Page 8 of Tinsel & Timber
“Morning is fine,” I answer, but my voice comes out quieter, rougher.
Her eyes flicker with something—curiosity? Amusement? Then she looks up and points.
Mistletoe.
Fucking mistletoe.
Hanging right above both of us, like the universe has a sick sense of humor.
I freeze. She freezes. The wind blows a gentle, taunting jingle out of the Christmas music still playing behind her.
“I hung it earlier,” Mara says, a little sheepish, a little proud. “The place needed at leastsomeChristmas cheer.”
Christmas cheer.
Right.
Sure.
We’ll go with that.
My pulse jumps, sharp and stupid, because she’s standing close. Too close. Close enough that one wrong move—or right move—would shift us into something I’m not supposed to want.
I clear my throat. “I don’t… uh. I don’t really do mistletoe.”
Mara’s mouth curves. Not mocking—just amused. “Is that a rule? Or did the last mistletoe encounter traumatize you?”
“Something like that,” I mutter.
I’m not about to admit the last time I was caught under mistletoe was when my ex-wife hung the shit all over our tiny apartment in a desperate attempt to lure me back into her bed after she cheated on me while Iwas on my first deployment. Never should have married my high school sweetheart when we were both barely eighteen anyway.
She laughs softly, pulling me away from all thoughts of my ex. “Relax, Graham. It’s not a trap. It’s just decoration.”
Maybe to her.
To me, it felt like crossing a line in the snow that could never be uncrossed.
“I’m not…” I clear my throat. “I’m not worried aboutyou. I’m more afraid of, uh…breaking the mistletoe folklore.”
Her eyebrows lift, delighted. “The folklore?”
“Yeah.” I gesture up at the sprig she hung like it’s a detonator. “Bad luck if you stand under it and don’t…you know. Respect tradition.”
Her grin is immediate. Too knowing. “Wow. Graham Whitlock—secret romantic. Who knew you were that committed to holiday customs?”
“I’m committed to accuracy,” I mutter, heat pushing up the back of my neck. “And avoiding curses.”
I refused to kiss my ex. We ended up divorced, which would have happened either way, but the ruthless brat walked away with damn near everything I owned. And I ended up back in Mistletoe Bay, defending my hometown’s history like it’s my life’s duty.
Mara steps closer, the porch boards creaking softly beneath her boots. “Curses,” she repeats, teasing. “Right. Because that’s the logical reason you look like you’re trying very hard not to kiss me.”
I open my mouth—no idea what I planned to say—but she tilts her head, eyes dancing.
“Relax,” she echoes, nudging my arm with hers. “I wouldn’t want the town historian to lose sleep over breaking tradition.”
My pulse thunders. “I won’t lose sleep.”
“No?” She moves another half-step. We’re inches apart. “Then I guess you won’t keeping up with tradition.”
