“…and now, without further ado,” the mayor announced, “let’s raise the mistletoe and, with it, our holiday cheer!”
Everyone clapped and cheered while I suppressed an eyeroll.
“Thank you, Archer,” the mayor said, stepping back.
I gestured to Toby, and he began slowly pulling the rope, raising the deep-green cluster, adorned with the big red bow.
About halfway to its resting place, the mistletoe stalled out, swaying in the wind and blowing snow. I glanced at Toby, hisface a mask of concentration as he used both hands to tug the rope. The mistletoe remained in limbo, not ascending anymore.
“Toby,” I hissed.
“It’s stuck,” he hissed back, tugging it again.
“It’s on its way, folks. Don’t you worry,” Mayor Schroder called to the people watching. “Just a little technical difficulty.”
His presence was a technical difficulty.
Annoyed, I stalked across the space between us. “It’s not that hard to pull a rope,” I told him, reaching for it.
He pulled it back, evading my hands. “The hook the rope is threaded through is old and rusty. It’s caught,” he said, still tugging it.
“Don’t blame the hook when it’s clearly operator error.”
“It’s the hook,” he said, teeth gritted.
“Just give it to me. People are waiting,” I insisted, reaching for the rope again.
“I said I got it,” he snapped, pulling it back.
“If you had it, you wouldn’t be over here bumbling around like a bumble!” I lunged, and he jumped back, feet tangling in the length of rope he’d already tugged. I saw the fear flash over his face as he fell back, arm flailing.
My heart skipped a beat, and I lurched forward to catch him.
We ended up tangled together, the ground coming fast. But then we jerked to a stop.
Toby lifted his face, which was so close to mine.
“The rope caught us,” he said, breathless. “I told you it was stuck.”
Somehow, we were tangled in each otherandthe rope, which had stopped us from smacking into the railing. Planting my boot on the floor, I straightened, bringing him with me. The rope that had been taut went slack, and then suddenly we were falling again.
“Whoa,” Toby said as we tipped over and slammed into the edge of a table, the entire thing flipping onto its side as we went down.
The wind slammed out of my lungs, and my side ached from taking the brunt of the fall. Toby lay sprawled on top of me, arms and legs wide, face practically in my armpit.
He groaned, and worry made me forget my own stinging pride to look down.
“Tobes,” I beckoned. “Are you okay?”
He groaned again and lifted his head. I stared in shock at the chunks of gingerbread and icing all over his hat and face. “There’s a table on top of us.”
It took a moment for his words to penetrate, but once they did, I jolted up to confirm that, yes, there was indeed a table covering our lower halves.
“Are you hurt?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I don’t think so.” Reaching up, he plucked a chunk of cookie off his hat. “But I can’t say the same about the gingerbread.”
My head hit the wooden floor as I blew out a breath, more relieved than I wanted to admit that he wasn’t hurt.
