answered solemnly. “At Christmas, it’s the thought that counts.”
“What kind of—”
He pointed overhead. A little boy who couldn’t be a day over six lay draped over the closest branch, a purple-berried twig dangling from his tiny hands.
Sarah couldn’t stifle her laughter. “That’s açaí, not mistletoe.”
“Christmas,” Jack reminded her.
She smiled. “The thought that counts?”
“Absolutely.”
He put down his tools and cupped her face with his warm, calloused hands. He lowered his head until his lips were barely a breath from hers. “Merry day before the night before Christmas, Sarah Phimm.”
She slid her fingers into his hair and brushed her parted lips against his. “Back atcha, Jack Uzi.”
His mouth covered hers. The tree disappeared, the forest disappeared, the entire world disappeared. All that existed, all that mattered, was her and him, their mouths together, their hearts and breath as one.
The children’s whoops of delighted laughter brought her back to reality.
She pulled away, cheeks flaming, lips tingling. “Build your fireplace mantel, Santa.”
He grinned and went back to work on the small wooden platform. The raised base would keep the presents a safe distance from the ground, and the round-the-trunk design ensured the gifts would be visible from all angles.
She sat at the foot of a different tree to watch.
A split second of giggling was the only warning she got before an overhead branch dipped and another twig of dark-purple berries dangled over her forehead.
Jack immediately rose to his feet, as if he took this sacred duty very seriously indeed, and strode over to crouch beneath the giggling, trembling bough.
“This isn’t even how mistletoe works, ” she grumbled with mock Scroogery.
He kissed her anyway.
Even when he was done with the lower platform and had moved on to rain-proofing the top and wind-proofing the sides, he abandoned his tools and tasks and carols mid-word every time a handful of berries appeared anywhere near Sarah’s head.
The kids loved it. She loved it, although she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of saying so.
She suspected he already knew.
The more he built up the makeshift mantel, the more he tore away at the walls around her heart. How could she possibly leave this man? Her stomach clenched as an even worse thought occurred to her. Even if hell froze over and her rule-cleaving superiors somehow gave her another chance, how could she possibly go back to living invisibly, silently, robotically, now that she knew what it was like to truly live?
Perhaps this was the real reason why the Heavenly Council never doled out second chances. Not because they held their angels to an impossible standard of perfection. But because no one would want it, after experiencing the wonders of imperfection.
She gazed at Jack. It was definitely love. She blushed beneath his every heated glance and melted at the barest brush of his lips. He was silly and flawed and joyous and sincere and thoughtful and bullheaded and everything she could ever possibly want. . .
And could never have.
Chapter Eleven
T HE NEXT day, Jack rounded up Sarah and all of the village children. He bundled the kids into the bus he’d donated—driven by one of the parents—and followed behind with Sarah, in the SUV.
Being as it was Christmastime, there’d be no classes until next year. Being as it was Christmas Eve, this was his one and only opportunity to get presents under the tree before showtime. Especially since here, it was often the custom to open gifts on Christmas Eve, rather than Christmas Day.
Thanks to an evening children’s mass, the kids wouldn’t be back until after ten. Jack intended to have the town tree overflowing with presents long before their arrival. He dragged the kids into every storefront the small pueblo had to offer, gauging their interest in various toys and measuring clothes against their small frames.
They had to stop earlier than he
“What kind of—”
He pointed overhead. A little boy who couldn’t be a day over six lay draped over the closest branch, a purple-berried twig dangling from his tiny hands.
Sarah couldn’t stifle her laughter. “That’s açaí, not mistletoe.”
“Christmas,” Jack reminded her.
She smiled. “The thought that counts?”
“Absolutely.”
He put down his tools and cupped her face with his warm, calloused hands. He lowered his head until his lips were barely a breath from hers. “Merry day before the night before Christmas, Sarah Phimm.”
She slid her fingers into his hair and brushed her parted lips against his. “Back atcha, Jack Uzi.”
His mouth covered hers. The tree disappeared, the forest disappeared, the entire world disappeared. All that existed, all that mattered, was her and him, their mouths together, their hearts and breath as one.
The children’s whoops of delighted laughter brought her back to reality.
She pulled away, cheeks flaming, lips tingling. “Build your fireplace mantel, Santa.”
He grinned and went back to work on the small wooden platform. The raised base would keep the presents a safe distance from the ground, and the round-the-trunk design ensured the gifts would be visible from all angles.
She sat at the foot of a different tree to watch.
A split second of giggling was the only warning she got before an overhead branch dipped and another twig of dark-purple berries dangled over her forehead.
Jack immediately rose to his feet, as if he took this sacred duty very seriously indeed, and strode over to crouch beneath the giggling, trembling bough.
“This isn’t even how mistletoe works, ” she grumbled with mock Scroogery.
He kissed her anyway.
Even when he was done with the lower platform and had moved on to rain-proofing the top and wind-proofing the sides, he abandoned his tools and tasks and carols mid-word every time a handful of berries appeared anywhere near Sarah’s head.
The kids loved it. She loved it, although she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of saying so.
She suspected he already knew.
The more he built up the makeshift mantel, the more he tore away at the walls around her heart. How could she possibly leave this man? Her stomach clenched as an even worse thought occurred to her. Even if hell froze over and her rule-cleaving superiors somehow gave her another chance, how could she possibly go back to living invisibly, silently, robotically, now that she knew what it was like to truly live?
Perhaps this was the real reason why the Heavenly Council never doled out second chances. Not because they held their angels to an impossible standard of perfection. But because no one would want it, after experiencing the wonders of imperfection.
She gazed at Jack. It was definitely love. She blushed beneath his every heated glance and melted at the barest brush of his lips. He was silly and flawed and joyous and sincere and thoughtful and bullheaded and everything she could ever possibly want. . .
And could never have.
Chapter Eleven
T HE NEXT day, Jack rounded up Sarah and all of the village children. He bundled the kids into the bus he’d donated—driven by one of the parents—and followed behind with Sarah, in the SUV.
Being as it was Christmastime, there’d be no classes until next year. Being as it was Christmas Eve, this was his one and only opportunity to get presents under the tree before showtime. Especially since here, it was often the custom to open gifts on Christmas Eve, rather than Christmas Day.
Thanks to an evening children’s mass, the kids wouldn’t be back until after ten. Jack intended to have the town tree overflowing with presents long before their arrival. He dragged the kids into every storefront the small pueblo had to offer, gauging their interest in various toys and measuring clothes against their small frames.
They had to stop earlier than he
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