I slide my hand from his shoulder to his neck, feeling the strength there. “Be with me.” I intend to spend the day with Pap, but he always turns in early. I tell Leo this.
“What if—and this is only if you want—we meet again at the park? By the street clock, just like last December? Only this time I’ll be there.” His voice is so full of promise I can hardly breathe.
I smile up at him. “I’d like that.”
“I’m not sure if you realize this.” He grips me tighter. “But I’m struggling to get you out of my head.”
“Do youwantme out of your head?”
“No,” he says, and I feel his smile on my skin. “I don’t want you out of my arms either.”
I press against him. “Well, what are you going to do about it?”
“I’m going to tell you how much I like you.”
“That’s a good start.”
“Then …” He eases back, and his hooded gaze is filled with the hunger that I feel. “I’m going to point your attention to what’s hanging over our heads.”
I glance up and laugh. A fake, candied-looking mistletoe is above us. “Did you pick this spot on purpose?”
“Would I do that?” He gives me a look that says he totally did. “You know how I’ve been hunting for mistletoe these past few weeks.”
I lean in, my mouth hovering close to his. “We don’t need it.” And I kiss him.
After our mistletoe moment, we are in constant contact, either by dancing, holding hands, or trading heated kisses that start with the brush of lips across my bare shoulder and end with me being pressed against a side-hall wall for a dizzying stretch of time.
Just when I start thinking I’ve stumbled into some kind of Candy Land fever dream, my bladder reminds me—nope, still real life. So while Leo’s picking at the dessert table, which I plan to attack later, I head to the nearest ladies’ room that is blessedly without a line. I’m thankful Leo didn’t pick the Jellybean Jumpsuit I spotted earlier at the hotel shop, or else I’d be in trouble. I’m washing my hands beside a frazzled woman dressed like a cream puff, currently assaulting the paper towel dispenser.
“It’s jammed,” she says as if I were some sort of bathroom monitor.
It’s the same model as the one at Brewtiful Grounds. “There’s a trick to it.” I dig in my purse and slide out a business card. “The roll backs up, but there’s a spot … right here.” I slide my card in the narrow opening and work free the paper. “Voila.” I smile at her, but she still seems slightly hostile, so I step back and let her reach for a towel.
“Thank you, young lady.” She gives me a cursory glance, then doubles back. “I saw you on the dance floor.” She rips off a paper towel with a swift swoop. “You and your husband look very much in love.”
I don’t correct her. “Thank you.” I’m about to ask her if she works for Mrs. Langston Pies and if she knows how I can score free samples, but she’s not finished gushing about my fake marriage.
“Hold onto that.” She wipes her hands as if she wants to sweep away not only the moisture but also several layers of skin. “Because all too soon, you’re married twenty-four years, and your husband decides to spend several thousand dollars on something he has no right buying. At least without consulting you first.”
This got weird fast. I gently tug my business card from the dispenser, but it slips through my fingers, kind of like this conversation.
The lady picks it up, and her hazel gaze catches. “Is this you? You own an antique shop?”
“Yeah, in Silver Creek?” I don’t mean for it to sound like a question, but her tone’s slightly intimidating. I blink and regroup. “My shop’s about two hours from here.”
She studies the card like I’m going to pop-quiz her on my contact info. “Can I keep this?”
“Of course. Are you interested in antiques?” I ask to create small talk and keep her from giving unsolicited marital advice.
“Not really. I don’t know much about them. But I do know more than my husband.”
And we’re back to that again.
“Do you know what he did? We’ve been looking for a certain thing for our daughter. She’s had some serious health issues, and she recently got theall clearfrom the doctors.” She explains how her daughter had been born with a heart defect and details all the hurdles her daughter had to overcome. By the time she finishes her story, I’ve got unexpected tears in my eyes.
“I’m very happy for her.” There’s something inspiring about those who defy the odds and persevere. “And you.”
She accepts my well-wishes with a small nod. “We wanted to get her a gift, something nostalgic. She wants one specific item, but we couldn’t find it anywhere.” She exhales a weary sigh. “Sal, that’s my husband, and I’m Candace, by the way. Candace Whitman. Anyways, Sal thought he found it this afternoon, but he bought thewrongthing. Did he call me? No, because I would have told him that set wasn’t a Garrick. Now we can’t return it. I’ve been giving him the cold shoulder all night. Not that he noticed. He’s been trying to schmooze Mrs. Langston, but she hasn’t given him the time of day to hear his proposal. Did you know her real name’s Chloe Ferndash?”
