The Rules of Mistletoe

Chapter One - Holly

Rule #9: My future husband and I will have a meet-cute. We’ll actually like each other right from the start, not like in Harry Met Sally

Being in a crowded room and feeling like I am completely alone feels like the story of my life. But it never feels more true than when I am at a faculty party. I stand on the edges of the decorated gymnasium, watching my co-workers and their partners mingle and laugh. “Jingle Bell Rock” is playing faintly in the background, loud enough for us to hear the music, but not loud enough that you can’t have a conversation—not that I’m having any conversations.

I glance around again, looking for someone to talk to. I might feel a bit lonely, but there’s also a part of me that’s bursting right now because Christmas is one week away. In two days I’ll be headed home to see my family, and nothing is better than Christmas with my family. The excitement inside of me is about to boil over. I need to talk to someone—anyone—about how much I love this holiday. But it probably won’t gain me any good graces with my co-workers. Though no one has actually said it to my face, I know I’ve been dubbed as the quirky, weird art teacher. And that’s okay, because that’s exactly who I am. I wear bright, funky clothes and sometimes I randomly sing instructions to my students.

“Stop looking like you’re all sad and alone,” Adrienne, my roommate and coworker, says as she walks up next to me. “I know you’re thrilled to be here because of Christmas, but you aren’t talking to anyone.”

“Maybe it’s the other people not talking to me that’s the problem.” I smile at her. “See, now I don’t look so sad and alone, you’re talking to me.”

“She lives with you, she doesn’t count,” Felix—Adrienne’s cousin—says; he came with her as her plus one and it’s good to see him again. I didn’t have anyone to bring because all of the people I know in California are here in this room. I have lived here for three years, and I’ve yet to meet someone who doesn’t work at the school, or is related to someone who works at the school.

“She totally counts.” I give both of them a hug. “And I am glad you two finally showed up, so I don’t have to stand here all awkward and alone.”

Adrienne glances around the room. She teaches ninth grade English at our high school. “You could have talked to Mr. Sullivan.”

I hate how she waggles her eyebrows as she says his name. It makes it feel like the unrequited feelings I have for our boss are childish and juvenile. I give her a light shove, careful not to spill my cup of hot chocolate—with extra candy canes in it, because that makes it taste even more like Christmas. Felix snorts.

“Do you have something to say?” I whirl at him and he holds up his hands innocently.

“Sweetie,” Adrienne loops one of her arms through mine. I’ve never been a huge fan of physical affection; words of affirmation are more my thing if we’re getting technical about it. But Adrienne’s touch always seems to bring me some level of comfort. “You’re nearly thirty. He’s almost forty. Talk to him, not as your boss. Actually, talk to him. See where things go.”

Just at the thought of it, my hands get clammy. Deep down, I know I’m being slightly ridiculous. How can I be about to turn twenty-nine and still not have the nerve to talk to a man that I’m attracted to? A man that follows every single rule and dream I have for my ideal husband. He’s everything I’ve ever wanted, everything I’ve ever dreamed of.

Which is exactly why I can’t talk to him.

My mom showed me my first romantic comedy—While You Were Sleeping—when I was just six years old. I’ve been hooked on all the classics ever since. I’ve been dreaming about finding a love like they do in all of the movies since I was seven.

When I was fifteen, my mom had me and my sister make a list of rules for our dream guy for fun. I’m pretty sure my sister Tally lost hers shortly after that, because she’d only been about ten at the time, but I’ve kept mine. I knew what I wanted then, and it is still what I want now.

Adrienne thinks I need to dump my list and just casually date, see what’s out there. I can’t though. It’s important to me to find someone who follows all of my rules. And Mr. Sullivan follows all of them.

But the idea of actually talking to Jim—Mr. Sullivan I mean—almost makes me break out in hives. Just like always though, my eyes dart to where Jim stands in the middle of the room, laughing at something that Mr. Jones, the PE teacher, is saying. No matter where we are, I can always pick him out in a crowd. Knowing where Jim is and what he’s doing seems as easy to me as breathing right now. A fact that I’ve never told anyone, because I know that’s probably borderline stalkerish.

I should also really start calling him Mr. Sullivan in my head, maybe that would help me squash my feelings and help me have a half decent conversation with him.

“I can wave him over here,” Adrienne says, lifting her hand. I tug it back down.

“No!”

“You’ve got to do it sometime, little chicka.” Felix pinches my arm affectionately. He’s the only person allowed to call me that, and it’s only because I am little. I’m barely five feet tall, not that I really notice I’m that short, except for when I’m around extremely tall people. Like Drew Rossi, the other art teacher.

I blink in surprise. I don’t think about Drew that often, but I am thinking about his tall, broad frame now because he’s just walked through the doors of the gym, his hands stuffed in his pockets, jaw tight. “What’s he doing here?”

Adrienne and Felix both turn to see Drew standing in the doorway. “Mr. Anti-social decided to make an appearance.”

I nod in response to Adrienne’s words, truly wondering why he’s here. I take in his tall, built frame, slightly matted hair—probably from his bike helmet—and dark beard. He’s wearing a forest green sweater, so at least he kind of looks like Christmas. But in the three years that I’ve lived in California and taught here in Laguna Beach, I’ve never seen Drew at a social event. And our school hosts them often for teachers—something about wanting to build comradery. Drew doesn’t do social events. It is a well-known fact that he isn’t a people person. He doesn’t have friends or people—something I quickly found out after I moved in and invited him to one of Adrienne’s movie nights. It felt like the right thing to do, since he lives in the little beach cottage next door and he is the only other person in the art department, but he shut it down fast, saying he doesn’t do friends.

Ever since then, I try to be my bubbly, charming self whenever I’m around him just to see if I can make his frown deepen. I usually win this weird bet I’ve made with myself. At this point though, I’m fairly certain that there’s nothing in this world that could make Drew Rossi smile. The kids love him though, and I haven’t figured out why.

I take a sip of my hot chocolate, the only thing right now that will help me not soak in all his grumpiness. Because even though I am generally successful at making him frown more, his bad attitude around me always seems to bring me down. The pepperminty chocolate gives me a burst of energy.

“You know what, maybe I will talk to Jim.” I pull my arm out from Adrienne’s who is now gaping at me.

“Really?” She sounds surprised. I’m surprised, honestly. But maybe it’s time to be brave. I walk away from her and Felix before I can change my mind. It’s only when I’m almost to Jim—Mr. Sullivan I mean—that I notice I’m not the only one walking toward him.

Drew reaches him right before I do, giving me a look that says ‘what are you doing?’ and what am I doing exactly? But it’s obvious where I’m headed, so I can’t back down now. Instead, I make my smile bigger as I reach the two men who are now talking to each other.

“Hello!” I say a tad bit too cheerfully and both of them pause their conversation and look down at me. They literally have to look down because they both are over six feet tall.

“Hello,” Drew says with what some people might think is a smirk, but it’s really just less of a frown than the normal expression he has on his face. But I won’t let him or his grumpiness derail me. I give him a tiny nod in response and look up at Jim.

“Hi,” he greets, his tone telling me he’s surprised that I’ve approached him in a setting that isn’t a school meeting, which is the only place I’ve ever actually spoken to him. “Are you enjoying the party, Ms. Nelson?”

I hate that he doesn’t call me Holly, but he’s talking to me and I haven’t passed out yet. I can do this. “Yes! Christmas is my favorite holiday, so I love any extra parties to celebrate it.”

I swear Drew lets out a snort, but he covers it up with a cough. “Excuse me,” he says, “I need a drink, I’ll be back.”

Then he’s gone, and it’s just me and Mr. Jim Sullivan. He’s so tall that I have to crane my neck to really look into his deep brown eyes. His sandy blonde hair is cut short and there’s not even a hint of a five o’clock shadow—which I love because I imagine beards would make kissing scratchy.

I shift nervously on my feet. Now is not the time to be thinking about kissing. At all. Period. Or to be thinking about the fact that I’ve never actually kissed anyone before or no one has ever kissed me. I mean, there have been moments and dates when men have tried, but it wasn’t the perfect time—I mean, come on, how romantic is getting kissed in front of your door? It’s so cliché. I want something better. But because of that, it means I’m less than a week away from turning twenty-nine and I’ve never been kissed.

“No mistletoe?” I blurt out of nowhere and Jim looks more surprised than before. “I mean, it just seems like a very festive thing to have at a work party.”

I really need to stop talking before I say anything else that will embarrass myself. But I can’t seem to make my mouth stop moving. “Not that I’ve ever kissed anyone under mistletoe before.”

Oh my gosh, Holly. SHUT UP. This man does not need to know about your kissing history. Seriously, why can I not stop thinking about my kissing history? Or lack of history.

“Anyway.” Now the words seem to be pouring out of my mouth like I have no control over them—which to be fair, I don’t think I do. “Are you going home for Christmas?”

Jim is still watching me with an amused look on his face and I know I’ve completely messed this all up. There is no way this man sees me as more than a young, nervous teacher. What is it about him that makes me want to say anything and everything that comes to mind without pausing for a break and makes me sound like a complete fool?

“I am. Home to Minnesota.” He shivers, as if the thought of going to the Midwest this time of year is the worst idea possible. “I tried to get my parents to come and visit me, but they said they don’t like to travel in the snow.”

I laugh. “But you have to travel in the snow to get to them?”

“Yes.” Jim smiles like he’s reliving a happy memory. “But it’s worth it. My sister and her family live there too, and I love being with all of them.”

I nearly let out a sigh. Do not fall in love with him more, do not. But he does fit rule number eight which is all about having a good relationship with his family.

“That’s fun though, even if it’s snowy,” I say. “I’m going home too. To Utah, which will probably have snow, but I don’t think it’s as cold as Minnesota.”

“I’ve never seen snow,” Drew says out of nowhere, and Jim and I both glance at him. I didn’t even realize he’d come back. When Jim’s around, it’s like the only thing I can focus on is him.

“Man, we have got to change that,” Jim says and I feel a funny tickle run through my body. Drew, the man who has no friends is friends with Jim? “Are you sure you don’t want to come home with me for Christmas? The offer still stands.”

Drew glances in my direction then back to Jim. “No, thank you though. I’ve got other plans.”

Yeah, his plans probably include hibernating in his little beach cottage all alone and running in the morning like he does every day. Not that I notice much, I’m generally a heavy, late sleeper. But if I’m working on a painting, it’s like sleep doesn’t exist so I’ve seen him out in the mornings off to run on the beach. What kind of crazy person wakes up at the crack of dawn to go running? I will never understand that. But I’d bet his plans include lots of running. And whatever it is he does in his beach cottage. Bungalow. Whatever.

“What did you say you were doing again?” Jim asks Drew, and I’m glad because I was going to make a bigger fool of myself by asking that question.

“I’m going home with a friend,” Drew says, looking at me again and I take a small step back. Why does he keep looking at me like that when he says friend? Like I’m the friend he’s talking about? Drew Rossi and I are not friends, and I am not bringing him home with me for Christmas.

“Anyone I know?” Jim is asking and I’m backing away before I can get caught up in whatever this weird conversation is. But the heel of my shoe and the back of my long burgundy dress have other ideas. My heel snags on the dress (another good reminder about why I generally wear pants and flat heeled shoes) and pulls me down.

The next thing I know, I hit the ground hard on my butt and I feel hot liquid soak into the front of my dress and into my bra.

I close my eyes, hoping I’ll simply disappear. Maybe if I pretend hard enough, when I open my eyes, this will all be a really bad dream. Except the part where I had a semi-normal conversation with Jim.

“Are you okay?” Jim’s voice comes from somewhere above me shattering my daydream, and when a strong hand grabs my arm to help lift me up, I know it’s not his. I’d know the feel of Jim’s hands purely from his handshakes alone.

My eyes snap open and I find Drew standing in front of me, helping me up. Why on earth is he the one who came to my rescue? Once I’m standing, I glance down at my dress and feel my cheeks go warm. The dress might be salvageable, but I will not be saved from the fact that my boss—the man that I spend most nights dreaming about—along with the rest of the faculty and their partners can now see the snowman bra I chose to wear. Because naturally, I don’t own a solid-colored bra. Normally, I love my adventurous choices, but right now I regret everything.