Julia

“There’s no way that I can get a rental truck four days early, not this close to Christmas.” Dad sits back from his laptop with a sigh, rubbing his lean face. He looks so crestfallen that I go over and hug him.

“Don’t worry, Dad, I called ten volunteers while you were looking for one, and have them on standby. We’ve got one van, one pickup, seven cars, and Aaron’s sidecar at our disposal.” I deliberately use Aaron’s first name, just to see that little twitch it puts in the corner of Dad’s eye.

I love my Dad, and I’ve helped him run the church since Mom died. I look up to him in a lot of ways, but he has his flaws, just like everyone—the biggest one is that he prejudges people sometimes.

He’s not racist, and he doesn’t look down on the poor, but he makes certain judgments about bikers, stoners, hippies...guys with records. And the guy he’s judged the most harshly is the one I want to spend my life with.

One day I hope to prove to him that he’s got Aaron all wrong. It hurts a little that he sticks to his prejudices toward the guy who has done so much heavy lifting around the church for years. Especially because Aaron is so important to me.

But all of that is secondary now compared to reassuring Dad that we’re ready to get through this day. Twenty degrees? Icy? Hundreds of pounds of food to sort and distribute with a damn blizzard breathing down our necks?

No problem. We’re on the case.

My dad blinks in surprise, and then smiles tentatively. “Good work,” he says simply, and I hand him a fresh cup of coffee to fortify him for the day ahead.

After a quick breakfast of eggs, apple pancakes, and sausage, we’re outside helping a small crowd of volunteers unload the delivery company’s huge truck. I’m at one of the folding tables we have set up beside it, cutting open boxes of food and sorting the contents into smaller boxes to distribute.

The tables are wedged into the space between the delivery truck and the weathered side of the church, so that the heaving wind can’t blow the lighter things away. We’re hoping to eventually add a covered bay along the side to make unloading in extreme weather easier, but we can’t quite get to that project yet. There are too many more important ones in the way.

The church is creaky and old, formerly a Dutch Reformed church that was sold after Hurricane Irene flooded so much of the area. A lot of people moved out of town after that. We moved in, and fixing and updating the big wooden building is as much a part of our lives as ministry or charity.

That’s actually how I met Aaron Gates, former biker, current bouncer, handyman, dog daddy, and the man of my dreams. He is a guy who has spent a third of his life in jail or on parole for a crime he didn’t commit, all so his brother wouldn’t have to be put away for even longer. Now, he keeps drunks from acting up in town by night, and helps us with our church projects by day.

I remember the day I met him, over two years ago. He was new in town, and my father, who believes in second chances, as long as they don’t involve dating his daughter, apparently, offered him a place in the congregation. Soon after that he started volunteering, and that was how I first crossed paths with him—him carrying lumber up to the steeple to reinforce it from within.

He’s a mountain of a man. Big, burly, solid—he towers over everyone I know, even my dad, who is a beanpole. He’s actually the exact opposite of my dad, appearance-wise—a little scruffy, with keen dark eyes, and short hair that almost looks black and is constantly swept back. When I saw him stomp past, whistling with what looked like an entire tree’s worth of lumber on one muscled shoulder, everything stopped inside me, and all I could do was stare.

I don’t really date. There isn’t much opportunity—I don’t have much time between church, volunteering, and commuting to and from seminary in Rochester, where I live for half the week during the semester. But every time I’m home and even remotely near Aaron, he’s always in my thoughts.

Who would be better to spend the rest of my life with than my best buddy, the guy who gets things done, the guy to whom I can tell any secret and know that he will keep it? Yes, he’s a lot older than I am, and there are some people in town who will never trust him—but I do. And I wish Dad did.

I get working as soon as I leave my dad, distributing frozen chickens into boxes—three to a box, along with a package of frozen ground beef. The vegetarians get beans, tofu, nuts, wild rice mixes, squash, and a couple of those horrible fake turkey loaves that apparently taste a lot better than they look. As I empty each box, I set it aside, and the man himself lumbers out of the truck with another.

“So, how’s it going?” Aaron asks with that tender-eyed smile as he sets the big box on the table with a soft thud.

I beam at him. “We have enough food to give everyone half again as much as last year, take care of a lot of drop-ins, and then fill up our larders, too. I don’t know how Whitman did it all, but I’ll take the early delivery if it means we can get it all out before the storm comes.” I tend to chatter when I’m excited.

“Me too.” Again, I see that brief flash of a grin—a pretty rare occurrence. Aaron does smile a lot, especially when he’s with me—or with his dog, who is keeping some of the other volunteers’ kids busy playing. But he lights up when he’s around me. People have commented on it before.

My father has also commented on it, and not in a good way.

However, in my dad’s head, I’ll probably always be twelve years old, even after he’s retired, and I’ve taken over ministry. Maybe he would keep any guy who looks at me like Aaron does under a microscope. I wouldn’t know, because I don’t notice other guys.

Not like this.

I’ve already decided to do something about this whole ridiculous “unresolved sexual tension” thing. Ridiculous because I’m an adult, we’re both single, and we should really do something about this.

Once the boxes are loaded up and closed, they go on a hand truck out to the volunteers’ vehicles. The first cars are already coming back from their first set of deliveries, but Aaron has been stuck here, transferring cases of food and helping the less capable volunteers push their assigned hand trucks.

I love watching him work. The man is tireless. I can only imagine what he would be like in bed—not that I know much about that sort of thing, but hey, a girl can dream.

I’m catching myself staring at his ass for the third time when Marion, one of my volunteers, comes up to me, brushing snow off her rust-colored parka. She’s a tall older woman with a long, strong-jawed face, and she smiles awkwardly at me. “Hey.”

“Hi, Marion, what’s going on?” I rearrange the contents of one of the boxes, making sure the loaves of bread don’t get squashed, then fold it shut as I look up at her.

“A bit of odd news, actually. I’m just trying to find out who knows what. Did you hear about the mistletoe? Someone put it up all over town.” Her lips twitch with a mix of amusement and baffled curiosity.

I blink at her slowly. “I’ve been here sorting chickens and canned goods since about eight. I haven’t heard anything about this.” What exactly did I miss?

“Mistletoe?” Aaron frowns as he brings coffee over in two plain white mugs. He hands me one, looks at Marion, who has clearly been out in the weather, and hands his over to her without missing a beat.

“Thank you.” She warms her long fingers around the mug—not even the thickest gloves will keep out the biting cold if you’re out there long enough. “Yes, the town’s thick with it. Looks like some kind of prank. I guess the church didn’t get hit?”

“Not as far as I know,” I venture.

“That’s because I took all those ridiculous sprigs down,” my father sighs as he comes out, entering distribution figures into a spreadsheet on his laptop. “This morning, seven sharp, on my morning walk. I’m all for a good prank, but this is still God’s house.”

“I guess so, Reverend.” Marion takes a deep swallow of her coffee while Aaron patiently turns to get himself and my Dad some more from inside. “Seems pretty strange, though. I wonder who would do something like that?”

My dad folds his arms, a faint, disinterested smile on his face. “I have no idea.”

“You’re no fun, Dad,” I tease him once Marion goes back with her arms full, ready to start loading up her car again.

He eyes me. “Don’t tell me you were in on this mistletoe prank. Apparently they’re hanging everywhere in town.”

I need to invite Aaron into town. “Uh, no, this is actually the first that I have heard of it. I’m kind of wondering who did it.”

There are some really fun weirdos in Phoenicia. Most of them were either priced out of Woodstock, got sick of New York City, or seem to have just sprouted up here, like Dr. Whitman’s son, Jack. Now that guy is definitely my number one suspect for a Christmas-themed prank like this.

After all, every year starting mid-December, his Dad’s lawn looks like the Macy’s Christmas Parade, and his family throws a Christmas feast for the whole town and makes huge food donations. Jack was raised in a family that loves Christmas.

Jack—who is sexy but can’t hold a candle to Aaron—is the fun kind of idle rich. He’s a skier with a rack of trophies, known for following the snow season across the equator to Australia, just so he can enjoy it longer. The half of the year that he’s here, he parties and flirts his way through the mountains. Then, as soon as the snow melts, he’s gone again.

He has the time, cash, and energy to double his father’s food donation early—and yet, right on time. He has just the kind of odd sense of humor, paired with a huge list of friends and the connections necessary, to see that our morning food distribution wakes up everyone early so they’ll have to witness the prank—his prank? —in town. The big weirdo may also have the world’s only bulk mistletoe hook-up—he probably got a reference from his father.

I have to hand it to the both of them about the donation part, at least. Most rich New Yorkers are alarmingly self-interested. But not those two. They’re going above and beyond to spread the Christmas cheer—and maybe some kisses—this year.

I turn to eye Aaron speculatively as he comes back out with mugs of coffee in each fist. He hands one to my father, who thanks him a little stiffly, and then comes over to me...slowing down with a look of mild worry on his face. “What?”

I smile with all the innocence. “Nothing.”