by Frankie Love
We exit the airport and walk to the parking lot. I take in my surroundings, barely able to restrain a gasp of wonder. Toto, we’re definitely not in NYC anymore. In the distance I see snow-capped mountains, stark against a flawless blue sky. The small airport is surrounded by long stretches of emerald grass and tall evergreen trees. Tiny purple flowers line the sidewalks.
“It’s beautiful here,” I breathe.
Matt smiles. “First time in Montana?” he asks.
I nod. “I’ve toured plenty of states, but somehow Montana has never been on the list.”
He raises a brow again at that. “Toured?” he asks. “Are you in the military?”
“Oh, God, no,” I say in a rush. “I wouldn’t last a second. ‘Toured’ as in ‘toured around the country in a smelly bus with a band.’”
He pulls out a set of keys from his pocket, and I almost walk straight into his car, not realizing it’s his. I do my best to keep my jaw from dropping. It’s a sleek, silver, shiny Jaguar. Damn.
Like a true gentleman, Matt opens the passenger door for me, and I clamber inside. “Is this a 2020 XE?” I ask before I can keep my stupid mouth shut.
He grins at me from the driver’s seat, having put my luggage safely in the trunk. “I didn’t even get a chance to ask about the band,” he says, “and now you’re going to stun me with your car knowledge?”
We peel out of the parking lot and onto the road. I roll my window down and stick my arm out, pleased to feel the warm summer air against my skin. “The band is called Lolly Popz,” I inform him, trying not to stare at his perfect profile as he drives, or at the long-fingered hands on the wheel. “I’m one of the founding members. We’re an all-female pop punk band. I sing. As for the car,” I smile, “my grandpa loves cars and kind of drilled that knowledge into me, too.”
“Beautiful, talented, and car-savvy,” Matt says, meeting my gaze in the rearview mirror for just a moment. “I look forward to getting to know you even more, Jenna.”
I must be blushing from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. I am not a regular blusher--this is entirely unprecedented for me. This perfect man just has this effect on me, I guess.
I feel my phone buzz in my pocket. It’s Sarah. Did you land yet? Did you meet the guy yet?!
While Matt is focused on the road, I quickly text back, Yes and yes.
And???
Perfect. Dreamy. Flawless. Hotter than hot. I’m gonna die.
My best friend responds with sixteen exclamation points, and I laugh.
“Is my driving funny?” Matt asks, and, without thinking, I playfully swat him on the arm. I immediately blush an even deeper crimson, but he just grins at me, his previously arched eyebrow ascending even higher.
Oh, boy, I think as we cruise down the highway. What have I gotten myself into?
Chapter Five
Jenna
Snow Valley, Montana is nothing like New York City, or even like the cute suburb in New Jersey that my grandparents live in. Instead of skyscrapers, cracking sidewalks, and throngs of people, there are squat, cheerfully-painted buildings, lush greenery, and smiling faces everywhere. As we drive slowly through the downtown area, I spy several strolling families eating ice cream or carrying shopping bags from the cute mom-and-pop shops. A beautiful fountain shoots water into the air in elaborate arcs. Behind everything, the snow-capped mountains loom like watchful guardians.
“It’s so beautiful here,” I say, waving to a little kid who stares as we drive by.
“It really is,” Matt agrees. “All seasons, too. You should see it in winter. Everything sparkles from the snow.”
“How long have you lived here?” I ask.
“My whole life,” he responds. “My entire family has. If you’re born here, you don’t really leave, not usually. Snow Valley has such an idyllic charm that it’s difficult to move away.”
Looking at the mountains, the trees, the flowers, the cute little buildings and the cute little families, I can understand that. I love everything about New York City: the hustle, the bustle, the craziness, and even the noise. But now that I’m here, I can see the appeal of small-town living too. Everything seems a little brighter, and a little calmer. Maybe I could use some of that.
We leave the downtown area and drive for a few more minutes, until we reach a gorgeous gated community. I try not to stare at all the beautiful homes. When we pull into a driveway, though, I allow myself to take a good look at the house in front of me--Matt’s house, I’m assuming. It’s a nice two-story home, with a dark exterior and navy-blue door. The landscaping is simple but clearly well done. A huge pine tree dominates the front yard, casting the house in soothing shade.
“This is beautiful,” I say, and Matt inclines his head in humble thanks.
“I’m not much of an interior designer,” he admits as he gathers my baggage and we walk to the front door. “So don’t judge the inside too harshly.”
I snort and instantly regret it. “You should see my apartment,” I say, hoping he didn’t notice my unladylike laughter. “Most of the furniture comes from Target and thrift stores. It’s not the most elegant.”
When he opens the door, I turn to him with raised brows. “Oh, come on,” I say, surveying the leather furniture, black-and-white color palette, and sleek decorations. “Are you kidding? It looks great in here!”
He grins and shuts the door behind us. “You’re too kind,” he says with a chuckle. “I maybe had some help from my mom.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” I tell him. “I still call my grandma on an almost-daily basis.”
I assume he’s going to ask about my own mom, but ever the gentleman, he’s too tactful to comment. Instead, he shows me the guest bedroom, which is just as simply yet tastefully decorated, and puts my luggage down. I’m a little relieved, once again, at his tact. I know this is the man I’m supposed to marry, and, damn, is he attractive, but I would have felt a little weird sleeping in his room on the very first night.
“I’m going to start making dinner soon,” Matt informs me, and I barely resist beaming at him. The way to my heart is absolutely through my stomach, and I’m starving after my paltry bag of chips on the flight. Something tells me he’s a good cook.
“Do you mind if I take a quick shower?” I ask.
“Not at all,” he replies. “There’s a bathroom attached to the guest room. Use whatever you’d like in there.”
‘Whatever I’d like’ turns out to be luxuriously-scented bar soaps, shampoos, and even candles, one of which I delightedly light. I take a long, hot shower, scrubbing away the stale odors of the plane. As the bathroom fills with steam, my imagination takes off at a gallop. What would it be like, I wonder, if Matt were in here, too? I imagine him slowly unbuttoning that crisp white shirt, sliding out of those immaculately-pressed suit pants, stepping into the shower and then running his hands over my wet, soapy skin…
Slow down, Jenna! I reprimand myself, and turn off the water and my racing thoughts. I can’t believe how wanton I’ve become after just meeting this guy. Something about him has an undeniable effect on me. But I need to remind myself that this certainly isn’t a done-deal yet.
I dress in a pair of black skinny jeans and a pink tank top, blow drying my hair into its natural loose waves. At the last minute, I apply a little bit of makeup, and can’t resist a sweep of shimmery pink lip gloss. Surely there’s no harm in encouraging him to think about my lips.
When I pad into the kitchen, which gleams with chrome appliances and black marble countertops, Matt has already started preparing dinner. He removed his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt, revealing toned forearms. I announce my presence with an awkward clearing of my throat, and he turns around. Is it just me, or does he sweep his gaze up and down my body appreciatively?
“Welcome back,” he says. “I was just about to make some salmon, asparagus, and potatoes. Do you mind seafood?”
My mouth waters at the mere mention of food. “Not at all,” I re
ply. “That all sounds wonderful. Can I help with anything?”
He pulls out a bottle of white wine, pours a glass, and sets it on the counter. “You can help by sitting there and drinking,” he says with a smile.
I pull up a stool to the counter and obey. “Sounds good to me.”
He sautés the asparagus, deftly pouring in some olive oil and adding several different spices from a large rack. I rest my chin in my hand and unabashedly watch him. He’s somehow sexy even as he cooks. Maybe it’s the way he moves--so confidently, so assuredly, as if he’s made this recipe a thousand times and knows it by heart. Maybe it’s just the way his pants showcase his ass.
“So how did you get into this mail-order business, Jenna?” Matt asks after a minute.
I shake my head a little, emerging from the haze of my thirsty thoughts. “It actually wasn’t my idea,” I admit, swirling my wine in the glass. “Like I said, I’m the lead singer of a band. But my grandparents, who are basically my parents, wanted me to settle down.”
“How do they feel about that pink in your hair?” he asks.
I can’t help but laugh. “It’s not their favorite,” I say. “But I think it looks good.”
He casts me a glance over his shoulder, and from the way his blue eyes darken, I can tell he does, too. I look away, trying in vain not to blush again.
“My band has been touring on and off for the past few years,” I say, desperate to fill the sudden silence. “So I was shocked when my grandparents said they signed me up for this. I’m really only here because I have the next few months off. I’m expecting to go back on tour after the new year.”
I wonder if my honesty is too much--maybe he’s really invested in this mail-order business. But instead, Matt surprises me and says, “Yeah, this wasn’t really my idea, either. It was my mom who set me up. Actually, she set me and all five of my brothers up. She has this insane idea that we’re all going to buy Snow Valley together.”
I gape at him. “Five brothers?” I repeat, incredulous. Then, the rest of his statement dawns on me. “Wait, you’re going to buy Snow Valley? How do you buy a town?”
He gives a snort of laughter. “Apparently, it’s possible. That’s news to me as well,” he says. “The town is in financial trouble and needs a buyer, so my mom pushed for my brothers and I to pitch in together. But there’s an outdated ordinance saying the buyer has to be married, and since we’re all buying together…” He takes the asparagus out of the pan and sets to work on the salmon and potatoes. “Well. Here we are.”
“So she bought all of you mail-order brides?!”
“She did. She’s nothing if not determined.”
“When do you all have to be… married?” It’s a difficult word to croak out.
Matt sighs. “By Christmas.”
I feel my eyes widen. “That’s…”
“Crazy?” he finishes for me. “Yeah. You’re telling me.”
We lapse back into silence. A delicious aroma has filled the air, and I can’t help but breathe it in. Still, I feel a little unsettled. It’s bizarre to think that, if Matt and I truly hit it off, we’ll be married in just a few months. The circumstances that brought us together are even more peculiar. How are six brothers all possibly going to be married by Christmas?
This is just a little vacation, Jen, I remind myself. You’re going back on tour next year, remember?
Right.
Thankfully, we ease into some more small talk as Matt finishes up our dinner. I learn that he’s an attorney and owns his own practice. “I’m a bit of a workaholic,” he confesses. “But it’s what makes me the happiest, to know that I’m working hard and doing well.” When I press him for his hobbies, he says that he enjoys playing tennis, reading, and, lo and behold, listening to music.
Now this is a topic I can latch onto. “What kind of music?” I ask as he sets the table (he politely refused to let me help).
“All kinds,” he says. “Alternative, grunge, and R&B, for instance.”
I stare at him. “Are you kidding?”
“No, why?”
We sit down, facing each other across the beautiful spread he’s made. The salmon is perfectly cooked, complemented by the crispy potatoes and fresh, green asparagus. Everything looks especially good now that I’ve also consumed a glass and a half of wine.
“I don’t know,” I demur as I put some food on my plate, trying to resist the urge to fill it to the brim. I’m starving. “You just don’t strike me as an ‘alternative, grunge, R&B’ type.”
The grin Matt flashes at me is a little wicked. “What, you think I’m an ‘opera, piano, and smooth jazz’ type instead?”
I don’t say anything, choosing to take a giant bite of potatoes instead. That’s exactly what I was thinking.
When I fail to respond, he laughs, shaking his head. “Fair enough,” he says. “I like those kinds of music, too. But I’ll listen to Radiohead, Garbage, and Drake before I’ll listen to Placido Domingo.”
“Oh, my God, I love Garbage!” I exclaim, nearly throwing my fork down in excitement. “Shirley Ann Manson is one of my biggest inspirations as a vocalist. But if you’re implying that Garbage is a grunge band, I’m going to have to correct you...”
Our conversation becomes easy, flowing, centering on the topic that I know and love best. I haven’t had this dynamic of a music discussion for a long time, even when spending all my time with musicians. Matt is surprisingly knowledgeable on the subject; he says he loves reading musician biographies, and used to play the guitar and piano. “I don’t do much of either anymore,” he says, “but I still have a Les Paul in the garage.”
“You’ll have to show me it sometime!” I say with excitement.
He smiles. “I’d be happy to.”
When we’re finished with the meal, we’re still chatting easily, our plates and glasses empty. I find that Matt makes me laugh almost effortlessly and am pleased to note that I make him laugh, as well. I think I’m funny, but that sentiment isn’t always shared by others, as my humor is often labeled ‘sassy.’ Matt, however, seems to appreciate it, and even dishes it back at me.
“You’re quite the music expert,” he says.
“Yeah, well, it’s been my whole life for a long time,” I reply. “I bet you’re quite the legal expert.”
He winces. “Ouch. Was that supposed to sound like an insult?”
I grin. “Maybe a little.”
“I’ll remember that,” he says, and there’s a hint of flirtation in his words. I challenge myself to hold his gaze, and I do until we’re both smiling cheekily at each other. I feel a blush coming on and finally look away. How is anyone allowed to be as hot as he is?
When we’ve cleared our plates and cleaned the kitchen, I can’t suppress a yawn. “You’ve had quite a day,” Matt observes. “You want to head to bed?”
With you? I almost say, and then remember that I was glad to have the spare bedroom. “Yeah, I probably should,” I admit. “But thank you for the dinner and the conversation. This was really nice.”
He touches my arm lightly. The same electricity that passed between us in the airport sizzles once again as his skin brushes mine. “It was,” he agrees. “My bedroom is upstairs. Wake me up if you need anything. Goodnight, Jenna.”
With that, he heads up the stairs, leaving me to wander to my bed in a daze. I wash my face, change into my pajamas, turn off the lights, and lie down. Go figure: the mattress is infinitely more comfortable than mine back home.
As I’m about to fall asleep, I mutter to myself, “Don’t get too cozy, Jen. We don’t know if this is going to last.” But as I drift off, I realize that a part of me sincerely hopes it does.
Chapter Six
Jenna
When I wake up and head into the kitchen, I see a note on the counter. Working until 5. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen. Look forward to seeing you later. M. My heart performs a little flip-flop at that last part. I’m pleasantly surprised that I’m looking forward to seeing
Matt later, too.
I make myself some coffee and scramble a few eggs for breakfast, even though it’s nearing 11 o’clock. I tend to sleep late--it’s a bad habit developed from partying and performing into the wee hours of the morning. Matt has probably already been gone for a few hours. Something tells me he’s an early riser. He probably even works out before he goes to work. He’s undoubtedly one of those people who has his shit together.
I giggle to myself when recalling our conversation the night before. It still tickles me that he listens to normal music, not just old men playing the piano or wailing opera in a foreign language. I can’t help but wonder what other surprises he has in store. There’s certainly more to Mr. Matt Mistletoe than meets the eye.
After I’ve finished my breakfast and put the dishes in the dishwasher, I’m at a loss, standing awkwardly in the kitchen. What am I supposed to do now? Even though Matt and I are getting along well, he’s still a near-stranger, and I’m alone in his house. But he did say something about having a modest library last night, so I decide to investigate.
I wander around the house and eventually happen upon the library. It’s a large room that also evidently serves as a study. His law school degree is framed on his desk, along with a sleek laptop and a coffee mug full of pens. The walls are covered in bookshelves, and a leather recliner sits in the corner of the room. I run my fingers along the spines of the books, wondering if any of them will interest me. I’m surprised to find not just law volumes and nonfiction, but a variety of genres--mysteries, sci-fi, even some romance novels. I can’t resist a grin. Maybe those were a donation from his mom.
As I sit in the recliner with a novel, I can’t help but wonder what the rest of his family is like. Are all of the Mistletoe brothers blessed with Matt’s superior genetics? Do they all have good jobs, too? Matt mentioned his mom, Joy, several times, but never brought up his father. I wonder if his dad passed away or is otherwise out of the picture? I’m always a little jealous of people with perfect nuclear families, and am a little relieved that Matt maybe isn’t one of them.
