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Mark’s gone very still, his eyes dark as they study my face, searching for answers I know he won’t find, because I don’t even know them.
“Please,” I whisper, tugging my hand from his.
He shifts his grip, his thumb brushing over the pulse of my inner wrist, lingering for just the slightest moment…
Then he lets me go and steps back, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold.
“Drive slow. Text me when you get home.”
I manage to roll my eyes and smile. “?’K.”
Mark doesn’t smile back. He holds the door open for me and I drop tiredly into the driver’s seat.
“Kelly—”
“Don’t,” I whisper, not looking at him. “Please.”
He inhales, then nods. Checking that all my limbs are inside the car, he quietly but firmly closes the car door.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him step back, but I don’t glance his way as I start the car and put it in drive.
I do glance in the rearview mirror, just once, as I leave the parking lot, but he’s already gone.
I let out a long breath. “Okay, Byrne,” I pep talk myself out loud. “Whatever these feelings are, you need to get a grip.”
Even driving under the speed limit to be extra cautious, I still make it home in ten minutes.
Rigby’s there to greet me, and it makes me feel a little better. The Christmas music I put on helps, too. I opt for a Luther Vandross Christmas song. A little slower than my usual holiday choices, but it fits my current mood pretty well.
I turn on the tree, glaring at the top that still seems annoyingly empty.
I fill Rigby’s bowl with dog food. At least one of us should eat, and I still don’t have my appetite back. Although now it’s because my stomach’s more in knots about what Mark must be thinking right now.
I’m sure he’s confused as all heck.
Makes two of us.
I’m about to put on hot water for tea (yeah, right—I mean chocolate) when there’s an angry knock at the back door.
Rigby gives a warning bark, but it’s not terribly threatening given that his face is full of kibble.
I frown. Nobody ever comes to the back door. Well, except Mark, and he usually doesn’t knock.
Not usually. Today, apparently, is an exception.
“Um, hi?” I say, seeing him standing there.
He jabs an angry finger up at the mistletoe. “Take it down.”
“What?”
He reaches up and grabs the greenery, pulling it down with an angry swoop and tossing it over his shoulder into the snow. “That damn stuff is making you crazy. Get rid of it.”
I gape at him, then point. “Go get that!”
He crosses his arms. “No.”
“I like the mistletoe. I need it for—”
