He noticed the sprig of mistletoe that had spilled out onto the desk and, leaning one arm against the ledge of the front desk, pointed. “You know that’s a parasite?”

“Mistletoe?”

“Indeed. It impales its host with its tiny roots, siphoning off water and nutrients to the point of potentially killing the tree.”

“I thought it was supposed to be romantic.”

“That association came later. The Celts used to bring it indoors during the winter months to help brighten the ambience and it came to represent fertility. And the name itself comes from words in an old dialect that meant ‘bird droppings’ since its seeds are often spread from, well, bird droppings.”

“You’re like a walking mistletoe wiki.”

“When I study something . . .” He pointed to his temple. “. . . it’s a steel trap.”

“And you’ve studied mistletoe?”

His gaze dropped away from mine as if he realized he’d given too much away. “I did.”

My curiosity got the better of my mouth. “For someone?” I probed, suddenly nervous there really was a Poppy-Millicent after all. Waiting for his return across the pond.

To my dismay he answered with a circumspect, “Possibly.”

Which wasn’t what I wanted to hear. “I thought you said you’ve never had crushes.”

“No. I said I’d never been in love. There’s quite a difference. And I already admitted to having had a crush before.”

“Oh, right. Mrs. Darby.”

“She was Ms. Darby when I knew her. Her new last name is Ramsbottom.”

“You made up that name.”

“I could never make up a name as magnificent as Ramsbottom.” His lips twitched and his eyes danced.

“Was Mrs. Ramsbottom the one who inspired your mistletoe research?”

“She was not.”

Silence hung. He showed no inclination to fill it.

“Then who was?” I pressed.

His expression shuttered. “That is a much longer story.”

I held out my arms. “Look at me. Standing here. Surrounded by all this time.”

“Then now is the perfect opportunity to ask you about tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes. Auntie Esha had such a lovely experience at the parade and again this morning at the Gingerbread Café, I was rather hoping to keep this uncharacteristic streak of good fortune going and venture out to that lights experience you said wasn’t entirely trumped up.”

“It’s in Chickasha and it’s real.”

“Excellent!” He straightened up and tapped the palms of both of his hands against the desktop—rat tata!—in satisfied approval. I liked seeing him more chill like this. “What do you think about going there this evening?”

“You, me, and your aunt?”

“And anyone else you can think of. Your grandmother or father, perhaps.” He glanced over at the front doors and lowered his voice, leaning closer. “Though I’d prefer a slight break from the dentist, if that’s all right with you.”

“A hundred percent.”

“Such a relief.” He leaned back.