Mistletoe Not Required by Anne Oliver

the night sky. Neither wish was going to be granted, it seemed.
    ‘I can take over here.’ The voice of his mistletoe angel, barely audible in the bluster. Offering him the chance to slip into her still-warm bunk—the mysterious hot-bunking, she’d lured him in with—and grant his last wishes after all.
    ‘I’m fine.’ He huddled deeper into his hoodie, pulled it low over his sweat-damp brow to hide his malaise. ‘Go away, it’s not time yet.’
    Unfazed by his curt demand, she sat down beside him. ‘The weather’s starting to ease up.’
    He leaned away, super-aware that his Armani aftershave had been replaced by infinitely more unpleasant and pungent odours, and popped a peppermint in his mouth. ‘Could’ve fooled me.’
    ‘You’re doing great, Jett.’
    Her tone wasn’t sympathetic, just matter-of-fact with an injection of humour. Even in his misery, he appreciated that. ‘Glad the skipper thinks so.’ He kept his gaze down, alongside him, and saw that her long legs were tightly encased in denim but those sexy feet of hers were still bare. If he could just be sure he wasn’t going to spew in front of her... He pressed his lips together. He didn’t think he could ever face her again if that happened.
    ‘Talking takes your mind off the queasiness.’
    ‘Yeah, right.’
    ‘Okay, go ahead, ask me something.’
    ‘Why bare feet?’
    She wiggled her toes like a kid in sand. ‘For the grip when the deck’s slippery. And bare toes can twist around ropes—I’m pretty good at that.’
    Jeez, chirpy as a seagull with a hot chip. ‘You’re pretty good at a lot of things nautical.’
    ‘I lived on-board a cruiser until I went to high school.’
    He forgot his reluctance to look her in the eye and stared at her. ‘Yeah?’
    She laughed, a joyous sound, her face aglow even in the grey night. ‘It was a large cruiser. I was an only child and my parents home-schooled me while we travelled the world. They called it a living education.’
    ‘A fair description, I suppose.’
    ‘Yes.’ She pushed back her hood and smoothed her hair from her face and he realised the wind had lessened. ‘But when I reached secondary-school age and my mum’s sister was diagnosed with cancer, they sold the cruiser and bought a property out of Hobart to be near her.’ She chuckled. ‘High school was a learning curve for me; I’d never been around kids my own age before.’
    She’d learned to be content with her own company. A bit like him, in a random kind of way. His gaze lifted and he saw a break in the clouds—he’d been so preoccupied he’d not noticed. ‘When did your mother pass away?’
    ‘Eighteen months ago.’
    ‘What about your dad, does—?’
    ‘I haven’t seen or heard from him in years. He walked out on us when Mum got sick the first time.’ She spoke without the emotion he read in her eyes, the dip he saw in her shoulders. ‘She was in remission when we bought Chasing Dawn together. We had hope then, that she’d make it, and we set up Snowflake, but her condition deteriorated sooner than we expected.’
    ‘You mentioned your aunt. Did she...?’
    ‘Breast cancer runs in my family. My grandmother, my cousin, and great-grandmother too, they suspect.’ She spoke matter-of-factly, her eyes on middle distance. Avoiding his.
    He frowned. The familial link to the disease would surely be a concern for her, but she didn’t elaborate and he didn’t want to broach a delicate subject. ‘Why a pink snowflake?’
    ‘When individual ice crystals bump into others they grow into the stunning and unique shape of a snowflake. We think of ourselves as those individuals working together to create something worthwhile and beautiful. Pink because it’s raising awareness for women’s cancers.’
    He looked up at the sky where a few stars peeked through and thought about what she’d said. How she’d turned something bad into something good. ‘That’s pretty special.’ He admired her for it. It also made him