Chapter Twenty-Five
Harriet
You’re telling me you got all of this”—Sasha gestures to the mistletoe on the ceiling—“on discount from some Podunk tree farm down on the coast.”
“It’s not a Podunk tree farm. They actually run a pretty robust operation,” I explain.
“They have an ice-skating rink. And a bakery.” Sasha looks at me over her glasses.
“Okay. You’re telling me you got ten thousand pounds of mistletoe from a robust operation.
And you installed all of it yourself. On the one day I wasn’t working this week. ”
I scoop up another handful of rogue buttons and deposit them in a vase in the shape of a hedgehog.
The original glass jar met its demise on the hardwood floor of the shop courtesy of Sasha’s oversize handbag.
She had been too busy staring open-mouthed at the ceiling to realize she was destroying half of our seasonal inventory.
“Yes,” I say. “That’s what I’m telling you. Three times now.”
“Don’t cop a tone.” Her eyes narrow. “What did you use?”
“For what?”
“For the mistletoe.” Sasha points aggressively at the ceiling. “What did you use to install the mistletoe?”
“Oh. Um.” I study it, squinting. “String? And some … double-sided tape?”
Sasha makes a disbelieving sound. “There must be a whole lot of holiday magic up there with it, if double-sided tape is doing the job.”
Yes, I want to tell her. There is a lot of holiday magic up there.
I kissed a Ghost of Christmas Past and it made his magic spin out of control.
I’m supposed to be helping him move on, but instead I’m getting attached.
These choices are going to hurt me when he eventually disappears, but I don’t know how to stop. I don’t want to.
I collect another handful of buttons, dropping them in the back of a prickly little hedgehog. Leave it to me to develop feelings for the most unavailable man in the room.
I’ve been floating on a cloud since we left my house this morning, but now my feet are slowly returning to the ground. Nolan is a ghost. He’s going to disappear. And I’m indulging in these feelings like I’ve got nothing to lose.
But I can’t turn off the hopeful piece of my heart. It’s as much a part of me as breathing.
The string of unanswered text messages on my phone is proof enough of that.
I texted my sister this morning while Nolan was in my shower, wanting to talk to someone about everything bumbling around in my chest. But all I got in response was a quick: in a meeting, will text you later.
She never texted me later.
I’m not sure why I keep bothering.
Because you hate feeling like you did something wrong, the little voice at the back of my head whispers. Because you miss your sister.
I used to think the only place I fit was with Samantha.
That if we could make it through our turbulent childhood—if we could withstand my mother constantly pitting us against each other—then we’d always have a place to land.
But I think that’s gone now, destroyed with a handful of caustic words tossed out in the heat of the moment.
Maybe I don’t fit anywhere. Maybe I’m not supposed to. Maybe my best bet is a ghost with a guilt complex.
I laugh, slightly hysterical, and reach for some of the buttons that skittered under a coffee table. Sasha gives me a concerned look.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I tell her. Out of my depth and almost out of time, but I’m fine.
She gives me another critical look, but she doesn’t push. It’s one of my favorite things about Sasha. She can hold me accountable when I need it, but she gives me the space to live in my own delusional little bubble when I need that, too.
Her attention flits back to the ceiling. “Do we need to, like, water them?” She stands so she can touch a bundle, mesmerized. “They’re so pretty.”
They are pretty. Pretty and achingly romantic. Every inch of my store is covered. Even the storage closet has mistletoe clustered around the busted bulb I haven’t bothered to replace.
“Holy shit,” Sasha whispers, backing up a step and almost sending another glass object crashing to the floor.
I grip her by her sweater and pull her away from the crystal, but she’s pressing up on her toes, peering over my shoulder.
“They’re pretty, too.” She starts slapping at the top of my head, trying to get me to turn. “Have they been here the entire time?”
I swat her hand away and stand, brushing at the backs of my jeans, my hedgehog vase of buttons clutched protectively in one arm. “What are you talking about? Stop hitting me.”
“Them,” she explains with a whisper, shaking me back and forth. “Look at them.”
I finally look. Nolan is walking up one of the aisles, a heavy frown fixed on his handsome face.
It’s a sharp departure from the cuddly, affectionate man I left at the back of the shop, but no less striking.
He’s rolling his thermal up over his forearms with sharp, practiced movements, but his frustration only makes him look more windswept, in a sexy pirate sort of way.
The source of his discontent appears behind him in the form of the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
“Whoa,” I whisper and Sasha makes a sound in agreement. Nolan looks like he’s trying to communicate something with his face, but I’m too focused on the stunning brunette slightly behind him to do much decoding.
“Harriet,” Nolan says. “I’d like to introduce you to Isabella.
” Isabella. Isabella. Isabella. A tiny bell of recognition rings somewhere in the back of my mind.
She extends a graceful hand in my direction while my brain tries to work it out, her sharp eyes flicking down my body and up again.
I struggle not to fidget with the edge of my sweater.
She has shiny, dark hair. Elegant brows.
Cheekbones for days. She looks like she could kill a man with the heel of her shoe and then slurp up their soul with a silly straw.
I’m unironically wearing a giant red bow and I’m pretty sure I have a dust bunny clinging to my ass.
I grab her hand with mine, feeling stupid and small and more than a little intimidated.
“Nice to meet you,” I squeak out, the second half of the statement twisting up like a question.
“It’s really not,” Nolan mutters under his breath.
A catlike grin flirts with the edges of Isabella’s mouth. “I’d like to say Nolan has told me all about you, but he’s been … tight-lipped.” Like Nolan, her voice is tinged with a light accent. Her eyes cut in his direction. “I can see now he has his reasons.”
I drop her hand and cling to my vase. I look to Nolan for reassurance, but he’s got his nose pinched between thumb and forefinger. I blink back to Isabella. “What do you mean?”
A throaty laugh tumbles out of her. “You have a bruise on your neck.”
I remember Nolan’s rough growl this morning, his mouth working against my skin while his fingers twisted between my legs. I saw the purple half-moon below my ear in the hallway mirror when we were leaving and did my best to hastily hide it with drugstore concealer.
Not well enough, apparently.
I clap my hand over the mark, my face flushing hot. “Curling iron,” I explain.
Sasha, Isabella, and Nolan all give me varying looks of disbelief. Isabella’s is tinged with amusement, Nolan’s with faint satisfaction.
Sasha looks like she’s about to pull a bag of popcorn out of her purse and use one of the sideboard tables as her bench seat.
“You don’t curl your hair,” Sasha whispers out of the side of her mouth.
My blush deepens. “Thanks for that, Sash.”
“Is it a hickey?” she continues.
“Sasha.”
“He has one, too. Did you make out with this hot man?” She pauses, shifting incrementally closer. “He has a mustache,” she says, scandalized. Maybe a little enamored.
I know the feeling.
My lips twitch. “Sasha. Please.”
“Who are these people? Where did they come from? Have they been here the whole time? Are they customers? Did they bring the mistletoe? They don’t look like they work at a farm.”
Isabella’s smile grows into something predatory.
“I didn’t see them come in,” Sasha adds. “How did they get in?”
She shouldn’t have seen them at all. Or, if she did, she shouldn’t have noticed them.
More things are changing, then. Isabella and Nolan exchange a knowing look.
“I see what you mean,” Isabella says to Nolan. Her gaze flicks between Sasha and me. “This is an unusual situation.”
Nolan releases a long-suffering sigh. “I told you,” he says to her under his breath. He looks at me and his lips quirk in reassurance. “Everything is fine,” he says. “Isabella is just checking in on our mutual … project.”
The pieces slowly slot themselves into place. Isabella, Nolan’s boss from the afterlife. The one he needed to check in with when everything started going off the rails.
She settles her attention on me with a sly smile. I shiver. Sasha nudges me with her elbow.
“Oh. This is Sasha. She helps me run the store.” The four of us stand there, awkward and silent. “Maybe she could show you around a little bit? Are you interested in anything?”
“I saw what I came for,” Isabella says, her gaze unwavering. She shifts her attention to the counter behind me, cluttered with various items. “Though I wouldn’t mind looking around a little bit. I’m intrigued by your collection.”
“Is that necessary?” Nolan asks, sounding like he’s standing at the very edge of his patience. He gives me a weary look. I shrug.
“I don’t mind,” I offer. No way she’s worse than New Balance guy. I give Isabella a shy smile. “Let me know if you see anything you’d like to know more about.”
She moves toward a shelf full of snow globes I set out for the holiday season. As she crosses the room, I’m seized by the sudden, irrational urge to defend Nolan. I don’t know why she’s here, but I have my guesses. Nolan doesn’t deserve to suffer for my own indecision.
“Nolan’s been great,” I blurt out, my pulse fluttering like butterfly wings. “He’s been very … helpful during this process. So if he’s—if he’s in trouble or something, he—um. He shouldn’t be.”