Page 6 of Better Not Pout
I huff, running my fingers through my hair.
This is… strange.
I know that we put them in there, so where did they go? Did someone… take the letters?
My eyes widen at the thought.
Oh, Kristopher freaking Kringle.
Imagine if someone actually saw the absolute ridiculousness that I wrote on that stupid paper. I’m pretty sure I’ll actuallydieof embarrassment.
I’m not usually the dramatic one—that’s reserved for Kennedy—but the thought of anyone reading that letter sends me into a slight panic.
It was just meant to be some stupid thing no one would everactuallysee. Something just to appease my bestie. And because honestly, why not? We were having wine, having fun, and there’s nothing wrong with a little… silliness.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
My internal freak-out is suddenly interrupted by a loud banging sound coming from inside the shop next to Sweet Sullivan’s… which has been vacant for the last five or so years.
The front door is propped open with a wooden barstool, and the banging inside seems to only be getting louder.
Swallowing, I hesitantly walk toward the noise. I mean, what if it’s being, I dunno, burglarized? Wouldn’t it be my duty as a concerned Mistletoe Falls citizen to prevent that from happening?
Yes, Rosalie, because someone who is burglarizing a building in broad daylight is going to prop the door open with a barstool for the entire town to witness it.
Fine, okay… I’m just a little curious.
Mistletoe Falls is a tiny, tight-knit town. Surely, if something were happening, wouldn’t we be the first to know? Being that we’re neighbors and share a freakin’ wall?
I peek my head in the open door, and my confusion quickly multiplies. It looks like there’s a crew of workers in here renovating things. The air still smells stale and slightly moldy after being closed up and dark for all of these years, but also the smell of sawdust and something else lingers with it.
They’re working on hanging up what looks to be new light fixtures, and there are a few other guys on the floor, working on restoring the original hardwood floors.
Leaning in further, I step inside, my hands fisting tightly in the pocket of my coat as my gaze lands on a man standing in the center of the room.
He’s what commands my attention, my gaze drawn to him as if we’re two ends of a magnet. Not only because he’s one of the most attractive men I’ve ever seen in my lifetime, but because…
He’s tall. At least six foot, maybe as tall as six four, if I had to guess, with impossibly broad shoulders and what I can already see are flawlessly sculpted muscles beneath the fabric of his dark brown henley shirt. His unruly hair is a warm chocolate brown, and the thick, scruffy beard on his face is giving lumbersexual. In the very best way.
And just like that, I let out a combination of something between a scoff and a laugh. Because logically, I know it’s notat all possible. I can say with a hundred percent certainty that Icouldn’tbe looking at the manifestation of my dream man from a stupid freaking Santa letter.
Right?
It is… weird.
Like… really weird.
This building has been vacant for years and years, and suddenly, after writing Santa a letter… there’s now a man standing here who is checking off way more of those boxes than feels coincidental.
Tall… check.
Lumbersexual… check.
EVEN WEARING FLANNEL… check.
Muscles forallof the nice (and probably naughty too) list… check.
His gaze whips to mine, his eyes a gooey chocolate color that feels endless and makes my heart pick up speed in my chest.
