The Mistletoe Motive(41)

“June. No assault.”

“Fine,” she grumbles, “but only because it’s the holidays.” Her eyes search mine. “My point is, you’re too damn hard on yourself.”

“But this doesn’t make sense!” I moan, scrubbing my face. “It’s confusing, and I’m emotional and—”

“Hey.” June wraps her arms around me as the first tears spill down my cheeks. “Let’s just take this one hour at a time, okay? You’re doing great.”

I pull away and wipe my eyes. “You think?”

“I know. You should be really proud of what you did out there. It’s gorgeous. It’s busy. You’ve poured your heart into this place, Gabby, and it shows. So let’s celebrate that. Today, focus on your incredible professional achievement here. Three days from now, we’ll deal with Mr. Reddit. After that, we deal with tall, dark, and surly out there. Now—” Standing, she straightens the black beanie she’s wearing that nearly blends in with her sable locks. “Time for you to give me an actual tour.”

June and I slip out of the closet, into the bookstore, and my heart does a twirl of joy. After hours of being immersed in the busyness, I see it with fresh eyes—twinkly lights and jewel-tone ornaments, sparkling decorations and polished wood and row after row of rainbow spines. Customers sipping from steaming cups, kids and adults alike making crafts, the jazz trio with a small cluster of patrons dancing by the door. It’s everything I hoped it could be.

Then I glance toward Eli and Luke who stand beside Jonathan at the register in conversation with the Baileys. This is beyond what I could have imagined, but it’s so right—all of it, all of us, together.

Mrs. Bailey catches my eye and winks. I smile at her, before taking June for the grand tour.

Each step I take, I feel Jonathan’s eyes on me. As I greet new customers, answer others’ questions. As I break away from June long enough to stretch on tiptoe and reach my favorite holiday romance because it’s just what this one customer needs. By the time we make our way back toward the register, when June’s finally seen it all, my heart is flying, curving the bend of what I don’t know, before it leaps into the air and spins and spins—

I glance up, knowing I’ll meet his eyes, and I do, as my heart lands, safe and sure. This is what it is, to be caught in Jonathan’s gaze, to be held, warm and steady: a gift.

One I’m terrified I won’t get to keep.





Chapter 12


Playlist: “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” Birdy


“Miss Di Natale.” Jonathan shuts the back door behind him after his last trip to the dumpster, locking up for the night.

I drop into one of the wingbacks in front of the fireplace, groaning as I toe off my boots. “Mr. Frost.”

Walking my way, Jonathan peels off the name tag that I stuck between his shoulder blades hours ago and holds it with thumbs and forefingers. “How long have I walked around with my front name tag saying, Mr. Frost, and my back name tag saying—” He pauses for dramatic effect. “Actually, it’s Mr. Grinch.”

I bite my lip. “That would be…after you poached the couple from me when I was about to sell them the romance series box set—”

“I did not poach.” He crumples the name tag, tosses it into a waste basket without even watching it land, as if he’s so sure it will—which, annoyingly, it does—then drops with a groan onto the chair across from me. “I pivoted. You made your sale, then I made mine. They bought the romance box set—”

“And half of Stephen King’s backlist.”

Jonathan sighs as he stretches out his long legs and crosses them at the ankles. His head falls back against the chair, exposing the long line of his throat, the prominent jut of his Adam’s apple. He looks gorgeous. And like he worked his ass off to make my big Saturday sale idea a reality.

It makes me feel a smidge guilty for my juvenile move.

“Sorry about the name tag prank.”

His eyes stay shut. “It’s fine. I slapped one on your back hours ago, too.”

I gasp. “What?” Feeling for the name tag, I first try over my shoulder, then underneath. It’s in the one spot I can’t reach. “I can’t get it.”

His mouth twitches in another thwarted smile. He opens one eye and glances my way. “That’s the idea, Di Natale.”

“Get it off, you meanie.” I cross the small space between our wingback chairs and turn so my prank name tag faces him.

It’s quiet for so long, I glance over my shoulder. Jonathan’s staring up at me, firelight bathing his face, turning his eyes dark.

Slowly, he straightens in the chair, uncrossing his legs, then bracketing me inside them. He sets his hands on my hips and coaxes me back. One hand stays on my waist, while the other slowly peels off the name tag. And then he sits back with it, crunching the name tag into a ball.

“Not fair!” I yell, tugging on his hand. Jonathan tugs back.

It sends me tumbling into his lap. Air rushes out of him. “Christ, woman,” he groans. “You just pulverized my liver.”

“Sorry,” I mutter halfheartedly, freeing the balled-up name tag from his hand and carefully tugging it apart. The backing isn’t very sticky anymore, after a long day on my fuzzy sweater dress, so after a few careful maneuvers, it’s wrinkled but open, its words reading, Off-Limits Under the Mistletoe.