“It’s the best present in the world,” he replies, voice rough. He clears his throat, blinking rapidly, distraught and pleased in equal measure. “You shouldn’t have.”

“I couldn’t help myself.”

He turns the bouquet in his hand, memorizing every blossom: carnations and Gerbera daisies, tiger lilies and sunflowers. The friendliest, happiest flowers I could rush-order. In a faint breath, he adds, “I wish you had.”

He places the bouquet carefully on the sofa, then twists toward me. “These are generous gifts, and I adore them. But there’s something else I really want.” His gaze drops to my mouth. When he finds his voice again, it’s low and jagged. “It’s all I want. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

My heart somersaults with a heavy, clumsy thump, then accelerates so fast that I get light-headed. “Yeah?”

A slow nod as he steps forward, attention lifting to the space above me. I look up, too, watching as a small plant blooms in midair: a cluster of green teardrop-shaped leaves, tied together with a red bow.

Mistletoe.

“It keeps appearing above your head,” he confesses. “Whenever I think about how much I want to kiss you, mistletoe manifests, and I have to hurry up and get rid of it before you notice. Sometimes I get rid of it and it immediately grows right back, even bigger than before.”

I smile. “That explains a few things.”

“You’re a powerful woman, Bettie Hughes.” His lips twist. “When you kissed me, I legitimately think it rewrote my DNA. And ever since, I’ve been dying to kiss you again.”

I tip my head up slightly. “Me, too.”

We look at each other for a long moment, letting that settle.

Then his hands spear the ends of my hair, admiring how the strands slip between his like silk, dark gaze lingering on me in question. We both exhale, no need to hide emotions anymore, to suppress. This is it.

He skims his thumb along my lower lip, and I kiss it.

I’ve got to make this good. I’ve got to make it so good that he never forgets, that when he’s looking back on the memory of me one thousand years from now, it still stands out crystal-clear.

Our first brush of lips is just holding. Familiarizing ourselves with the zing of each other’s skin when it makes impact, the nerves-going-haywire charge that tingles all over. It’s like being zapped by static electricity, then coming back for shock after shock. I expected a reverent touch, but he can’t bear to be soft because he doesn’t have the time, and he requests more with a rumble at the base of his throat. Cradles the back of my head and peppers me with little kisses that make my vision swim.

He tastes like peppermint bark, like snowcaps and starry nights. He feels like sunlight poured into the shape of a man, liquid and hot and golden. He can’t get close enough, hands all over, clinching me to him.

My head empties. I cage his jawline in my hands and kiss him fiercely, not holding back. A quick flash of his face shows me his eyes are shut, forehead furrowed like he knows this isn’t enough, that the more he takes, the faster he’ll have to go, but he can’t stop now. This is the precipice, and I know what comes next, so we’d better make the most of our fall.