Just Add Mistletoe: Christmas in Gingerbread, Colorado

by Moore, Addison

  “At a French restaurant?” He nods with his eyes bulging the way Missy’s were a minute ago. “What kind of dude brings a friend to a place like this?”

  “The same kind that brings his mother.” I had to go there. He practically shoved me into it. “Look, we’re hungry. Missy is exhausted, and I was on my way out. She mentioned that your niece wanted a night with Noel, and I asked if she wanted to grab a bite.” Not the entire truth, but somewhere in there the details are all structurally correct. “Trust me, not in a million years could I see myself ending up with your sister.” Not up until a few weeks ago when it all became clear as that lake that sits on the edge of town. I do my best to keep that goofy grin from buoying back to my lips. I can’t help it. I can truly see myself ending up with his sister, and the thought makes me want to smile like a loon all day long.

  His chin remains tucked to his chest. “And you just so happened to score a window seat at the busiest restaurant in town on a Friday night?” He closes his eyes a moment, his chest rumbling. “Maybe Tanner is right. You are the golden boy, and a window seat at Le Roux is just something that happens for you.” His brows harden as he makes it no secret to let me know how ticked he is. “It took my mother a week to get this reservation. My father couldn’t make it. I’m his stand-in.” He leans in and jabs a finger into my chest like a bullet. “Stay away from my sister or this will be your last meal.” He shoves his way out the door, and an iced breeze snakes in past him.

  “Night, night!” Joy Winters blows me an air kiss as she sprints out the door to catch up with her overprotective son.

  I head back to the table and gird myself for whatever might come next. Perhaps an epic breakup before we get to any other would-be epic event.

  “Are you still speaking to me?” I wince as I take a seat.

  Her brows hike into her forehead. “According to my mother, we’re getting hitched at the community center Sunday night for all of Gingerbread to witness.” She sighs while cracking open her menu.

  “A Christmas Eve wedding? Nick might let me attend, but he’ll make sure I spend our wedding night at the morgue.”

  Her lips pull back as if she might be sick. “I guess my brother isn’t onboard with the idea.”

  “He’s not even onboard with the hint of an idea.”

  The waitress appears and takes our orders—we both agree to try the specials since neither of us is familiar with French food, and our dinner is delivered in record time.

  Missy and I make small talk, laugh about the past, and circle around the future as if it didn’t exist. But judging by that megawatt smile of hers, of mine, the laughter that never seems to cease between us, the future doesn’t really matter, not tonight anyway. Missy and I are sure of one thing, each other.

  Once we’re through, we head back out into a festive Gingerbread night as the crowds gather down by the official town tree lit with ten thousand bright lights. Carolers stroll up and down Main Street decked out in traditional Dickens’ garb, their voices melding together as they sing “Deck the Halls” with its cheerful refrain.

  Missy reaches over and takes up my hand, our fingers threading together effortlessly, and it feels like a milestone, like maybe there is a future for us after all.

  A horse-drawn carriage, forged to resemble a well-lit sleigh, jingles its way down the street, and Missy gives an enthusiastic hop when she sees it.

  “It’s Santa’s sleigh! Oh, Holly and I used to come down every year and ride it up and down Main Street. It was so much fun. But she has Tom and Savanah now. It’s been years since I’ve been on that thing.”

  “Hey!” I flag down the driver, and he comes to an abrupt stop. The ornate bobsled is lined with garland, and every last inch of it glows with twinkle lights.

  “What are you doing?” she gasps as though she were truly frightened. “Are you crazy? We can’t parade ourselves up and down Main Street. That’s the least platonic thing in the world. Someone might see us! And worse yet, someone might misconstrue what’s happening, thereby causing every business establishment on Main Street to experience a rent hike!”

  The driver backs up, leaving me no time to decode what just streamed from Missy’s beautiful lips.

  “Can you go down Bloomwood instead?” I point to the street to our left, and the driver gives a thumbs-up. “We’re in.” I help a giggling Missy inside first before sliding next to her with my arm wrapped around her shoulders.

  She looks up at me with her jaw to the floor as if the act of wrapping my arm around her were entirely salacious.

  “What?” I can’t help but grin at her. “Baby, it’s cold outside.” I pull her in tight as the horses trot off at a decent clip. The glowing sleigh we’re in glides down the street and makes a sharp left onto far darker, far quieter territory.

  Missy snuggles in close, her hand scratching over my chest as she bats those impossibly long lashes at me. “I can’t believe we’re doing this!” Her affect changes on a dime, and it looks as if she’s about to cry. “I can’t believe I’m doing this with you. You were my first real crush, Graham Holiday.” Her smile melts quickly. “My first real heartbreak.”

  A hard groan comes from me. “What did I do now?” It doesn’t matter. I’m already disappointed in myself for it.

  “You didn’t do anything.” She reaches up and scratches the scruff on my cheeks. “You simply got on with life and moved to New York. I just chalked it up to destiny and the fact we both must have different ones.”

  My heart warms as much as it breaks to hear it. “Nope. I’m back, and it’s safe to say destiny played a big part in that.” Here Missy is, in my arms, looking like an angel that drifted down from heaven, and I want nothing more than to tell her she’ll always have me in her life, but my stomach knots up because that leaves New York with a giant question mark over it. Instead, I muster up the strength to tell her the one thing I know for sure. “Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?”

  A throaty laugh escapes her as she gives me a playful swat. “Only about two dozen times. Is that your best one-liner?”

  “I’ve got one more, but I’ve been saving it just for you.” I swallow hard as my eyes steel over hers. “I love you, Missy. I have loved you for so long, and I didn’t know what to do with it. There’s no one else for me—just you.” I give a slight nod as she tries to drink down what this might mean.

  “Oh, Graham”—she wraps her arms around me tight and offers a firm embrace before pulling back, her lavender eyes hooking to mine—“I love you, too.” Her lips press together tight. “I’ve always thought you were way out of my league, and I can’t imagine why you’d even consider me as a prospect, but I’m glad you do.” Her cheeks flood with color. “I have loved you for far longer than I even wanted to admit to myself.”

  I gently curl a finger under her chin. “You are in the only league I’m interested in—a league of your own. There’s just you. I love you, Mistletoe Winters.”

  Her cheek glides up one side seductively, and carefully I land my lips to hers. Missy and I share a kiss that answers all the tough questions about the nebulous future. It’s happening. It’s ours. It’s within our grasp.

  We share passionate kisses, dark and deep, that explode the lid off any platonic theory I may have sold to her brother. And as much as I might be sorry for Nick, in no way am I sorry for us. Nope. Missy and I are happening. And no matter how ambiguous the future might be, we’re going to figure it out together.

  I’m in love with Mistletoe Winters.

  And she’s in love with me.

  All is not Calm

  Missy

  When I was little, Christmas Eve meant waking up to the delicious scent of fritters frying over a hot stove. The thick scent would waft into my bedroom and wake me with the promise of doughy goodness. I would tread on sleepy feet over to the kitchen and indulge in one piping hot fritter after another, pungent with lemon zest, a slight hint of booziness from the vanilla, and plump golden raisins that my mother would thro
w into the batter. It was a little piece of fresh fried heaven in every single bite. It was my mother who gave me a love of baking, a love of freeing my spirit in the kitchen while taking my taste buds to sweet heavenly places. But this bustling Christmas Eve morning, I was awakened with neither the fresh scent of fritters nor the welcoming smile of my mother—instead, I was greeted with a seven-foot evergreen turned on its side, ornaments rolled out into the four corners of the living room. Noel ate her way through most of the wooden ornaments I dared decorate the tree with. And when I found her, she was tangled in Christmas lights, looking every bit adorable and guilty. To top it all off, she left a fresh batch of doggie brownies right in front of a gift I bought and wrapped for Graham. I’ll admit that I laughed a little at that one, but only after I cried at the sight of the mess.

  Once I sent her to Daddy’s—and yes, I melt each time I refer to him that way—I showered and hightailed it to the bakery. And all of that was at four in the morning. Suffice it to say, this is turning out to be one long day.

  It’s now well past ten. Holly and I are losing our minds scrambling along with the rest of the team to put together a half a million cookie platters for the auction tonight. And even though I’ve been done for days, I can’t stop putting the finishing touches on the gingerbread dollhouses taking up precious real estate in the back of the shop. I’ve long since sent Mayor Todd the gingerbread dollhouse for his girls, and I’ve walked over to the city hall on a few occasions to visit it. I must admit, it is a stunning sight to witness. The second one I’ve erected and decorated is the one I made for Savanah. I know she’ll be thrilled when she wakes up tomorrow morning and sees it filled with the mountain of Barbies that Mom and I purchased to go along with it. Holly accused me of spoiling her, but I let her know that as Savanah’s only crazy aunt, it’s basically my duty.

  “Move faster!” Holly cries as she struggles to sprinkle a tray of freshly frosted sugar cookies with edible gold dust. Technically, all gold dust is edible, but the gold dust we’re using amounts to metallic sugar in its yummiest form. Anytime that we place a batch of golden goodies into the showcase out front, they inevitably sell out. There’s just something decadent about shoving a sweet gold nugget into your mouth. It makes you feel as if you’re a part of the aristocracy, and tonight at the auction, it’s all about making people feel as if they belong to a royal gentry. Even though Gingerbread is the most down-to-earth, cozy little town on this planet, once a year on the night of our dear Lord’s birth, we like to kick up our heels while donning our finest frocks. Gilded cookies sort of feel like a given.

  “I can’t move faster,” I whimper. “If I move any faster, everything I touch will end up on the floor. You know I’m a klutz in these situations.” It’s true. The faster I’m to move, the slower things get. God forbid that I find myself in a position where my life depended on the agility of my fingers while I’m forced to move under pressure. I’m sure any thief that targeted me would be more than sorry he chose the wrong victim—most likely I would be sorry, too.

  Mom rushes in with her hair pulled back into a low ponytail and a red sequined Santa hat pressed over her head. “I’ve got half the van loaded, girls!” She tosses her arms in the air like a showgirl. My mother never lets a hectic situation get her frazzled. In fact, I believe she thrives on chaos—thus, the three children under five by the time she was thirty. “Let’s wrap it up and move it out!”

  Holly and I hustle the rest of the platters into the van at breakneck speeds before finally loading ourselves inside as well. In a mad panic, I drive the three of us straight to the community center, parking out back in the drop-off area that’s already rife with people. The bustle of bodies moves in a frenetic pace as if each one of us felt as if we were falling behind schedule. It’s the same every year, and each year the energy level of those working behind the scenes only seems to amplify itself. It’s a beehive from sun up until well after the silent auction closes, and I don’t think any of us would want it any other way. The Christmas Eve auction is the biggest yearly event in Gingerbread, and we work hard to keep all of the magic that comes with it alive.

  “Coming through!” I call out as the three of us make trip after trip into the extra-large kitchen attached to the center. A tall woman dressed as an elf has set aside an entire row of tables just for the desserts, and we laden it with yummy treats from the bakery. As much as I love this time of year, I am always thrilled once the benefit begins because it’s the first time in a month that I can truly relax. Part of the fun of the evening is getting dressed up in a nice dress and heels—heels. My feet don’t even know how to behave in those manmade stilts, let alone dance in them. But there will be a band here tonight and lots and lots of dancing, so the heels inevitably come off right after dinner. It’s always fun to see the postman cutting loose with the women from Curl Up and Dye. And who doesn’t love watching the girls from Sabrina’s snobby book club get ripped while downing one too many cups of eggnog?

  Sabrina. Just the mention of her steals all the Christmas spirit right out of my heart.

  Mom and Holly are schlepping in the last of the platters as I head into the main dining hall to sneak a peek at the elegant holiday décor that’s fit for the finest of establishments. Thick ropes of garland skip around the room, just under the ceiling, giving the place an ironic gingerbread appeal. Lights are woven throughout the boughs, and come evening we’ll feel as if we were transported to the inside of a castle that belongs in a fairy tale. But the pièce de résistance is that twenty-foot blue noble decked out in red ribbons and bows, enough sparkling ornaments to fill a warehouse with, and each branch is twined neatly with enough lights to ensure you can see the spectacle clear up to the space station. Yes, Gingerbread might be small, but we are mighty when it comes to displaying the love of our favorite holiday.

  A tall, all too familiar, redhead strides into the room along with a group of scowling men—all who seem to be begrudgingly following her.

  “I’ll need these long tables moved to the front. I want to look out and see the people!” she orders, and the men mobilize as if she were about to hold their feet to the flames, and I have no doubt she is. “And I’ll need the podium and the microphone set behind me. I’d like for these two seats to be in the direct path of the spotlight while Mayor Todd gives his welcome speech.”

  I can’t help but make a face. I have a sneaking suspicion I know who she plans on seating in those soon-to-be brightly lit places. My feet start in on an awkward dance as I struggle to tiptoe out of the room unnoticed.

  A pair of hands comes up from behind, tickling my sides, and I let out a shrill yelp. I turn to find Holly laughing her head off, but I’m guessing she won’t be for long.

  “Mistletoe Winters!” Sabrina grates my name out like the sound of nails on a long, never-ending chalkboard. In fact, I’ve never hated the sound of my name more than when it comes straight out of her mouth. No wonder Graham couldn’t stand to be near her. He probably has nightmares that consist solely of her screeching his name out.

  Holly gives me a slight push in that direction. “Be brave,” she hisses as she scuttles back to the kitchen like a coward.

  “Sabrina!” My feet glide forward like the traitors they are. “What can I do for you?” Other than secure your mouth with duct tape. A stale smile floats to my lips.

  Her garish red lips look glossed with gear oil, and that formfitting, red velvet outfit makes me want to find the nearest robe and wrap her in it. Her vacuum-sealed curves don’t exactly leave a lot to the imagination, not that Sabrina ever does. And FYI, I already know what she wants—my man. Something warms in me at the thought of Graham Holiday belonging exclusively to me. And he does.

  Her lips expand to dangerous parameters. Her dark coal eyes each look like their own dark cave—caves that not even the bravest of souls would ever want to venture in.

  “You know what you can do for me.” She folds her hands together a moment, each fingernail alternating in color from red
to green. “I expect to find Graham Holiday seated next to me for dinner, right over there.” She points to where the podium is being placed just behind the seats of honor. “Great news.” She leans in, a giddy wave of excitement shivers through her. “We’re switching things up this year. Mayor Todd will be crowning a lucky couple as king and queen of the dance.”

  “A what?” I shake my head, trying desperately to keep up with her level of crazy. I’ll have you know, it’s not easy.

  “Think prom, silly. It’s been so long since I’ve had any kind of a title attached to my name, I just thought it was time, you know?”

  “No, I don’t know. This is the auction that benefits the community center. It’s also Christmas Eve. I think that’s enough excitement for one night, don’t you agree?” A prom? A prom? She can’t be serious. I knew that Sabrina Jarrett could find any excuse to don a tiara, but this is ridiculous. And pulling the entire town into her madness seems a bit over the top even for Sabrina. On second thought, it’s exactly on par with her everyday behavior.

  She inches back as if I slapped her. “What are you talking about? Everyone in Gingerbread will be thrilled to hear about this new honor. People will vie for the title all year long. Just think about it. Instead of mistletoe and holly strewn all around town”—she rolls her eyes as she mocks my moniker right along with my sister’s—“we’ll have posters of the new candidates begging people to vote for them. Of course, some of us have more clout than others.” She casts a pathetic glance my way. “Anyway, I’ll see you here this evening. Be a little early, and make sure Graham is here in plenty of time before dinner. I want the photographer to get a few extra pictures of the two of us.” She gives a single nod, her demented gaze locked over mine. “You really are a miracle worker, Missy. Not only do I get credit for saving that ridiculous pie factory, but I get to be engaged to the most eligible bachelor this side of New York City. Graham and I are finally reuniting. And it will all go off without a hitch tonight.” Her eyes slit to nothing. “And if it doesn’t—that little pâtisserie you run will have to find a new home. You have less than seven hours to make this happen.” She leans in with a menacing scowl. “Now scat!”