want to respect her wishes, but I also need to be honest about how I feel. “Okay, I get it. You probably think I’m moving too fast.” I gulp down the boulder threatening to block my throat. “But I’m going to plead my case now, because I didn’t fight for you ten years ago. Back then, I told you I wasn’t looking for something serious. I said I had no interest in a long-distance relationship. I claimed I didn’t feel the same way about you as you felt about me. But I wasn’t telling the truth. I did want those things. And I still want them. Well, everything except the long-distance part. The truth is, Sara Hathaway, I just want to be near you … forever … no matter what. And if that means me moving to the city, then I’ll move to the city. Please.”

She blinks at me, and her lips part. “Three.”

“In other words, I’m not just applying for a new teaching job. I’m applying to be your man.” I reach for her hands again, holding them both in mine. “In case I haven’t made that abundantly clear.”

She offers up a small laugh. “Oh, you’re being the most abundant right now. But I still don’t want you to move to the city.”

I stare at her, bewildered. “But … why?”

“Because I don’t want to live there. And I’m going to turn down the position at Hathaway Cooke.”

“Wait, what?” My jaw drops.

“I’d like to rephrase,” she says. “I do want to be an attorney. That part hasn’t changed. But when I imagine my vision for an ideal future, an eighty-hour work week just isn’t a part of the picture.”

“Eighty- plus .”

“Ah.” A smirk tugs at her lips. “So you were paying attention.”

I quirk a brow. “Abundantly.”

“Anyway, I’ve been doing some thinking …” She takes the tip of her finger and touches it to my forehead, slowly drawing a gentle line downward, along my nose, over my lips, across my chin, all the way to my chest, where she lays a palm directly over my heart, which—I’m pretty sure—is about to pound right through my ribcage.

“Thinking about what?”

She meets my gaze. “What if I moved here, set up my own office in Abieville, and worked independently for myself?”

Cue my chest cavity exploding.

“I could take on cases that really matter to me,” she continues. “Family law, not corporate. I’d like to specialize in adoption and foster care, but also do wills, trusts, estate planning.” She tilts her head, and her eyes are shining so much brighter than they ever did when she talked about Hathaway Cooke. “What do you think?”

“I think you’re brilliant,” I blurt, and I mean it. Still, a rope of unease is coiling around my middle. “What about your parents, though?” I swallow hard, forcing myself to hold her gaze. “Do they know about any of this?”

She nods. “I already told them everything.”

“Wow.” I blow out a long gust of air. “I wish I could’ve been with you when you did.”

“Me too.” She gives my hands another squeeze .

“So.” I take a beat. “How did they react when you told them?”

“Actually—” She pauses for a breath. “They want to talk to you.”