Page 41 of Mistletoe All the Way

He huffs a quiet laugh. “What’s your style then? You hang with flair and sass?”

“Of course.”

He hands me a tiny cowboy boot. “Prove it.”

“With so much pleasure,” I say. The only good spot for it is near the top. “Let me grab a chair.”

Before I can move, he’s already gone to get one from the kitchen table. He returns to me as the music shifts to a new tune, and Noah slides the chair in front of the tree and holds out a hand. I take it, and a charge races up my arm straight to the back of my neck. My insides are all hot and electric from the feel of his hand in mine. I let go quickly, trying to steady myself, to focus on the task. The tree. The ornament.

I reach up, balancing on one foot, but I wobble.

I stumble toward the edge of the chair. Tension flares—until strong arms wrap around my waist, pulling me upright. I’m in Noah’s arms, and he’s lifting me off the chair, and setting my feet back on the ground, Rusty barking in alarm beside us.

Noah’s hands stay firm on my waist, holding me steady. My heart is beating so fast. Our bodies are close, and I’m dizzy from the stumble and from the feel of his strong, steady hands curved around my waist. And from his eyes. His deep brown soulful eyes that hold mine for a beat too long. They’re so brown, so dark, so thoughtful. I can see… the flicker of desire in them. A glimmer of want. It matches this ache in my chest, the pull drawing me closer.

And then, through the quiet and the soft hum of Aaron Neville’s “Please Come Home for Christmas,” I catch a glimpse of the window.

White flakes float past the windowpane.

Falling fast and furiously, right outside the glass.

Like they have a mind of their own.

I gasp. “It’s snowing.”

His gaze swings to the window, his hands falling from my waist at last. “It sure is.”

When he turns back to me, his eyes flood with concern. “We should—”

“Finish the decorating,” I say.

“Right, yes,” he says, but he sounds thrown off now.

Like he was going to say something else.

But what?

I don’t know, and I need to focus on work. Just work. Not the butterflies in my stomach. There’s no time or place for anything extracurricular.

We both have jobs to do.

He hangs the tiny cowboy boot ornament I was trying to hang.

“It’s almost done. You just need to add the tree topper,” I tell him, then grab the final ornament from the bag: a floppy felt dog with antlers on its head.

He smiles. “Cute.”

“One last picture. Oh, and then you’ll need to name your tree.”

He glares at me. “I’m not naming my tree.”

“I named mine. She’s Betty.”

“I’m not naming a tree.”

“Fine. I’ll call it Bah Humbug.”

“You win,” he says, then steps on the chair, and sets the dog on top of the tallest branch. I capture it on camera in a short video that’s going to go over so well.