Page 52 of Meet Me on Mistletoe Lane

“It’s okay. You didn’t know.” I turned to go but looked over my shoulder. “See you Saturday night for the Tree-Lighting?”

“It’s a non-date date.” He smiled, the dimple appearing once more, and a small part of me started to warm up. “And don’t think I’ve forgotten: I still get to ask you three questions.”

Strangely enough, I was actually looking forward to it.

Another dozen or so text messages waited for me when I checked my phone the next day. Apparently, the family wasn’t a fan of my short, straightforward replies to their questions about why I was seen around town with James Bailey. And based on the noise coming from downstairs, most of them must’ve invited themselves over for breakfast, too.

Yeah, that’s a hard pass from me.

The last thing I needed this morning—or any morning, really—was a family roundtable discussion about my love life or lack thereof. I got dressed as quietly as I could, thankful I had showered last night, so I wouldn’t make any more noise than necessary. After successfully sneaking across the hallway to the bathroom to brush my teeth, I crept down the stairs and reached stealthily between the balusters to grab my keys from the mail table before going back up to my room to hatch an escape plan.

It had been years since I snuck out my window and scaled the lattice on the side of the house. The last time I did was to meet Jo at a drive-in movie that Mom had deemed too scary for me. In the end, she had been right; the movie gave me nightmares for weeks—not that I’d ever admit it. But that was during the summer.

I opened my window, the condensation drips on the glass running together like snakes playing tag, and grimaced at the sparkly frost on the roof.

Are you really going to risk death for the sake of avoiding your family?

Silverware clattered below as someone, probably my Aunt Helen, yelled my name, followed by Nona echoing her.

Yep.

I threw my book bag over my shoulder and climbed through the window, closing it gently behind me. Scooting slowly across the roof, only semi-slipping twice, I reached for the lattice and gave it a couple tugs to make sure it was fastened tightly. The descent was successful until the entire thing started to groan and wobble.

Crap.

I leaped off the lattice—thankfully only five feet from the ground—and landed on my feet. My hands went up in a silent cheer before I hurried toward the sidewalk as the frosty grass crunched under my shoes.

A little while later, Jo and Sam came into AP Lit, and Jo dropped something warm and heavenly smelling on my desk.

“A bacon, egg, and cheese bagel?” I asked, unwrapping it quickly.

“Well, seeing as you skipped breakfast and nearly tumbled to your death—”

“You fell?” Sam whipped around in his seat. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I replied, doing my best to avoid his worried expression. “Even landed on my feet.”

He mumbled something that sounded like “good” before turning back around as the bell rang.

Jo leaned across the aisle. “So how was your…date?”

“Um, it was a non-date.” I ran my hands over my hair, tucking it behind my ears before I pushed the last couple of bites of my bagel to the side to take out my binder. “But it was great, actually.”

Did Sam seriously just stiffen?

I fought the urge to smack the back of his stubborn ginger head with one of my Flair pens.

We all pulled out our copies of A Midsummer Night’s Dream and flipped open to act 3 while Mrs. Bartlett did a quick recap of the love potion mix-up on the ViewBoard.

“Isn’t it weird how what we read in class mirrors what we’re dealing with in real life?” Jo said, pulling out her study guide.

Sam shifted in his seat and mumbled something I couldn’t hear.

“What do you mean?” I asked, my voice low.

“Love triangles.” Jo made a face and nodded toward Sam, tapping her pen on her play. “Falling for the wrong person—”

“Falling for a donkey,” Sam said over his shoulder.