"Part of it." He took another bite, considering. "I needed somewhere I could just be myself."
Before I could ask what he meant, a child's voice piped up: "Look! Mistletoe!"
I glanced up. Sure enough, a sprig of mistletoe hung from the wooden beam above us.
A small crowd turned to look. The pink-coat girl and her mother. An elderly couple. A group of middle-aged women.
Heat flooded my face. "Oh, we're not—"
"Come here," Bart said, his voice low and rough.
Before I could process what was happening, his hand was on my waist, pulling me to him. His other hand cupped my jaw, tilting my face up.
"For cover," he murmured against my lips. "So they stop asking."
Then he kissed me.
Clearly meant to be quick. Performative. Just for show to satisfy the crowd.
But the moment his lips touched mine, everything changed.
Heat flooded through my veins like liquid fire. My hands flew up to grip his coat, finding his shoulders beneath the heavy fabric—solid and broad. His hand tightened on my waist, fingers pressing into my hip through my parka. The kiss deepened just a fraction—his tongue barely brushing my lower lip, sending sensation spiraling straight to my core.
A sound escaped me. Something between a gasp and a whimper that I'd never made in my life.
He pulled back like I'd shocked him.
We stared at each other, both breathing hard, the world narrowing to just the two of us. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. My heart hammered against my ribs so hard I wondered if he could feel it.
Applause and whistles broke through the haze.
"Aww, how sweet!"
"Merry Christmas, you two!"
Bart cleared his throat, stepping back carefully. "Right. That should stop the questions."
"Yeah." My voice came out breathless and shaky. "Smart thinking."
Back at the booth, I threw myself into talking to people, answering questions, signing up volunteers. Bart stayed in the background like before, but the energy between us had shifted.
I was hyperaware of him—every time he moved, every time he handed me a flyer, the brief moments when we had to work in close proximity.
The kiss was supposed to be for show. A quick performance under the mistletoe to satisfy the onlookers.
But my lips still tingled, and my pulse kept jumping whenever he came near.
From the careful way Bart maintained distance between us, the deliberate focus he kept on his tasks—he'd felt it too.
BY 5 PM, WE'D COLLECTEDseventeen new wish list submissions and signed up forty-two volunteers.
We drove back to his property together in his truck. I stared out the window at the passing trees, and Bart kept his eyes on the road. Neither of us mentioned the kiss.
At his property, we unloaded the booth materials in silence and carried the new wish lists into the barn.
Bart pinned the new submissions to the corkboard while I pulled out my laptop. We worked without talking—him matching gifts to wish lists, me updating the spreadsheet and posting social media updates about the market's success.
Music played softly from the speaker. The space heaters hummed.
