Jenni Mojaverian

     Ethan saw the exact moment that Nicky spotted the green bundle hanging over her head. At first, she jumped, like it was a large bug scurrying up the wall. But then her eyes narrowed, and she shot a suspicious glance at him.

Honestly, he forgot he hung up mistletoe around the house the moment he finished doing it, already distracted by the next big task for his holiday party. He’d gotten too excited by the whole prospect of throwing a party in the first place, wanting to give his friends something festive to look forward to, especially the ones that didn’t have family to see around this time of year. Ethan did have family to visit, but he’d opted out, already making plans to tag along to Nicky’s mom’s house in Atlanta for the holidays.

Now, he was thanking his past self for giving him the gift of catching Nicky off guard. It didn’t happen often, but he liked to think he was especially good at it. 

A few days before, he did an impression of Al Pacino that was so precise–something he didn’t even realize he had in his arsenal–Nicky spat hot coffee into her own lap. He was keeping it in his back pocket, to dust off again when she least expected it. He loved to keep her on her toes.

Ethan beamed at her. “Go on, then.”

“You wish,” she muttered, her cheeks going redder by the second. “Am I having a stress dream right now?”

Lucas emerged from the kitchen, arm full of fancy cheeses, clearly on his way to replenish the grazing boards Ethan spent hours copying from Pinterest.

“Lucas! What happens if people don’t kiss under mistletoe?”

“Ten years of bad luck.”

“Really?”

“No, I have no idea. I don’t know jack shit about Christmas.”

“Fair enough.”

Nicky started to step forward and Ethan caught her arm. “Oh no you don’t. What if he’s right and we have bad luck?”

“He literally just said he made that up.”

“But do you really want to risk it?”

Nicky pursed her lips, annoyed but clearly amused, too. “Do you even believe in luck?”

“In most cases, no.”

“Just do it already,” she rolled her eyes before tipping her face up, leaning into his space.

She smelled like cinnamon and apple from the cider he’d toiled over that morning. He had to throw out the first batch when the cap to the cinnamon fell off mid-sprinkle. Maybe he’d gotten a little too invested in this party.

Ethan was suddenly very aware that the friends scattered around his living room were quieting, watching them. If he was going to kiss her, this wasn’t the ideal setting. Why couldn’t this have happened earlier, before everyone else arrived? Why couldn’t they have found themselves under this particular door frame while she was helping him carry his six-foot Christmas tree in from the garage?

Before the moment could get too far away from him, he leaned down, angling her face with a hand on her jaw. He pressed his lips to her cheek, lingering there a beat longer than necessary, trying to memorize the feel of her soft skin. He felt her shiver, and his smile grew.

“There,” he said quietly, trying not to let his racing thoughts show in his expression. “Now we don’t have to worry about luck.”