Chapter 23 #2
Her frown smoothed into an expression of surprise.
Did the aunties send her something? She had, rather impulsively, sent them the mailing address of The Arcane Bouquet a few months back, on the off-chance they might want to contact her.
It was risky, of course, and she knew they were very unlikely to do anything that could put her in danger, but .
. . the idea that they would ship her a Green Yule gift made her feel all warm inside.
But she looked at the card again, more closely. That handwriting didn’t belong to any of the aunties. No: she knew it all too well. Those elegant, slanted, close-written characters. Very precise. Very neat.
She leaned to one side, peering out from behind the evergreen. There were no customers in The Arcane Bouquet at the moment. Mr. Grimm was on the other side of the shop, sweeping up by the holly wreath display.
Luna looked down at the package in her lap. She ought not to open it, of course. But she already knew what was inside, and . . .
“Fine!” she whispered. Still kneeling under the Winter’s Heart Tree, she tore the brown paper away, revealing a simple white shoebox. She lifted the lid, and there they were. A brand new pair of waterproof, black-button boots. Size seven.
Luna expelled a little breath of air. It was too much.
They must have been expensive. She’d seen shoes like these in the windows of department stores like Sangster’s or Dandridge and Bakes.
They certainly didn’t come from a chantry house donation barrel!
She ran her fingers down a line of shiny black buttons.
So bright. So cheerful. And so comfortable-looking.
Her poor, cold, suffering toes practically begged to be shod in such lovely, lovely boots.
Abandoning the tree, she carried the box back behind the counter and set it down. There she stood a moment, drumming her fingernails. Mr. Grimm, apparently unaware, finished sweeping and carried the tray of debris over to dispose of in the waste basket underneath the counter.
“Mr. Grimm,” Luna said.
He looked up, eyebrows raised. His gaze moved from her to the shoebox, stayed there for a moment, then back to her again. “What do you have there?” he asked innocently.
“It would seem a package was left. Under the Winter’s Heart Tree.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“For whom?”
“For me.”
“Never mind!”
“Are you sure it wasn’t for Debbie?”
Luna stifled a smile, casting a glance toward the raven on her skull-pot. “Fairly sure. I don’t think these would fit her.” With that, she lifted the boots from the box, dangling them like ornaments. The little black buttons caught the light and glinted.
Mr. Grimm pressed his lips together and nodded. “Well. Those look nice.”
“Very nice,” Luna conceded.
“Who were they from? Your aunties?”
“No.”
“Some secret admirer perhaps?”
Her stomach made a foolish little flip. Which was annoying.
Because it hadn’t been foolishly flipping for weeks now.
Not since Saint Jollify. Not since she’d pulled herself together, given herself that stern talking-to, and made certain that all foolish flips were well banished from both her heart and her stomach. But there it went again.
She shook her head. “The card says they’re from the Green Mother.”
“You don’t say.”
“I do say.”
“Wow. A holiday miracle.”
Her mouth quirked. “I thought you weren’t religious, Mr. Grimm?”
“This holy experience may have just converted me.”
“Is that so?” She let the shoes drop back into the box and smoothed the tissue paper in which they nestled. “Does that mean you’ll be joining me at the midnight chantry service tomorrow night? For Green Yule’s Eve?”
His eyes met hers and held her gaze for a long, silent moment. A little spell of tension wound between them as her invitation hung unanswered in the air. Luna felt her sore throat thicken slightly.
Then, very slowly, he said, “Yes. Yes, I suppose I must.”
“It’s the only thing to be done following a sudden religious conversion.”
“Certainly. And . . . you’ll wear your new boots?”
“Of course, Mr. Grimm,” she answered softly.
Movement overhead caught her eye. Luna looked up and saw the mistletoe, poised on a pipe. It ruffled its leaves at her and began to descend on its vine. Luna grimaced, the moment broken. “Oh dear.” She pointed. “It’s caught you this time, I’m afraid.”
Mr. Grimm’s head jerked up. He spotted the mistletoe, and fury washed over his face. “Damn it!” he growled, his hand reaching for the pruning shears.
“You know,” Luna said, even as he snatched the shears up and made ready to do battle, “you might have better luck getting rid of it if you just gave it what it wants for once.”
“Never!” he snarled. “I won’t give that damnable abomination the satisfaction of—”
What happened next, Luna couldn’t really explain after the fact.
It wasn’t a kiss.
Of course not.
Sure, her hand came to rest on Mr. Grimm’s shoulder for support, and she leaned in to plant a very light, very chaste peck on his cheek. Just enough to pacify the mistletoe and send it on its way. Nothing more. Nothing untoward.
Only Mr. Grimm turned toward her in the exact same moment, and . . .
It wasn’t a kiss. That fact was undebatable.
Not with his mouth open on the word “of,” and hers puckered in a little moue.
Rather, it was a brief and totally unexpected bump. Of lips, yes. But not at all kiss-like, really. Barely enough to merit usage of the word.
Still, it sent an electric charge shooting from the top of her head down to the soles of her feet.
With a gasp and an “Oh!” of horror, Luna sprang back.
Distantly, she heard the clatter of the pruning shears hitting the ground, but it seemed to come from very far away.
Her vision blurred, her head whirled. She spun swiftly, hoping to make her escape out from behind the counter, to flee .
. . somewhere. Anywhere. The kitchen. Garden. Out into the street. Anywhere not here.
Before she could take two steps, however, Mr. Grimm’s fingers closed around her elbow. Hard.
He yanked.
She pivoted on heel, staggered, faced him, stared up into his eyes.
Wide. Blue.
Burning.
He drew a ragged inhale. His eyelids lowered, and his gaze zeroed in on her lips, which were parted around a strangled gasp for air. His own breath came too fast. She could hear it. Panting. His chest rose and fell heavily beneath his green apron.
He inclined his head toward her. Withdrew it again. Tilted it gently to one side.
Leaned in a little closer.
Luna’s lashes felt weighted. She let them lower, even as a small, quivering exhale escaped her throat. She tipped her head softly, lifting her mouth a tiny fraction of an inch, felt his lips hovering just above hers, and—
The shop bells rang, a tinkling chorus of brass.
Luna jumped back a pace, painfully aware of Mr. Grimm’s grip still on her elbow. She whirled to face the door, heart jolting.
“Oh!” she gasped again, a sharp expulsion of sound. “Officer Ward!”