Page 6 of Love in a Christmas Storm
“Unlike some people, I’m not here for sleigh rides and cocoa.”
“I’ll have you know I’ve already interviewed the town choir director, the current gingerbread house champions, and the owners of the Christmas tree farm before lunch.”
“Thrilling,” Lettie deadpanned.
She didn’t mean to keep standing there, but his gaze softened—and there it was again. That look. Like she was more than just a thorn in his holiday parade. Like she was real. And seen. It disarmed her for a half second.
“You okay?” he asked, quieter now.
Lettie blinked, the question slicing through her defenses like a candy cane shiv. She snapped her notebook shut with a sharp thwap. “I was until you barged in and ruined my interview.”
Carlos’s brow furrowed. “Wait—what?”
“The bakery owner was just about to tell me something useful. Something off the record. And then you come in, all dimpled and twinkly, and she clammed up faster than a shuttered gift shop.”
His hands lifted in mock surrender. “I didn’t know you were in there. I can go back. Get her to talk. People here love me.”
Lettie rolled her eyes so hard she was amazed she didn’t sprain something. She turned around and looked both ways before crossing the street. Not that there was much traffic out other than foot traffic. The snow was really coming down now.
Carlos caught up with her again, his boots crunching in sync with hers on the salty sidewalk. “So what are you writing about anyway? Besides the war on reindeer cookies?”
She didn’t answer at first. She should’ve brushed him off, stayed vague. But something in his voice—genuinely curious, not mocking—pushed her to respond before she could stop herself.
“The Mistletoe Mafia.”
Carlos stopped. Just stopped in the middle of the sidewalk like someone had yanked his leash. “The… what?”
Lettie turned just enough to see his face. She saw it when his features started to crack. She saw his lips twitch before the first laugh escaped.
It started small. A snort. Then a full-body laugh, hand braced against his stomach, eyes gleaming with amusement. People passing by looked over, smiling like they were in on the joke.
Lettie didn’t smile. She turned on her heel and walked away from him.
CHAPTER FIVE
Carlos hadn’t meant to laugh. He’d genuinely thought Lettie was joking. “Mistletoe Mafia”? Alliteration like that didn’t exactly scream journalistic rigor. It sounded like a parody headline. Like something pitched in the holiday humor column next to a recipe for gingerbread fudge.
But Lettie hadn’t been joking.
Carlos’s laugh hung in the air for a half-second too long. It was half a second too late when he caught the way her posture snapped taut. The slight flinch, barely there. The subtle shift of her mouth pressed into a hard, cold line. The weight of what he’d done settled on his shoulders like a sleet-soaked coat.
Oh no.
Her jaw locked, eyes narrowing not in amusement but offense. Hurt. Not that she’d let the sight linger. Lettie Noel didn’t show anything she didn’t intend to.
Carlos saw it anyway. In the stiffness of her spine. In the way she blinked like she’d just been slapped with something she should’ve seen coming.
“Lettie—” he started, already reaching out, already too slow.
She turned on her heel without a word. She didn't look before crossing the street. The white walk man blinked red, and thencars were between him and her. Carlos had half a mind to dodge into traffic to chase after her.
It took another half a minute before the white walk man came back, giving him permission to cross. But by then, the crowd had eaten her up. A group of carolers swept between them, jostling in their coordinated scarves and cheery dissonance. Carlos tried to push through, but someone shoved a hot cocoa into his hand—”free sample, sir!”—and then another bumped into his shoulder, murmuring apologies. He twisted, trying to catch a glimpse of her white coat, her dark hair, anything.
But she was gone. Like she’d never been there.
His breath fogged in the cold as he stood motionless in the middle of the sidewalk, clutching the paper cup like it might somehow ground him. The sugary scent of peppermint and fake marshmallow filled his nose, cloying now, nauseating.
His grip tightened around the cup. He wanted to chase after her. Say something, anything. Apologize. Explain. Let her know he wasn't mocking her. But hadn't he been? A Mistletoe Mafia was too preposterous. Still, he would do anything to take back that flash of hurt he'd caused.
