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“Or smothering,” she mumbles.
I ignore her and continue, “The kissing custom dates back to the 1500s. Each time a couple kissed under a sprig of mistletoe, they would remove one of the white berries.”
Her gaze goes back toward the decoration. I look down into her eyes and bring my hand up to caress her cheek.
Her eyes flutter to mine.
“Why? What did they do with the berries?” she asks.
“I have no idea, but once all of them were gone, so was the kissing power of the mistletoe, and that last kiss would prove whether the magic worked. It would be true love’s kiss or a kiss good-bye.”
“Did you make that up?” she asks, our breaths mingling.
“No, ma’am. It’s a genuine legend.”
I grasp her chin and gently lift her mouth to mine. Her lips are soft and warm. I wrap an arm around her waist, and a sigh escapes her as I tug her in closer.
Taking advantage of the moment, I deepen the kiss. She opens, and her tongue tangles with mine as she threads her fingers through the hair at my nape.
I get a taste of the heat sizzling beneath her calm exterior before she pulls away and takes a step back.
We stare at each other for a beat, and then I grin, reach up, and pluck a berry from the hanging branch.
She watches as I toss it over my shoulder onto the kitchen island.
“Did you seriously just pluck a berry?”
“I did.”
She raises a brow. “What are we, stuck in some kind of romantic comedy?”
“What’s wrong with romantic comedies?” I ask.
“The cheesy leading man,” she deadpans before descending the steps and heading to the Forester.
Game on.
Hannah
Ifind Mom and Aunt Trixie in the great room. They are sitting on the floor on opposite sides of the coffee table, chatting away as they work together on a jigsaw puzzle.
I quietly slip inside and take a seat on the couch.
“Hannah, how was dinner?” Mom asks.
“It was good. We made pizzas.”
“What do you mean, you made them?”
“Bran has a stone pizza oven at his house,” I answer.
“That sounds like fun,” Aunt Trixie muses.
“It was nice,” I admit.
Aunt Trixie glances over her shoulder, and her eyes come to mine. “He’s pretty great, isn’t he?”
“Who, Bran?” I shrug. “He’s okay, I guess.”
