Page 10 of Catching the Mistletoe

Mack. Always Mack. His silence, his distance—it was like a wall I couldn’t scale, no matter how hard I tried. And the worst part? I was still trying, even when I told myself I shouldn’t care. His rejection was like a splinter, small but nagging, buried under my skin.

“It’s not just about the Caravan, is it?” Genevieve asked gently.

I glanced up, meeting her knowing eyes. “I’d be lying if I said it was.” I sighed. “There was a time when I thought...” My voice trailed off, the words catching in my throat. Even now, even here, I couldn’t bring myself to say it out loud. To admit that when I first woke up from the coma and looked into Mack’s eyes... No. I pushed the thought away, tucking it back into the shadowy corner of my mind where it belonged.

“I really wish things could be different.”

I almost smiled at the wistful note in her voice. That would have been nice. But it wasn’t different, so there was no point thinking about it. “Yeah well.” Stoic. That was me.

“I should head out. Mom needs help in the kitchen. Will you be alright?”

I forced a smile, nodding. “Of course. You go on. I’ve got a date with a pack of kids, some glitter and construction paper.”

Genevieve had been gone all of two minutes when the door swung open, blowing in a wave of cold air and my gorgeous kids, ready for their art lesson. They were led by Jenna, one of the camp leaders. She had a mane of curly auburn hair pulled back into a loose ponytail and eyes the color of dark chocolate.

“Hey Jenna,” I forced a smile to my stiff lips. The last thing these kids needed was to feel any tension.

“Hey. You look like you’re about to start something fun here,” Jenna said, returning my smile.

“You know it. Ready to get your craft on?”

Jenna clapped her hands to get the kids’ attention. “You heard the lady! Let’s get you set up and let the glitter fest begin!”

The kids scattered, pulling up chairs and diving into the supplies we’d set out. The atmosphere lightened instantly, and I started to feel a little bit better.

Just when I was starting to find my groove with the lesson, the door opened yet again. In walked Mack.

Four kids were clustered around him like he was some sort of fucking cowboy Pied Piper. A really hot Pied Piper, with those broad shoulders and scruffy hair. Oh, and he had a five o’clock shadow, just to add to my joy.

Without so much as a sideways glance in my direction, he led the kids to the far end of the room and sat down on a low stool. Pulling carving tools and some wooden blocks from a rustic-looking canvas bag, he waited for the kids to settle. Then he started whittling, speaking to the kids in a low voice as he showed them how to go about it. I knew Mack was good with his hands. I’d seen him carving, chopping, brushing horses, etc. But the way he worked the wood with his long fingers…Now my mind was going somewhere very dirty, but there were kids around, so I dragged it riiiiight the fuck back.

And yeah, he spoke softly, but you could tell the kids were hooked, their eyes wide and their mouths slightly open as if they were witnessing some kind of magic.

Part of me wanted to roll my eyes, maybe even march over there and say something snarky. But another part? Another part of me was just... captivated. I loved seeing how he was with the kids.

As I spread a handful of buttons onto a paper plate, my hands were steady, but my heart was doing backflips. “Alright, pick your favorite buttons for the eyes and nose. Let your scarecrow have some personality!”

A little girl named Emily dove for a shiny purple button. “This one’s pretty, Arabella!”

“It’s perfect, Em. Your scarecrow is gonna be the belle of the ball.” I gave her a smile, still was painfully aware of the man at the other end of the room.

I couldn’t hear what he was saying, his voice a low rumble that didn’t carry over the distance, but I didn’t need to. It was ridiculous how the cadence of his voice, the timbre of it, could roll through my system. Making me shiver, even from here. My eyes flicked in his direction more times than I cared to admit.

I handed a glue stick to a boy named Tommy, answering his question about whether scarecrows needed eyebrows with a distracted, “Sure, why not?”

My mind was all on Mack, and the thoughts weren’t pretty. The hurt I’d been trying to ignore gnawed at me, and the more he ignored me, the worse I felt.

“Look, Arabella!” Emily held up her paper scarecrow, a mix of crazy colors and patterns that clashed wonderfully. “He’s done!”

“He’s beautiful,” I said, and meant it. But even as I praised her artwork, my eyes strayed back to Mack for the gazillionth time.

Fuck it! Who put him in charge of my feelings, anyway? Just because there was that momentary speck of time where I thought we had something. Just because my one chance to do something wild and fun and amazing, with the Caravan, rested on his shoulders. And he’d said no. I turned back to my young artists, forcing a cheerfulness I didn’t feel. “Alright, who wants to add some glitter to their masterpiece?”

Hands shot up, giggles and chatter filling the room, but it barely registered. My hands moved on autopilot, shaking glitter over scarecrows and butterflies and whatever else these little dreamers had conjured up. But my heart was somewhere else, lodged in the tight space between yearning and regret. Yeah, that sounded a bit dramatic, but that’s where I was at.

All these feelings I didn’t want to have, about a man who could carve intricate designs into wood but couldn’t carve out the chance to talk to me, at the very least. I felt stuck, a whirlpool of sadness and hurt and a wistful sort of longing that had no outlet.

Finally, Jenna called time on the arts and crafts. “And now we’re gonna help Arabella clean up this mighty mess we’ve all made.”

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