“It’s Rachel,” she said, hardly able to hear her own voice.
“Mind if I join you?” He seemed to completely ignore her introduction.
He’d already settled into the chair at the table next to her. He wasn’t reallyjoiningher, but in this coffee shop with such forced proximity, it was nearly the same thing.
“Go ahead.” Her earbuds were in her purse. She could make a move for them as a sign that she didn’t care to converse, but he got his out first and popped them into his ears.
Good. Seemed like he had his own work to do today. Looking down at her gloves, Rachel wondered if there would be any more comments other than the odd nickname or if he would let it be. She chanced a look up, catching his green gaze a second before she meant to pull away.
He smiled.
She would have to research the caffeine content of her drink later, because the jitters skittering through her stomach could only be attributed to the buzz, certainly not his beaming grin that transformed his entire face with friendliness.
She forced her eyes back to the mistletoe.
How could she improve upon it and take it from a spindly looking plant to something a couple might actually want to kiss beneath? Maybe it could be scented, some Christmas pheromone that drew potential soul mates together.
She almost laughed out loud at that. Scratch and sniff mistletoe was not a thing.
Lifting it up, she twisted the stems of the fake plant between her fingers, spinning the leaves around like a little disco ball.
The guy next to her popped one earbud free. “You got a thing for weeds?”
The insulting comment hit her in the gut harder than an unexpected smack from a snowball. “Excuse me?”
“You’re playing with that weed.”
“I’m not playing with it.” She dropped it on the table. “I’m studying it.”
“You’re a botanist?”
“No.” Rachel’s brow drew so tightly over her eyes it almost obscured her vision. “I’m not a botanist. I’m in marketing, remember?”
“You’re trying to market weeds?”
She snagged the mistletoe from the tabletop and shook it vigorously in front of his face. “This is not a weed!”
Like molasses in winter, he slowly tugged the other earpiece free. “Alright. Alright. It’s not a weed. It’s a dead plant.”
“It’s not a dead plant!” Rachel smacked her forehead. “It’s mistletoe.”
The laugh erupting from the guy made the three patrons waiting at the barista bar spin around to locate the commotion. “Thatis not mistletoe, Mittens.”
If she wasn’t all worked up over the mistletoe debacle, she would’ve insisted he stop calling her that. But she only had the energy to set one thing straight at a time. “Itismistletoe. Or fake mistletoe, at least.” She sat up tall. “Mistlefaux.”
Had he been sipping on his hot chocolate, it would have sprayed from his nose, the laugh that flew from his lips that dramatic. “Mistlefaux?” His fist met his chest as he coughed, and he carried on laughing until it petered out into a soft chuckle. His face went blank. “Oh, you’re serious.”
“Yes, I’m serious.” Rachel had a vise grip on the pitiful plant. “It’s a prototype, so it’s not the finished product. But itismistletoe.” She breathed out. “Or at least it’s supposed to be.”
“Have you ever seen mistletoe?”
“Of course, I’ve seen mistletoe.” Her head twitched a little at the question.
“Have you everusedmistletoe?”
She jutted her chin toward him and levied a glare his way. “Sure, I’ve used mistletoe.”
“Like, for kissing under. That sort of thing.”
