Page 66 of Meet Me on Mistletoe Lane

“To win?” he asked, still staring at the fire while he rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. Of course. Why else would I play it?”

“Right.” Stupid question, Gianna. “Play to win.”

My stomach knotted, and I suddenly didn’t feel very warm anymore.

I stood and tossed my stick into the flames before passing by him to go back inside, but his hand closed around my wrist.

“Gianna, wait,” he said, standing.

I looked down at our hands and then back in his eyes, searching for an answer.

Just say it, Sam.

Say what I’ve wanted you to say for a stupidly long time.

He opened his mouth. “I—”

And then James called my name from the back door.

We dropped our hands, and I immediately shoved mine back into my pockets, which did nothing to quell the numbing tingles on each finger.

“Dad wanted to thank you again before we left,” James said, his eyes narrowing on Sam.

“Be right in,” I said as James went back inside.

I turned around to Sam, who looked completely deflated, making me feel ten times smaller.

A mouse indeed.

I cleared my throat. “So, will I see you and your family at Nona’s later tonight?”

“Of course. After all, Sunday Supper Club only comes around one Sunday a month,” he said. His eyes dropped to his hands, where he rubbed the one that had touched mine with his other thumb before he added, “See you later, G.”

“Bye, Sam.” I turned my back on him, the warmth of the fire, and walked toward the guy I should’ve been focusing on.

But how did you focus on one person and ignore the way the energy around someone else tugged at your core?

Like those old dolls Nona had, where you’d pull a string to make it speak, Sam had that same effect on me.

In any room, at any moment, I could find him, and he could find me.

Because at some point over the years, we had formed an invisible string between ourselves.

Or at least, that’s what I had always thought.

But lately, I wondered if maybe that string, like the evening in my den with Home Alone, was just another thing I had imagined.

Chapter Seventeen

“I just love meeting people’s families. I find it so revealing.”

—Fred Claus

Sunday Supper Club was something Nona and Papa had been doing for longer than I had been alive. One Sunday out of every month, they would host the entire family, and sometimes local friends like the Holts, for a big, traditional Italian meal.

Dinner was always ready by seven, but the real ones knew to show up ahead of time for the antipasti—platters filled with cured meats, cheeses, artichoke hearts, and my personal favorite, olives. Though Nona always put some aside for me, in case Nico and Marco got to the platter first.

By the time Mom, Leo, and I arrived, the driveway was crammed with everyone’s cars except the Holts’ truck, which was honestly fine with me. I needed the extra time to prepare for being in the same room as Sam and my nosy cousins.