Mark mutters something under his breath that I swear sounds like “Lucky dog,” but when I look over, I can’t see his features through the swirling snow, and he’s not paying me any attention.
I didn’t actually need an escort, obviously, but I confess that company makes the trek a little less miserable. My hat was still wet, so I hadn’t bothered to put it on, and my hood doesn’t do much to keep the snow off my face and neck.
By the time we make it up to my porch, I’m shivering, and really glad we took the time to shovel, because already more snow has piled up, and it takes both of us to wrench my back door open.
The second the crack’s big enough, Rigby wriggles inside, and a moment later Mark and I both squeeze in as well.
“Need a towel?” I ask, shrugging out of my coat.
“Nah, I’ll just get wet again the second I go back,” he says, running his hands through his hair.
“Thanks for the escort. I may not have gotten lost, but I might have turned into a Popsicle trying to get the door open.”
“Yup.”
There’s nothing more to be said, and yet neither of us moves, and I feel a tiny stab of panic because it’s awkward. Mark and I don’t do awkward, and yet the air definitely feels full of . . . something.
“Well, I should . . .” I gesture to Rigby’s snowy pawprints, which I’ll need to clean up.
Mark merely nods, then reaches for the door and steps onto the porch. “See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah. For sure,” I say, a hand on the door as I step closer and lift my hand in a weird little farewell wave.
See? Awkward. What is happening to us, when did we—
Mark starts to turn, then turns back, his gaze flicking upward. I glance up, too, my breath catching when I see what he’s looking at.
That damn mistletoe. I mentioned I’d put it pretty much everywhere in the house in preparation for my mistletoe test with Chad.
At the time it had seemed a smart part of my plan.
At the moment? I can barely remember the plan. I’m too annoyingly aware that my best friend is a guy. I’ve always known that at the brain level, but right now I know it at the body level, and . . .
Mark steps forward, a little drop of water running along his temple where the snow in his hair’s melted. He brushes it aside impatiently as his head dips almost imperceptibly lower toward mine.
My heart leaps in panic and I grasp desperately at a way to keep it light, to stop from pressing my mouth to his . . .
I give a quick grin and motion him back. “Oh, please. It’s just there from when Chad came to lunch. We don’t have to—you’ve already gone above and beyond your best-friend duties. Love Actually, remember? No need to—”
He steps even closer, a slight smile playing at his lips. “Kell?”
“What?”
“Shut up.”
He sets a knuckle to the bottom of my chin, tilting my face toward his.
My heart’s still pounding, although now it’s not so much about panic as . . . want.
I want nothing more at this moment than his lips on mine, his hands on my back pulling me close . . .
Mark’s lips brush my cheek. My cheek.
He pulls back slightly, eyes locking on mine for one heated heartbeat.
And then he steps away. “Night, Kell.” His voice is rough.
“Night.”
He turns and walks into the raging blizzard, leaving me staring after him, mostly oblivious to the snow that’s getting all over my kitchen floor, soaking my borrowed pajama pants.
I’m ignoring the storm outside because I’m too aware of the storm within . . . and the startling realization that I want a do-over on that mistletoe kiss.
Because a part of me wishes it had gone very, very differently.
December 20, Wednesday Evening
The nor’easter’s cleared out by the following evening, and though Haven’s still rocking the winter wonderland look, the snowplows have been out, which means the town’s out, too.
Specifically, everyone and their mom seem to be at Mark’s restaurant tonight. Myself and Mark included, although not in the same capacity.
His sous-chef lives an hour outside of town and couldn’t make it in because of the snow, so Mark’s working the kitchen himself tonight.
For my part, I’m happy at the bar, chatting it up with the seemingly endless stream of friends that keep rolling in, even as I try to keep from glaring at Erika, who’s working the bar tonight, looking glowing, happy, and confident.
Confident because she and Mark are getting back together?
The thought is nearly enough to make me lose my appetite. Nearly, but not totally, because no way am I missing Mark’s cooking.
Plus, I need to see what’s going on with them. Old-fashioned reconnaissance, you know?
I finished my first glass of wine chatting with Ivy and Jim, out for a rare kids-free date night, and am nursing the second glass that my high school principal and his wife insisted on buying me.
When both couples finally close out, I’m not quite ready to go home to my quiet house, but no way can I even think about another drink until I’ve gotten some food in me.
Which means . . . talking with Erika. Our conversation so far’s been limited to her saying, “Pinot grigio?” and me saying, “Yes please!” and her saying “Same thing?” and me saying, “Sounds great!”
We’re both nauseatingly chipper and friendly.
My options now are to wait for a table and eat there (unlikely, since there’s been a wait all evening) or to somehow figure out how to talk to Erika without giving her a piece of my mind for cheating on Mark with Doug.
She seems to read my mind, because after she pours a couple of glasses of red for the cute elderly couple at the far end of the bar, she catches my eye and heads my way.
“Hey, Kelly, another?” She leans on the bar and grins at me like we’re friends.
Which I guess we sort of are, but . . .
Has she always been this pretty? She’s got the toned look of a woman who actually enjoys working out, and a long, bouncy blond ponytail that is always slightly curled but never frizzy. And green eyes. Not hazel, not blue, green. Pretty green.
It’s hard not to hate her.
“I’m thinking I’d better start with water and food first,” I say forcing a smile.
“Sure thing. I can bring you a menu, but I can tell you right now that Mark’s special is the best thing on the menu tonight. We all had it at the staff dinner earlier, and I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. He’s calling it Christmas on the Bayou Pasta—”
“Oh, right!” I interrupt. “I love that dish. I was actually his test subject, and I’ve been thinking about it ever since.”
Erika’s smile chills just the slightest bit, confirming exactly what I hadn’t really wanted to know—she still sees Mark as her territory somehow.
A week ago I’d have shrugged and let him figure out his own love life.
But a week ago I didn’t know that she’d cheated on him. A week ago I didn’t—
I didn’t what? I don’t know how to finish that sentence, even in my own head.
Or maybe I do.
A week ago, I didn’t feel this way about Mark.
“So, the special, then?” Erika asks.