The Christmas Compromise

by Susan Hatler

  Table of Contents

  Praise for Susan Hatler’s Work

  Titles by Susan Hatler

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  THE CHRISTMAS COMPROMISE

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  About the Author

  Titles by Susan Hatler

  “Susan Hatler has a knack for writing books that draw me in from the very first page!”

  — Books Are Sanity!!! on Love at First Date

  “Ms. Hatler has a way of writing witty dialogue that makes you laugh-out-loud throughout her stories.”

  — Night Owl Reviews on Truth or Date

  “Seriously you guys, you have to pick this one up if you are a romantic at heart. Deliciously sweet.”

  — Getting Your Read On Reviews on My Last Blind Date

  “An Unexpected Date is a wonderful and perfect release to a stressful or crazy day.”

  — Cafè of Dreams Book Reviews

  “If you enjoy a YA Romance jam packed with adventure and the unknown. I would recommend this fantastic read.”

  — Tifferz Book Reviewz

  Titles by Susan Hatler

  Christmas Mountain Clean Romance Series

  The Christmas Compromise

  'Twas the Kiss Before Christmas

  Do-Over Date Series

  Million Dollar Date

  The Double Date Disaster

  The Date Next Door

  The Wedding Whisperer Series

  The Wedding Charm

  The Wedding Catch

  My Wedding Date

  The Wedding Bet

  Kissed by the Bay Series

  Every Little Kiss

  The Perfect Kiss

  Just One Kiss

  The Sweetest Kiss

  A Christmas Kiss

  All About That Kiss

  Forever in a Kiss

  A Kiss for Santa

  Better Date than Never Series

  Love at First Date

  Truth or Date

  My Last Blind Date

  Save the Date

  A Twist of Date

  License to Date

  Driven to Date

  Up to Date

  Déjà Date

  Date and Dash

  Treasured Dreams Series

  An Unexpected Date

  An Unexpected Kiss

  An Unexpected Love

  An Unexpected Proposal

  An Unexpected Wedding

  An Unexpected Joy

  An Unexpected Baby

  Young Adult Novels

  Shaken

  See Me

  The Crush Dilemma

  The Christmas Compromise

  Copyright © 2018 by Susan Hatler

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  License Notes

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  _________________________________________

  Cover Design by Elaina Lee

  www.forthemusedesign.com

  * To receive a FREE BOOK, click the following link now to sign up for Susan’s Newsletter: susanhatler.com/newsletter *

  Dedication

  to Ann Rego

  my wonderful mom

  xoxo

  THE CHRISTMAS COMPROMISE

  Susan Hatler

  Chapter One

  As I drove down the highway toward my hometown of Christmas Mountain, my heart fluttered with anticipation—a second later, however, an ice-cold feeling of anxiety rushed through my veins. I was coming home to Montana on my own terms to live my own life, but as soon as my mom found out about my change in career paths a war would ensue.

  My mouth went dry thinking about the impending conversation with my mom. I’d tell her the truth. She’d be disappointed in me. I’d feel bad. Then I’d revert back to pleasing her. . . .

  Except, no. Not this time.

  I gripped the steering wheel hard. I was twenty-six years old and entitled to make my own decisions. Besides, it’s not like I could keep my new beauty salon a secret in our small town even if I wanted to. While I’d lived in Florida, I’d kept my secret running on two years now—the ginormous fact that I’d passed on the MBA program and used my inheritance money to attend the beauty academy instead.

  I couldn’t keep living a lie, though. It wasn’t fair to my parents or to me. And it certainly wasn’t fair to my brother, Connor, who I’d told after swearing him to secrecy. Plus, I was excited about opening my own beauty salon and wanted to share that joy with my family. The decision had been made: I’d tell my parents the truth at dinner tonight.

  My stomach roiled. Never in a million years would my mom approve of me becoming a cosmetologist. She’d rather set her eyelash extensions on fire, watch her Cadillac Escalade do a high jump off a cliff, or trade her 5500-square foot cabin with its breathtaking views of the Rocky Mountains for a tent.

  I wasn’t exaggerating, either.

  Actually, if my mom had things her complete way, I would’ve married my high school sweetheart, Thomas Brand IV, worked a few years at Reed Bank—which they owned outright, all three locations—popped out a couple of children and then joined my parents’ country club. It took her months to recover when Tom dumped me right before high school graduation. I’d been hurt over the unexpected breakup, but ended up having to console my mom instead of the other way around.

  Ever since we lost my older sister, Grace, in a terrible accident when I was young, I’d felt like I had to be twice the daughter for my parents—especially for my mom, who held my big sister in the highest regard, one that I never seemed able to reach. My stomach knotted thinking about that tragic day by the cliff, so I quickly pushed it from my mind.

  In my defense, I’d tried it my mom’s way most of my life in order to make her happy. But if I’d gone for my MBA like she’d pushed me to do, then something inside me would’ve shriveled up and died. I needed to come home and come clean. It had been eight years since I’d left for college and I couldn’t stay away from my beloved hometown forever.

  I’d missed Christmas Mountain.

  And I’d received a sign that it was time to come home.

  At the end of October, I received a letter from my school choir teacher and mentor extraordinaire, Melody King. In her own handwritten words, she’d revealed the devastating
news that she was terminally ill due to a kidney cancer. I’d cried myself to sleep that night. I mean, Ms. King couldn’t be more than sixty years old. Way too young to die. My eyes started to burn from imagining a world without that vibrant woman still in it.

  I dabbed at the corners of my eyes, before returning both hands to the wheel. I needed to concentrate on the road or I wouldn’t be arriving home shortly or anytime thereafter. But two minutes later, I felt my mind drifting back to my brave mentor.

  Ms. King had always been there for me and for my besties from the middle school and high school choir teams. And if her final wish was for the seven of us to sing “I’ll be Home for Christmas” together once again for her at the annual Christmas extravaganza? Well, I for one would not let her down.

  Guilt kicked me in the chest as I thought of my besties from the choir team: Ashley, Emma, Faith, Lexi, Joy, and Carol. Even though we’d sworn to be best friends forever in our bracelet ceremony by the Falls in sixth grade, I hadn’t seen any of them since we’d been arrested after high school graduation (long story). Well, Lexi and I used to keep in touch over the phone, but it had been years since I’d talked to her. That was crazy to think about. She probably thought I went into the MBA program liked I’d planned. Shudder.

  I could only assume that Lexi and the rest of the team were returning to sing for Ms. King, as well. Not that I’d talked to any of them yet. I’d been too busy planning my own return. But I remembered our best friends bracelet ceremony like it was yesterday. I also remembered after graduation, I’d made a big speech to my friends about how I was going to face my mom, refuse to major in accounting, confess my real dream to her, and ask that she finally accept me for who I am rather than as a disappointing substitute for Grace.

  But, nobody stood up to Ivy Reed and won.

  So I’d caved like a coward.

  Driving along the highway, I fingered the pink, hand-woven-out-of-string besties bracelet on my left wrist that was safely tucked under the Rolex my parents had sent me for my birthday in August. I’d vowed in sixth grade never to take this bracelet off and I never had. Even though we’d been apart for years, my friends still meant the world to me. My vision blurred as my mind flashed back to our bracelet ceremony by the waterfall.

  My heart squeezed as a hot tear slipped down my cheek. I swiped it away and shook my head so hard that my dark hair fell behind my shoulders. I missed my high school besties and wished I’d kept in touch after I went off to college to get a degree in accounting (snooze). I hoped they knew that the words we’d chanted that night still held a special place in my heart.

  As if feeling my pain, my SUV let out a low groan at the incline, but I figured it was more likely a reaction to not being used to these steep mountain roads. I cleared the lump in my throat and patted the dashboard. “Don’t you dare die on me,” I warned. “If you can handle Florida humidity and salty air then you can deal with some uphill climbs.”

  I hoped.

  Christmas Mountain, Montana sat just over the next hill and Miami was far behind me. My heart drummed in my chest. Almost home. I’d loved Miami for many reasons—the sun, the beach, and the electrical pulse of the place—but I’d never felt rooted there.

  I drove up the next rise then downward into a little dip and then the small town of Christmas Mountain spread out before me, surrounded by the Rocky Mountains. The road wandered around the side of the snow-topped mountain like a slim gray ribbon. The trees held glorious color and I spotted pines and Douglas firs. The side of the mountain towered over the road as it weaved through a series of turns until I came to a relatively flat stretch.

  The downtown section of Christmas Mountain came into view and looked only slightly different despite the years that had passed. The road became a broad avenue that was separated by a center divider, which was decorated with neatly trimmed bushes. Wooden benches sat on the sidewalks and I knew if I kept driving past downtown then I’d run into the Christmas Mountain Community Center, home of the annual Christmas extravaganza where my besties and I had performed for years.

  Quaint shops lined the quiet street beneath cheerful awnings. I passed the feed store, antique store, bookstore, florist, coffee shop, and more. My mouth watered as I spotted the barbecue place on my left. There’s nothing in the world like good barbecue and that place made some of the best chopped pork and Brunswick stew I’d ever eaten, served with sliced bread and a sauce that would light your face on fire if you took too large a bite. Yum.

  Speaking of dinner, my parents were probably wondering what had happened to me since I was running so late. But I’d be at their house shortly and then I’d tell them about my career change. My stomach clenched. Or, not.

  No, I couldn’t keep this secret from them any longer.

  As if on cue, up on my right I spotted the former home of Coraline’s Classic Beauty Salon, soon to be replaced by my very own C.M. Salon where I’d offer full hair services, manicures, pedicures, and facials. My heart rate kicked up and my gaze flew to the window of the business space I’d rented. Pride and joy hit me hard. I checked the time, sighed, and found myself pulling the SUV into a parking spot out front.

  Dusk had fallen and I rationalized that my parents had better things to do on a Friday night than hold dinner for me. I definitely wanted to tell them about the salon, but it suddenly seemed better to wait until I fixed it up a bit. The more professional the salon looked when I showed my mom, the more likely she’d be at ease that I’d made the right decision.

  I shot my mom a text that the trip took longer than expected, so I’d meet up with them tomorrow instead. This new plan would work much better. Plus, I should get to my friend Ruby’s townhome—the place where I’d be living—at a reasonable hour. But, I mean, no harm in taking a quick peek at my business space, right?

  I jumped out of the car, my feet landing on the sidewalk.

  I’d played a kind of Tetris while packing my belongings into the back of my SUV and should probably get home to unpack everything, but I ignored the responsible side of my brain and hurried toward the building, my smile growing wider with each step.

  Mine. All mine.

  I fumbled in my purse for the keys Coraline had mailed to me after I’d leased the place from her. Then I unlocked the door. The hinges squealed, making me grimace. I had to get that fixed before opening day in two and a half weeks. I also had to put up my “coming soon” sign in the window for advertising.

  But first, I needed to check out my dream space in person. I flipped on the light switch, but nothing happened. Huh. Bulb must’ve burned out. No matter. The streetlights from the outside sent enough light through the front window for me to look the place over.

  I crossed my fingers, hoping the photos Coraline emailed me hadn’t done the closed-salon justice. My gaze darted around the wide and long room, confirming the photos had indeed been accurate. Ick. I added “changing the décor” to my mental “to do” list because there was no way I could leave the scratched-up black-and-white checkered tile flooring or the orange—yes, orange—salon chairs in place. The heavy, old-fashioned gilt-trimmed mirrors made me chuckle, but the drooping and dusty plastic plants were certainly no laughing matter. Yikes.

  I drifted through the front room to the stockroom in back, trying to envision the changes I’d make. The faint scent of disuse filled my nostrils as I eyed a shelf filled with abandoned hair products that looked like they’d escaped from the nineteen-fifties. I stared at the bottles, wondering if it would be safe to toss them into the trash or if I’d need a hazmat team to dispose of them.

  Suddenly, I heard a squealing noise coming from the front of the business space. My body tensed. Had I locked the front door after I entered? I couldn’t remember. This was a sweet small town, not the big city, but still. My gaze flew to the stockroom door and I listened hard. Nothing. Maybe I’d imagined the noise. I let out a breath just as a second squealing sound ensued.

  The definite timbre of footsteps followed.

  Oh, n
o. Someone was here.

  Next came a strange high-pitched scraping sound, and goosebumps prickled up my neck. What could that be?

  I squatted in a defensive stance and looked around, hoping to spot a broom or something I could use as a weapon. Coraline was an older, single woman. Surely she’d kept a baseball bat handy, right? But there weren’t any makeshift weapons in sight. With no other options, I grabbed a dusty bottle of toner and uncapped it. Maybe I could toss the liquid into the intruder’s eyes and blind him as I raced out. Why, oh why, hadn’t I taken martial arts as a child?

  But I refused to be killed in the stockroom of a sadly out-of-date beauty parlor. I had to make an escape. My heart pounded in my chest as I shadowed the wall and tiptoed out front, holding the toner bottle like a missile ready for launch. It was now or never.

  Sucking in a deep breath, I peered around the corner into the dim room just as the lights flashed on illuminating a well-built man in cowboy boots sauntering casually toward a ladder in the center of the room. My eyes took in the tight-fitted jeans over muscular legs and the broad build beneath a gray t-shirt, with sinewy arms to boot. At least the man—intruder or not—wasn’t wearing a cowboy hat or I’d have to yell, “Yee-haw!”

  Instead, the toner bottle slipped from my grip and dropped against the floor, bouncing with a thud-thud-thud. The man’s head whipped in my direction and familiar caramel-brown eyes met mine. Then the corner of the man’s mouth slowly curved upward.

  “Morgan Reed,” he said, his low husky tone a statement and not a question.

  “Dallas Parker?” I asked, my belly doing a flip. I knew that look he was giving me. It had set my heart racing back in high school and it seemed to have the same effect eight years later.

  “Now we’ve gotten the names out of the way.” He chuckled, moving away from the ladder and walking toward me. He took me in, shaking his head. “The last time I saw you it was plaid skirts and headbands. I almost didn’t recognize you.”