Page 110 of Mistletoe All the Way

His hand slides down my pants. My jacket forms a curtain around us, but I’m hardly paying attention to the world beyond these steamed-up windows as he slides warm fingers between my thighs.

I moan.

He rubs.

I pant.

He explores.

Soon, as my breathing quickens, his pace does too. My body tightens. His lips crash down on mine with a fresh urgency, and he kisses me through my release. It’s the messiest kiss ever, and the sexiest, too, as I come undone.

A few minutes later, after we’ve cleaned up, it’s back to business.

My mind is still awash in the afterglow as I do a quick Google search and place a rush order.

But the word manifest hangs over me as I drive us to the Christmas market. I’m trying to manifest good work vibes. I’m trying to manifest him winning Mr. Holiday. But I can’t simply manifest the hope that he’ll be here for Christmas.

I’ll have to ask him soon, and I wish it didn’t feel so hard.

But exposing my heart still does, especially when I want something this deeply, and I do.

For now we have a contest to get to.

36 OTHER USES FOR FRUITCAKE

Noah

We have a special guest here tonight to emcee the photo contest,” the mayor begins, poised in front of Santa’s Grotto at the Christmas market, with a smile that says Don’t fuck with me on her merry-ish face. Lucy’s next to her, her eyes glazed, staring into the distance, probably counting down the hours till she can rip off her green elf clothes. “I’ve convinced none other than Wilder Blaine and Fable Calloway, the owners of the town’s minor-league hockey team, to emcee the awkward family photo contest.”

Ah, that tracks. Word on the street is they’re something of a legend in this place. “They’re like the town mascots?” I whisper to Eloise.

Eloise makes a seesawing gesture with her mittened hand. “Sort of. He owns the chalets in town, and they competed in the Best in Snow contest a few years ago. That, as well as them faking they were a couple, led to them falling in love here in Evergreen Falls,” she says with—are those hearts and flutters in her eyes?

And shit. Am I fucking feeling them too? This is getting to be annoying. All these emotions that have nowhere to go, like snow piling up on the side of the road. I focus on the details she just shared, though, instead of the way her eyes sparkle, and how it does something dangerous to that organ in my chest. “Why did they fake it?”

“It’s complicated,” she says then whispers a few details like ex-boyfriend, and eggnog, and matchmaker aunt to me. That does sound complicated, but so do the eight hundred or so miles between Eloise and me.

I turn my attention to the dark-haired man in the jeans and peacoat and his redheaded wife, decked out in a festive red snowflake sweater, as they head up to the dais.

“What a treat to return to the scene of the crime,” Fable says with a cheeky grin.

“My favorite place on earth,” Wilder says dryly, squeezing her shoulder, then addresses the hundreds of people packed into the market, “since somehow I convinced this woman to be mine while I was in this town.”

“And it took a lot of convincing,” someone calls from the gathered crowd—the sheriff, I think.

Wilder laughs. “Worth it,” he says, then clears his throat, all business now. “And now we’re pleased to present the entries for awkward family Christmas photos.” He gestures to a large projection screen set up at the entrance to the grotto.

A photo appears on it, and the crowd cracks up.

It’s Henry wearing a moose sweater and antlers. His grown son—I presume—is perched on his back like a little kid riding on his dad.

“And here we have an awkward Christmas piggyback,” Wilder says, trying but failing to fight off a smile.

Damn. That’s a good pic and an even better concept.

“How’s your back now, old man?” someone calls out in a friendly voice.

“Strong as an ox,” Henry calls from his post near the front of the crowd.