Chapter 21

CHAPTER 21

Noelle

M y stomach is jumpy, my pulse is fluttery, and my heart is a drum. I need a mug of chamomile tea and a bubble bath. But what I have is a stalker and a scavenger hunt.

And a protector. I eye Nick. By rights, he should be at the inn getting ready for the weekend. Stocking the bar or practicing "ho, ho, hos" in the mirror. Or something. Instead, he's appointed himself my guardian angel. And judging by his wide-legged defensive stance and fisted hands, not to mention the steel in his hazel eyes, he's taking this job way too seriously.

"Open it," he urges.

Right. The clue. I tear into the envelope making no effort to open it neatly. He leans closer to read the note over my shoulder, and his scent—somehow spicy and pine-fresh at the same time—fills my nose. I take what I hope is a subtle sniff and try to focus on the clue rather than the man brushing against my shoulder. It's basically an impossible task.

You're nearly done. Your final clue signals when an angel gets his wings.

I feel my brow scrunching up as I stare down at the words. Nick's proximity must be scrambling my brain cells, because I've got nothing. I'm clueless, as it were.

I look up at him. "Any ideas?"

He drops his chin and gapes at me. "You're kidding, right?"

I read the clue again. What am I missing? I return my attention to his face.

"No, I'm not kidding. I have no idea what this one means." I try to concentrate. "An angel, apparently a male one. Maybe the topper on the tree in the town square? That's an angel, isn't it?"

He's shaking his head before I even finish the sentence. "No. For one thing, the tree topper in December is an angel; the July tree topper is an angelfish ."

Right. The summer tree is decorated with, well, summery things.

"Oh, yeah." I twist my mouth to the side and think.

He continues, "Besides, it's obvious what this clue means. It's the easiest one."

I throw my hands wide. "Obviously it's not obvious to me. Care to enlighten me?"

"It's from It's a Wonderful Life. You know, the Jimmy Stewart movie."

"Okay, so what's it mean? "

He's side-eyeing me now. "You've seen the movie, right?"

"No. Actually, I haven't."

I wait for the reaction that this admission has garnered more than once over the years. There it is. His jaw hinges open and his eyes bug out.

"You haven't seen It's a Wonderful Life ?"

"Correct."

"How is that possible? How is it possible in general, but also, how could you have grown up in this town and not watched that movie at least once? The Mistletoe Movie House runs it every December."

I shrug. "I don't know, Nick. I just haven't. But you clearly have. So, what does the clue mean?"

He shakes his head, marveling at this gap in my Christmas knowledge. "At the end of the movie, Zuzu says?—"

"Zuzu?"

"George Bailey's little girl." He raises both eyebrows. "Stewart plays George Bailey."

"Okay, what does Zuzu say?"

"There's a bell ornament hanging on the Christmas tree in the scene, and it starts to ring. Zuzu points to it and says ‘every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings.'"

I consider this. "So we need to find a bell hanging on a tree? Or just any bell?"

There must be dozens of bells in town. Maybe hundreds. A bell dangles over the entrance of every storefront. The preschool has a handbell choir, which is every bit as chaotic as it sounds. There's a bell on the circulation desk at the library—a round brass bell like the ones hotel front desks used to have .

He interrupts my mental inventory of bells. "Did you bring the map?"

"Yep." I unlock my passenger side door and lean in to retrieve it from my glove compartment.

We smooth it out on the hood of my car. He jabs a finger. "There."

He's pointing to the Candlelight Chapel right in the middle of town. It has an open belfry, so I can see the logic, but it's not the no-brainer he's making it out to be.

"Couldn't it just as easily be one of the churches? Or even the courthouse? The chapel isn't the only bell tower in town."

"True, but it's the chapel. I know it is."

He's probably right. In addition to being Mistletoe Mountain's go-to wedding spot, the nondenominational chapel gets heavy use for Christmas programs and events. It's been this way ever since the Great Hitching Post Brawl of Christmas Eve 1916. The Methodist reverend and the Catholic priest were both running late thanks to a snowstorm. The two duked it out over the last available carriage parking spot, and congregants from both churches jumped into the fray, landing all involved on the Naughty List. To avoid a repeat, the town manager strongly recommended that all holiday events be held at the chapel and open to the whole town. And that's the way it's been for over a hundred years.

"Okay. Do you have time to go there now?"

He glances at his watch and then his phone before answering. "Ariana texted to let me know she'll drop the Santa suit off at the inn. The girls have everything else under control. Let's do it."

I pull into the cobblestone alley behind the chapel and park illegally. The Christmas in July crowds have arrived in force, and I feel some empathy for the long-ago men of the cloth and their parking woes. I wait in the car until Nick appears in my rearview mirror. He's moving fast, striding toward me from the direction of the library, where he returned Farah's car and checked in on Sage and Thyme.

When he reaches my back bumper, I open my door and step out into the alley. In the distance, I hear faint music, traffic noises, and voices raised in laughter.

"Ready?" he asks as I fall into step beside him.

"Ready."

I can't help swiveling around to confirm there's not a loser in a hat and sunglasses lurking in the bushes. Nick notices.

"I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

"I know."

I must not sound terribly convincing because he stops walking and turns to face me. I stop, too. His fingers are feather soft as he tips my chin up so that I'm staring into his eyes.

"Noe, I need you to hear this and believe it. I am not going to let anything happen to you." He rasps the words, his gold and brown starburst eyes searing my skin with their heat.

One hand slides down my arm coming to rest on my hip. The other circles the side of my neck, warm on my bare skin. He tugs me toward him and I move willingly, pressed up against him, my eyes still locked on his. My breath, hot and fast .

He dips his head, and my lips part, ready for his mouth on mine. More than ready.

And then he stops. He stops? He can't stop. There's no stopping in kissing. A mew of protest escapes my parted lips. He swallows.

"I'm going to kiss you now."

But he doesn't. Because I rise on my toes and kiss him first—softly, tentatively, sweetly.

A low rumble sounds in his throat and he yanks me even closer, my hips flush against his body, as he grips my neck and kisses me back. There's nothing soft, tentative, or sweet about it. He claims my mouth with his—hard, fast, and assured.

I arch my back and he digs his fingers into my hips. I'm twenty again. Transported by the familiar pressure of his mouth through time and space to a London street, oblivious to tutting passersby and honking cars. And at the same time, this kiss is nothing like any kiss we've shared. It's richer, deeper, and tinged with life and loss and need.

I don't think. I just give myself over to this feeling. And, wow, this feeling is strong. My ears ring. My chest vibrates with emotion. My … eyes open and I tune into the fact that approximately four feet away and maybe ninety feet above us in the bell tower, the gigantic church bell is clanging.

The power of thought slowly returns to me, as the bell peals overhead. Oh, right. The bell. That's why we're here. I manage a shaky laugh and step back, pressing my hands flat against Nick's chest because I'm not quite ready to break contact.

"Church bell," I croak in response to his dazed expression.

He nods and drops his arm around my waist, snugging me into his side. I lean in gratefully because my legs are jelly. We wait for the ringing to end and the bell to fall silent. It's a good thing we kissed. It's better than good—for many reasons, one of them being that it probably saved our hearing. If we hadn't detoured to explore one another's tonsils, we'd be up in the belfry right now.

Once I can hear myself think, I clear my throat. "So."

"So. Are we gonna talk about this now or after we look for the clue?" His eyes bore into mine. "Because make no mistake, Noelle, we are going to talk about it."

If I have anything to say about it, we're gonna do a lot more than talk . But I leave this thought unexpressed. "After. Let's get up in the tower and back down before the bell rings the half-hour."

He searches my face with a skeptical expression. "We are going to talk, though."

"Yes," I promise. "Come on, let's look for the clue."

I pull him toward the walkway that leads to the front of the white clapboard chapel. Together, we run up the three wide steps to the always-unlocked door and into the narthex.

Inside, the chapel is hushed, cool, and dimly lit. The sanctuary doors are propped open and the early evening sunlight streams through the high windows. As I peek in and see the altar at the front, I remember the last time I stood looking down the aisle. A sudden realization punches me in the chest.

"This is where you and Carol were married."

I know this, of course. I was her maid of honor. But the memory is a faded one. It wasn't front of mind when we decided to look here for the clue. I drop his hand, and he gives me a sidelong glance .

"What?"

So much for talking later. I take a breath and gesture toward the bench inside along the wall. "I have to tell you something before we look for the next clue."

He plants his feet. "You can tell me right here. We don't need to sit."

"Please?"

He pulls a face but parks his butt. I sit next to him and angle my knees toward him in a half-turn.

"So, what do you want to tell me?"

"How do I say this?"

"Just spit it out, Noelle. I'm a big boy. If you regret the kiss, I'll be?—"

"—No!" I pull myself together and try again, less shouty. "I mean, no. I don't regret the kiss. I very much don't regret the kiss."

"Good." His mouth quirks into a satisfied grin. A very kissable grin.

"But," I continue before I get distracted by the extreme kissability of his lips, "remember when I told you Carol asked me to do something before she died?"

His grin evaporates. "Yes," he says carefully.

"She asked me if I still had feelings for you."

"She what?"

The only way out is through, I remind myself, paraphrasing Vermont's favorite poet. Then I blurt, "She said that she wanted us to be here for each other after she was gone."

He scrubs a hand over his face. "I don't understand."

"I don't know," I wail. "I hate that she died thinking I was lusting after her husband. "

I don't know how I expect him to respond to this confession. But it's definitely not by laughing in my face. And yet, that's exactly what he does.

Unamused, I flop back against the bench, cross my arms, and wait for him to stop cracking up. Finally, he wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and takes a long breath.

"Sorry, Noelle. I can tell this has been eating at you."

"Well, yeah."

"Carol did not think you were lusting after me."

I give him the side-eye. "Hmph. Sure seems like it."

"How do I explain this?" He clicks his tongue against his teeth. "Okay, you know how some folks are really specific when they write their wills because they want to make sure their cherished possessions end up with people who truly appreciate their rock collection or first edition books or whatever?"

"I guess."

"That was Carol. At the end, she spent a lot of time trying to decide which of the girls would most love each piece of jewelry, which friend would want her sewing machine, who would take good care of her signed hockey puck. She chose something for everyone."

"This just confirms she was upset with me. She didn't choose anything for me."

The grin is back. "Yeah, she did. She gave you me." He stands up. "Come on. Let's go get the clue before the bell rings again."

I stare at his outstretched palm for a long moment. Then I take his hand and let him haul me to my feet and across the vestibule to a twisting flight of stairs.