Page 9 of Catching the Mistletoe

My eyes finally met his, and I saw no judgment there, just the honest concern of my best friend. “Or not.”

There wasn’t much he could say to that, so we fell back into the comfortable silence of our work, the sounds of the stable filling the air. But Noah’s words didn’t just hang around; they morphed into vivid images in my head. Arabella and me, together, on the road. For days on end. Driving the RV together, sleeping in the RV together. Eating all of our meals together. Miles away from everything we both knew and loved. Relying on each other.

The very fact that I could picture it so clearly, was so enticed by the idea of it, had my gut churning. The idea of having her so close, but so untouchable, was a hell I couldn’t willingly walk into. So yeah, as much as Noah’s words made sense, as convincing as they were, I knew deep down that I didn’t have the balls for it. My grip tightened on the brush, each bristle’s stroke against the horse’s coat becoming a physical effort to push the tantalizing images away.

“Just promise me you’ll think about it.Really think,” Noah reiterated, breaking into my spiralling thoughts.

I met his gaze, and he must’ve seen something there—a flicker of the war waging inside me—because he didn’t press further.

“I will,” I said, but we both knew I’d already made up my mind. The promise was empty, and I knew it. Which definitely made me an asshole.

CHAPTER5

Arabella

“Look at all this stuff! We could open our own Michaels,” I laughed, juggling a glue gun in one hand and a paintbrush in the other.

Genevieve chuckled as she unfurled a strip of fabric, letting it cascade down onto the table. “Or at least a very small Etsy shop.”

“Ooo, I like it!” I grabbed a jar of glitter, giving it a little shake. “Question is, are we brave enough to unleash glitter indoors?”

“Only if we’re brave enough to clean it up later,” she replied, popping open a tub of markers that smelled like childhood and magic.

The air inside was warm and cozy, the wide windows allowing tons of natural light in, casting a soft glow over the murals on the walls—works of art courtesy of this past summer, when we inaugurated the new living quarters for the children. Doodles of horses galloping under bright suns, bursts of handprint flowers, and even a surprisingly accurate rendition of the ranch’s barn.

Genevieve bent over, arranging boxes of crayons and setting up mini easels. Her hair was tied back in two neat plaits and it made me smile. She was absolutely shit at doing her own hair, so the braids meant Noah had had time to do them for her this morning. She glanced up and caught my eye, flashing me an infectious smile. “Ready to inspire the next generation of Picassos?”

I twirled a paintbrush between my fingers, feeling its bristles tickle my skin. “As ready as I’ll ever be. Crafting is my escape hatch today, and I’m diving in headfirst.”

She didn’t pry, just nodded knowingly. We both understood that crafting was more than just glue sticks and felt squares for me; when I was a kid and so sick all the damn time, it was my sanctuary. Today, it was a place to bury my emotional whirlwind under layers of paint and paper.

“So, is it glitter time?” I wiggled my eyebrows, jar in hand, ready to rain down sparkles like it was confetti at a New Year’s Eve party.

She laughed. “Sure. Let’s make it rain.”

And with that, we uncorked the jar, ready to turn this quiet room into a storm of creativity. Just as I was about to go full-on glitter goddess, Genevieve’s phone buzzed on the table, skittering across the surface and knocking into a tub of blue sequins. She picked it up, her face scrunching as she read the message.

“Everything okay?” I asked, suddenly aware that the room had lost a degree of warmth.

Genevieve sighed, locking her phone and setting it back on the table. “It’s from Noah. Mack said no.”

My heart plummeted, and I’m pretty sure my face did a crappy job of hiding it. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” Her voice was soft, her eyes filled with a mix of apology and understanding. “I’m sorry.”

I tightened my grip on the glitter jar. “Well, it’s his loss. The Caravan would have been amazing publicity for a great cause.”

Genevieve picked up a piece of felt, fidgeting with it. “I know that, and so does Noah. But if Mack’s not in, the producers aren’t as keen. They really wanted the both of you.”

A rush of heat surged to my cheeks, and I clenched my fists, suddenly wishing that the glitter jar was a stress ball. I had to look away, pretending to sort through a pile of colorful buttons, but what I was really trying to sort through was the jumbled mess of my feelings.

I swallowed. “I mean, it’s not a big deal, right? It was just a trip.”

Genevieve studied my face. “You sure you’re okay?”

I nodded, perhaps too quickly. “Absolutely. It’s not like I was pinning my hopes on it or anything.”Liar.

But as the words came out, they felt like shards of glass, sharp and brittle. Because the truth was, Mack’s rejection stung. It felt personal, like he was shutting a door that I didn’t even know I wanted open.

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