Page 69 of Mistletoe All the Way

I swallow a fortifying gulp of coffee, then head into my apartment and march straight over to my fancy printer.

Noah stops in his tracks when he reaches my truck later that morning, parked in the lot behind my building, near his truck, since he apparently just pulled in. He blinks in slow motion, then gestures toward the bumper and the new sticker. “Seriously?”

I play innocent. “What do you mean?”

“You really did that?”

The grin tugging at my lips feels evil-genius-y. “Did what?”

With an aggrieved sigh, he clears his throat and reads aloud: “ ‘Yes, I like Kitschmas… or Christmas. Deal with it, Grinch.’ ”

“Oh, that,” I say breezily. “It’s new.”

“Yes, I can tell.”

“You like it?”

“That’s one way of putting it,” he says.

I stride over and pat his shoulder. “Good thing I have a fancy printer. Helps me get the last word,” I say, a subtle or not-so-subtle reminder that the day I met him, he gave me a hard time about the Kitschmas on my car. But I also really needed to express myself after the run-in with my mom. Call this my form of teenage rebellion—silly bumper stickers. “Ready to ride in the Kitschmas mobile?”

“Next thing I know, you’ll have ‘Endorsed by reindeers’ on the front of it,” he says.

“Oh, my bad! I do,” I reply, then tug him to the front of the truck to check out that new addition too.

He shakes his head, but he’s fighting off a smile. Ha. I’m breaking him down. He flicks a finger against the antlers on the headlights. “When did you add these? You didn’t have them the day we met.”

I pause, tilting my head, my chest feeling a little fluttery. “You remember that?”

“I remember,” he says, his voice rough, and it hardly feels like we’re talking about antlers at all.

For a few seconds, the world seems to blur, and it’s just him and me. He remembers. Not just the antlers but the ornament class, the way I decorated my truck, all those tiny details about… me. Something warm blooms in my chest—a secret thrill, a hope I can’t get too caught up in. I want to say something clever, but all I can do is look at him, his eyes flashing with vulnerability too. He’s aware of how much it means that he notices. I’m aware that he sees me.

I reach for the antlers where he touched them, and he takes my cue. He steps closer, touching them again, his fingers brushing mine.

“So kitschy,” he says, holding my gaze. “So you.”

It’s not a zing this time, and I seriously appreciate the shift in him. “Ahsha at the Mistletoe Emporium always says, ‘I swear I can see you coming from a mile away with Big Red—’ ”

I cut myself off when reality hits me.

I groan.

Noah’s expression falters at the same time as we both realize the big problem with our plan.

“We can’t—” he begins, gesturing toward my wheels.

“Follow Stephen in my truck,” I finish. My shoulders slump. “And he’ll probably recognize your truck too.”

His expression sobers. “How did I miss this when we were planning last night?”

“Well, last night you were more interested in my hair than logistics,” I tease.

He smirks. “In my defense, it smells pretty good.”

I give a saucy jut of my hip, but that doesn’t solve the problem. And a glance at the time on my phone tells me we’d better solve it fast. “If he sticks to his usual schedule he’ll be leaving his house in thirty minutes.”

Noah’s brow knits, then he groans like the answer pains him. “We could do what we did with Honey the other day.”