The Mistletoe Motive(33)

“Gabby, dear, of course you should. I asked. I want to know.” Mrs. Bailey’s soft, weathered hand lands warm on top of mine. She squeezes gently. “What you said, about having your trust broken, being manipulated, this is about the Potter boy?”

The memory of this morning makes me shiver. Trey’s unwelcome touch, Jonathan running toward me like nothing in the world was going to stop him.

And then those words. Did he hurt you?

Nodding, I wipe away tears. Mrs. Bailey knows what happened with Trey months ago, because I told her. She knows I had no idea who he really was, that as soon as I realized his true intentions, we were through. It was awkward and not my favorite conversation, telling her, but Mrs. Bailey was sympathetic and reassured me that she believed me. I still felt like shit about it for months. “That really messed me up,” I whisper.

She nods. “It’s understandable to be wary after something like that. And let’s be clear, while Jonathan isn’t nearly as…sinister as you perceive him, he’s no saint, either. He and I have had a few conversations about his demeanor towards you as well as our customers. He’s exacting and proud and impatient, and he could certainly stand to smile more.”

“Try ever,” I mutter.

Mrs. Bailey chuckles. “You’re very different people. I knew it would be a rocky start, and it was. Throw in a few misunderstandings, some power struggles, slightly clashing managerial styles—”

“Slightly clashing?”

She smiles a little sadly. “I didn’t count on how stubborn you two would be, how resistant to…giving each other a chance.” For a quiet moment, Mrs. Bailey searches my eyes. Releasing my hand, she sits back. “What if you tried to be friends?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Often the best path forward is discovered one step at a time. It’s a difficult journey from enmity to friendship, but not an impossible one.”

Friendship. I taste the word on my tongue, trying it out. Friendship. Could I be…friends with Jonathan?

I allow myself to picture it, ending this long, bitter slog of the past twelve months on a dignified final bend in the road. Our heads held high, mutual respect and may-the-best-one-win, friendly well-wishes for the other as we part ways.

But then I think about how I feel when my hand touches his, when Jonathan’s eyes lock with mine and there’s heat on his cheeks and he’s looking at me how he did after the business meeting, in the car, when we kissed, when we faced off this morning—intense, charged, fraught…

None of that is friendship to me. At least, not like any friendship I’ve ever known. But maybe that’s all right. Maybe whatever friendship looks like for Jonathan and me, for this sliver of time before we part ways, doesn’t have to look like any other friendship in my past.

Mrs. Bailey seems to read my mind, as if she knows a thing or two about what it’s like to walk the line between longing and loathing and try to carve a safe path between the two, to find a smooth, mild middle way.

“It’s worth a try, isn’t it? In the spirit of the season?” she adds, a twinkle in her eye. “To have a little peace on earth here in Bailey’s Bookshop?”

I envision proposing friendship to Jonathan, laying down my weapon first, extending my hand as I offer a truce. I remember how it felt, his hand clasping mine. My fingertips and palms turn hot, singed with memory.

Privately, I reflect that “peace,” whether we turn out friend or foe, is the last thing I’ll ever find with Jonathan Frost. But what I tell Mrs. Bailey is, “I’ll try. I promise.”





Chapter 10


Playlist: “Make Way for the Holidays,” Le Bon


An hour later, Mrs. Bailey is gone and the store is forty-five minutes into being open. I’ve sold two romance novels, one cozy mystery, and—gag—three thrillers. The place is empty for the time being, and I’m on my way to make a cup of sugary, milky tea, when I notice the mistletoe fell from the archway leading from the register to the back room. Stretching on tiptoe, I tack it back up by its golden thread.

That’s when the back door opens for Jonathan Frost and with him, a gust of winter wind. He shuts it quietly, then peers up beneath dark lashes, those striking wintergreen eyes locked on me. I lower to my heels as Jonathan walks down the hallway, a beverage cup decorated with snowflakes in each hand.

“I’m sorry,” we say at the same time.

“Can we talk?” I ask.

Jonathan searches my eyes. “Yes.”

I wrap my hand around the cup he’s holding that smells like peppermint and bittersweet chocolate. Our fingers brush. “I think I could use some liquid courage first.”

His mouth lifts at the corner, the shadow of a smile. “You’re in luck then.”

“Thank you.” Glancing over my shoulder, I see the store is still empty. I peer back at Jonathan and tip my head toward the break room. “Is now okay? Do you mind?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t mind.”

I lead the way to the back room, hot cocoa in hand, and sit at the table, watching him set down his coffee, then peel off his gloves, finger by finger. He shrugs off his coat, and it slips past his shoulders, down his back, before he rakes a hand through his hair and tidies the windswept waves.

Sitting across from me, Jonathan takes his cup, which I didn’t realize I’d wrapped my hand around. His thumb brushes my finger, a reassurance.