Page 34 of Perfectly Complicated
“Because they are,” she says. “Have you seen Aria when she doesn’t want to do something? She turns into a monster.”
She smiles, and I can see the fierce, protective love I’ve never experienced—not as a kid or as an adult.
“I still don’t get it. But I also don’t get why people want to dress up like Santa.”
“Oh, come on, Rourke. Some things are just supposed to be fun.”
“Are you sure they just don’t want to face reality?” I ask.
She laughs. “Can you blame them?” Then she glances at mewith snow in her hair and a smile that leaves me wanting to avoid reality too.
And I’m completely entranced by this version of Janie Bennett—the woman who isforcingme to have fun, even if it means dragging me to an obnoxious Christmas festival against my will.
She shivers slightly. “We should probably get inside to warm up.”
Right now, the only refuge from the snow is the local coffee shop, where Christmas lights glow in the front window. When we step inside, a lone guitarist is tucked into the corner playing “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.” The place is so packed we have to hover in the doorway.
A week ago, I would have made some sarcastic comment about the sappy music and how all these people have drunk the Christmas Kool-Aid. Honestly, Istillwant to make that comment. This song is designed to make people nostalgic for a holiday that’s mostly just commercial nonsense.
But then I look at Janie humming along softly, the smile on her pink lips, and my snarky comment dies before I can even get it out.
Not because I suddenly love Christmas—Idon’t. The music is still annoying, the decorations hideous, and I still think this whole festival is ridiculously over the top.
But watchingherenjoy it?ThatI don’t hate.
And that’s the problem. I can’t tell anymore if I’m tolerating this Christmas festival because I have to, or because seeing her happy makes the irritationalmostworth it.
I stand close enough that our shoulders brush every time someone squeezes past us. My pulse speeds up and I’m suddenly aware of how small the space is between us. So small, I could wrap one arm around her waist easily.
When the song finishes, the guitarist glances up and grins. “We’ve got some lovebirds standing under the mistletoe.”
I look up, and there it is: a sprig of mistletoe hanging abovethe doorway, tied with a red velvet ribbon that matches the flush now spreading across Janie’s cheeks.
She shakes her head. “We don’t have to…” But her voice is drowned out by someone’s whistle.
“Come on, it’s a Christmas tradition in Santaville,” the guitarist adds, strumming a few chords. “Part of the holiday requirement.”
“Kiss her!” someone shouts.
Janie is staring at me with wide eyes. The crowd is watching, and I can feel the mounting pressure in the room. When I step closer to her, everything else fades to background noise.
“It’s just tradition, right?” Even though tradition is the last thing on my mind now.
“Of course.” She swallows. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Nothing at all,” I agree, though every nerve in my body is telling me differently. “Just part of the Christmas festival experience.”
“Exactly.” Her voice is slightly strained, but neither of us moves.
Who am I kidding?I don’t even like mistletoe. I’m only doing this for her.
I reach toward her, giving her every chance to step back. She doesn’t move as my thumb brushes along her cheekbone.
When I lean down, I stop just inches away from her lips. “You sure about this, Bennett? Once I kiss you, you might actually start liking me.”
Her eyes spark as her lips curl. “Pretty confident for someone standing under a plant he claims to hate.”
“I do hate it. But the view right now?” I let my gaze drop to her mouth. “Not bad.”
