Page 75 of Mistletoe All the Way

I tear my gaze away from her for a second, trying to get my bearings. This booth is too small. I can smell her citrusy scent constantly. It’s sweet and a little tart, and it’s going to my head.

I tug on the neckline of my flannel shirt like that’ll cool me off.

But nope. I’m still a furnace just being near her. I’m bursting with curiosity and lust all at once. With the wish to know her more, and to kiss her everywhere. It’s distracting. Maybe that’s why it’s so hard to sell these holiday delicacies.

I blow out a breath and try to anchor myself to this tiny booth, covered in garland and a wooden sign for fruitcakes, and the sea of possible customers. Like that woman with the kind of stern face that says she’d ask to talk to your manager who’s staring our way, shaking her head with judgy eyes as she walks past us.

“Shoot. She probably saw us arguing and decided not to stop by to get a fruitcake.” Eloise winces. “Must stay in character at all times.”

I snort-laugh. “Eloise, trust me, that’s not the reason she didn’t swing by to get a concrete block.”

“Doesn’t matter. We have to try. You’re more charming than you realize—you can charm people into buying fruitcakes,” she says, and holy shit.

She believes that.

She thinks this grinch can do cinnamon roll work.

“Me?” I tap my flannel-covered chest. “You think I can sell fruitcakes?”

“Yeah. I do. You convinced people to adopt Clint and Frosty.”

“This is not the same,” I say.

“And yet I still think you can do it.”

She squares her shoulders and pastes on the biggest smile I’ve ever seen, bright and buoyant as she simply waits for someone to come by.

Full of hope too.

That’s another thing that fascinates me about Eloise. Her endless well of optimism. Her belief in possibilities. Even from a guy like me.

Sometimes, I’m doing this competition for my mom. Sometimes, it’s for the animals. And sometimes, it’s for her.

Today, it’s all for her. “Fruitcakes. Get your fruitcakes,” I mutter.

“Louder,” she urges.

I clear my throat. Loud, like a carnival barker, I bray, “Get your hard rocks here!”

That earns me another elbow nudge.

The trouble is this booth is so small that Eloise knocks me into the shelf to my right, and oops—a couple fruitcakes come tumbling down.

“Shit,” I grumble.

“Let me help,” she says, contrite, and in seconds we’re both crouching below the counter, picking up fruitcakes.

There’s barely room for us to move without bumping knees, and this does not help my ability to think clearly. We’re inches apart. Her orange scent swirls near my nose, and after I grab the fruitcake in her hand, I hold her gaze for a breath.

“No one wants these,” I say—no sarcasm, just truth.

“I know,” she whispers. Then she nibbles on the corner of her mouth. “I will never understand fruitcakes.”

“I won’t either,” I say, and I’m not entirely sure why this fruitcake hatred feels like an important bond between us, but it does. “We have that in common.”

Her lips twitch in a grin. “Other things too.”

My chest heats. “We do.”