Missy looked up, then at him, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "You know the rules, Mr. Cooper. It’s tradition."

The snow in Manhattan didn't fall; it attacked. Inside "The Rusty Anchor," Noah Cooper stared at a glass of eggnog that looked more like liquid lead than holiday cheer. He was a man who preferred spreadsheets to tinsel, and logic to the chaotic "magic" of December. Then he saw her.

Mistletoe "Missy" Miller was his polar opposite—a woman who wore light-up earrings and ran a boutique dedicated entirely to vintage ribbons. She was currently standing on a wobbly stool, trying to wedge a sprig of greenery into the pub’s rafters.