I step closer as she climbs up. Suddenly we're eye to eye—her on the stool, me standing beside it—and way too close. She's never been at my height before, and the shift is disorienting. Intimate.
Her scent hits me like a wall. Cinnamon and apples and something sweet that makes my hindbrain sit up and take immediate notice.
"Here." I take the sign from her hands, our fingers brushing. "Hold this side, I'll?—"
"No, if you hold that side, it'll be crooked."
"It won't be crooked."
"River." She gives me a look. "I've seen you hang the 'Open' sign. It's always tilted."
"That's character."
"That's not knowing how to eyeball a straight line."
I'm laughing despite myself. "Fine. You hold this side."
We fumble with the sign, both reaching at the same time, her elbow bumping my shoulder, my hand landing on her waist to steady her on the stool. She's pressed close now, and every point of contact feels electric.
Finally, the sign's up. Crooked, despite her best efforts.
"See?" I grin at her. "Character."
"You're impossible." But she's smiling too, that real smile that makes her whole face light up.
She's still standing there. On the stool. Right at my eye level. Close enough that I can count the gold flecks in her green eyes.
The realization hits us at the same time.
I glance up at the mistletoe hanging just above us. Look back at her.
"Bea," I say quietly. "We're under mistletoe."
"I know." Her cheeks flush pink, but she doesn't move away. "This is extremely unprofessional."
"Very unprofessional."
"Bad idea."
"Terrible idea."
Neither of us moves.
Her eyes drop to my mouth. Back up. "We should get down."
"Probably."
"Go back to work."
"Definitely."
The air between us is electric. Charged. Impossible to ignore.
"River?" Her voice is barely above a whisper.
"Yeah?"
"Fuck it."
