Page 72 of Holiday Hopefuls
Callie, who barely even pauses when she realizes what awaits her.
“Not afraid of horses, are you Callie? Or kissing my brother under the mistletoe?” Blythe asks, skipping ahead to claim our place in line.
Tossing my arm around her shoulders, I pull Callie into my side. “You didn’t even flinch when she mentioned our famous holiday tradition,” I murmur into her hair.
Callie snorts. “Why would kissing you bother me at this point? We’ve done the deed pretty much everywhere else.” Her feet stop short, face flushing at the words before finding any kind of footing again. “I didn’t mean?—”
My chuckling cuts her off. “I know what you meant, Cal. But it’s good to know you’re not opposed.” Flashes of us kissing inher classroom only two days ago invade my mind, sharp and raw.
Chocolate eyes cut my way. Under the light of the darkening sky, it’s nearly impossible to catch the way they darken before flitting back to the carriages.
But it’s there.
“Come on, you two,” Blythe calls from the front of the line. Motioning like a frantic four-year-old, my sister doesn’t bother waiting to see if we answer the call.
Looking down at Callie in the soft glow of the enchanted evening, my voice comes out low, giving away more than I’d like. “After you.”
Without a word, Callie leads us hand in hand toward my family waiting in the nearest buggy.
As we reach the entrance to the carriage path, the teenage attendant looks between us and snickers. “Sorry, rules are rules,” she says, pointing to the mistletoe directly above Callie’s head.
Rolling my lips together, I hold my girlfriend tight. Those plush, kissable lips I’ve come to know so well quirk up, begging for what they know is coming. Gently pressing my lips to hers, I plead with my senses to remember this isn’t real for her.
But they simply won’t listen.
The kiss is quick.
Too brief for my liking, but half of Serenvale Springs is in the immediate vicinity and waiting for their turn at the carriages.
When I pull away, Callie grins. “That’ll make tonight worth it, even if we don’t get around to their famous cocoa.”
I beam down at my girl. “Oh, you’re getting that cocoa,” I promise.
Knocking on the door,I’m met with a frantic Calloway Rutherford. Dressed in jeans, a wool pullover, and a single fur boot, she looks much more casual than I do in my khakis and dress shirt.
I could’ve worn sweats.
With only one shoe on and a hairbrush in her hand, Callie throws the door wide open, completely out of breath. “Hey,” she pants, “you’re early. Come on in.” She doesn’t wait for my response before turning on a sock-covered heel and heading back into what I can only assume is the bedroom.
“Is everything okay?” I call from the small entryway. From this vantage point, her apartment is tidy, quite unlike her classroom. But the place radiates warmth, just like its inhabitant.
Callie pokes her head back out, working to tame her wild mane. “Yeah,” she smiles, “I just didn’t expect you for another twenty minutes, so I’m a little behind. But, uh,” she motions to the main room of her apartment, “make yourself comfortable.” Then she disappears back into the room of mysteries.
Taking her advice and removing my coat, I move past her small kitchen and into the living area before plopping down onto a small orange couch. Tattered from years of wear, several patchwork quilts lay draped across the few pieces of mismatching furniture. A cream shag rug fills the majority of the floor, while a small oak coffee table sits in the center of the space. And even though she has a TV and several art pieces on the walls, nothing captures my attention quite like the massive overload of plants in the room. They hang from coatracks, from the ceiling and sit on miniature stands. Some kind of vine crawlsacross the top of the kitchen cabinets, draping itself onto the countertop, where a single pot sits alone and thriving.
Curiosity gets the better of me, the small plant singing its siren song. Reaching out, my fingers are a hairsbreadth away when I hear movement behind me.
“Don’t touch him!” Callie cries.
My hand aborts its mission immediately, opting to fly to my chest to check for cardiac activity instead.
“Sorry,” she says, reaching around me. Grabbing the pot, Callie takes it over to the sink and waters it. “I’m just a little protective of this one.”
“A little?”
Callie rolls her eyes. “Gilmore’s special. He, uh,” she peeks up, “he was my first baby.”
“How old is he?’
