I really don’t need the sprig of mistletoe I brought along because Rosie is throwing herself at me like I’m someone worth loving. Nonetheless, I pull one hand from our tangled embrace and reach into my pocket for the shoot of green with white berries and tuck it behind her ear.

When I am desperately in need of a breath I loosen her fingers from my hair and push my face into her shoulder, or rather, her soft brown scarf. Inhaling the scent is like using some sort of incredibly addictive drug. I just want more.

Her chest is heaving from the electricity between us. Kind, beautiful, Rosie. How did I ever find someone as magnificent her?

“Angelo, look. It’s snowing,” she murmurs.

“I planned that,” I reply softly in her ear, not moving from my position.

“You’re such a liar,” Rosie says playfully. I press her closer to my throbbing heart.

“I’m the best.”

“And such good fashion sense, too,” she comments, adjusting the mistletoe in her hair. She doesn’t realize she’s the one giving me the present.