“What?”
“The ability to grow mistletoe from your hands?”
The awful joke elicited a throaty groan. “Can we please cut thefunnybusiness and get straightdownto business? I’d really like the use of my hand again.”
“Sorry.” He lifted her right hand and took it into his. “Jokes are my method of choice when combating nerves.”
“What do you have to be nervous about? You don’t have a plant for a hand.”
“No, and thank goodness for that.” He grinned smugly. “But to answer your question,youmake me nervous.”
“Right, to go along with the whole intimidation thing.”
“You make me nervous in a butterflies-in-my-stomach sort of way.”
She didn’t know how to respond. “Well, butterflies don’t belong there, just like this mistletoe doesn’t belonghere.” She gave the offending artificial greenery a pointed look.
If Holden’s coping mechanism was humor, hers was absolute diversion.
Luckily, Holden didn’t elaborate and instead lifted the bottle of vegetable oil, unscrewed the cap, and sprinkled a small amount over Rachel’s hand like a chef adding salt to his cuisine. Most of the oil got on the mistletoe, not in the space where it was secured to her fingers.
“Is that supposed to magically dissolve it or something?” she challenged.
This was going to require more precise work, and Holden knew it.
He pulled her hand closer, dragging her arm over the table between them, and doused a good amount directly onto her hand where the glue heavily coated her fingers. It required a decent amount of elbow grease, but after a few minutes of working it free, the mistletoe finally detached.
Rachel gasped her relief. “Oh my goodness, thank you!”
“Sure thing,” Holden said. He gathered the remains of the sugary, oily greenery mess and carted them to the kitchen trash. “I’ve got you.”
Even though the water ran ice cold, Rachel spent time at the sink freeing the remaining bits of glue from her skin. Her fingers were tender. She ran a towel over them and pulsed her hand open and closed to ease the ache.
“Here. Let me see.” Holden gestured toward her hand with a wave.
With a lump the size of a snowball in her throat, Rachel slipped it into his.
He rotated it, turning it over slowly. She wasn’t sure what he was examining in particular, and when he threaded his fingers into hers, her own swarm of butterflies released in her belly.
His strong fingers curled around her hand. “Seems like it’s working just fine.” His words were a shallow whisper.
Had they not been face to face, Rachel would’ve looked elsewhere, not directly into the captivating green eyes that fastened onto hers. The intensity was enough to heat the entire room; she could feel it. She began to sweat.
He took their threaded fingers and pulled their hands to his chest, tugging Rachel closer. Her neck craned to hold his gaze.
“Rachel…”
“Too bad I’m all out of mistletoe,” she said stupidly.
He chuckled, and then his voice lowered. “We don’t need mistletoe.”
“We’re back!” Her parents’ sudden greeting from the hallway severed the moment like a snapped wishbone. Because she had been wishing for him to kiss her, hadn’t she?
Rachel shot back. She jammed the hand previously in Holden’s into her pocket.
Holden speared his fingers through his hair and paced across the kitchen, chest ballooning with a sizable breath.
“In the kitchen!” Rachel shouted her location. Her volume dropped to a whispering hiss. “Go out the backdoor,” she instructed Holden. She grabbed his shoulders and spun. “Go, go!” Pushing against his muscled back, she walked him to the door with a shove. Having her hands on him did nothing to convince those butterflies to leave. Nope, they were everywhere now, fluttering around her head and all the way down to her tingling toes.
