Meet Me Under the Mistletoe

by M. Robinson

  I wanted Josh to be happy. I wanted that even more than his love. And if he wanted to follow his father’s plan….

  The truth, my only defense, crawled back down my throat and hid away, just like I had for years.

  Josh stared at me for a moment, like he was expecting me to be brave—or at least try to explain my actions.

  But after I just stood there saying nothing else in my defense, he gave me a disgusted look. Then he grabbed his suitcase and slammed out of the cabin.

  And all that Roberta Flack music? It came to a dead stop.

  Chapter Seven

  Dearest Taneisha

  The blizzard was gone, and so was Josh. I’d cried so much over my lifetime. For clients who should have won their elections. For parents who should have done their job. For the half-sisters who hadn’t even remembered to invite me to their weddings.

  But all those tears dried up after Josh disappeared back into the blue he’d come out of the previous day. Only anger and bitterness remained, directed entirely at myself.

  How could I have thought, even for a moment, that he’d pick me over a woman like Shelby?

  I showered, washing away the scent of him, trying to make him disappear. Then I donned new clothes and yanked open the door, determined to forget Josh Grant ever happened to me.

  Enough dreaming. It was time to do what I came here to do. Write my—

  I found Mom at the cabin’s desk, click-clacking away on the word processor.

  “Mom? What are you doing here?”

  “It came to me!” she answered without looking up. “The beginning of the last book finally came to me last night in a dream during that odd blizzard!”

  I jutted my chin forward. Her fans would be ecstatic, but… “Are you trying to tell me that you’ve decided to use the cabin you said I could have only two days into my residency?”

  Mom stopped typing and peered at me haughtily over her reading glasses. Then she did that irritating thing where she started using the royal we to make her supercilious point.

  “We cannot control the muse—believe me, if we could, this last book would have been written years ago. Our guiding genius has finally arrived. Thus, must we honor her and forsake any real-world agreements we might have made in her absence.”

  “Mom, you didn’t might have anything,” I reminded her. “You said I could have this cabin until Christmas.”

  Mom narrowed her eyes at me. “Dearest Taneisha. Surely, you understand that the unleashing of the finale of our epic cycle, which has been years in the making, supersedes anything you might want to scribble down for that Senator of yours. Also, we fear your time in Texas has rendered your grammar beyond atrocious—”

  I get it. I get that she’s a world-renowned writer, and I’m a behind-the-scenes nobody who scribbles speeches for a living.

  I’ve understood her writing comes first ever since that initial trip across the river to deliver sandwiches to the “mom” who was supposed to be taking care of me during my visitations.

  But suddenly I just can’t with her anymore.

  “Why did you adopt me?” I demand, cutting off her speech about the atrociousness of my speech. “If I’m so awful to listen to—if you can’t bear to sacrifice any of your precious writing time for me. If you can’t even give me twelve days in a cabin you haven’t visited in over twelve years, why did you adopt me in the first place?”

  Mom blinked and finally dropped the royal we to say, “The Muse has alighted upon my soul. She has finally agreed to unlock the iron cage where this last story resides, and you wish to question me about my spectacularly poor mothering abilities now?”

  Now, it was my turn to blink. “Wait, you knew you were a bad mother?”

  “Of course, I did,” she answered, throwing up her hands. “I told your father as much when he entreated me to adopt you. But you never complained. Not once. So I assumed you were fine with the scant mothering I provided you.”

  Her words hit me like a bolt of lightning.

  I’d cried and cried over the way people had treated me, alone by myself. But I’d never spoken up. Not with Mom. Not with Josh. I’d always kept my feelings to myself, even when Shelby, the worst person I’d ever known, stole my Christmas cards and claimed them as her own.

  What happened with Josh—yes, it was all my fault. But not for the reasons I’d assumed when I let him walk out the door. It was all my fault because I should have spoken up and told him how I felt instead of letting some mean girl turned reality star just take the only guy I’ve ever loved.

  My love mattered. I mattered. And it was time—time for me to be too much.

  “Go home to your huge house to write this book,” I ordered Mom. “Tell your muse to meet you there.”

  My mother snatched off her readers. “Surely, you must be jesting.”

  I took Mom by the arm and pulled her out of my desk chair.

  “I am not,” I assured her, guiding her toward the back door. “If you want this cabin that you’ve barely earned and said I could have for twelve days, come back on December 26th.”

  “But—”

  “A promise is a promise with me—and binding,” I reminded her. “See you on the 26th, Mom.”

  I didn’t give her the chance to protest again. Just placed her on the other side of the door before slamming it shut and doing something she’d never bothered to do. Locking it.

  She knocked and protested outside and even dropped a few base curse words.

  But guess what still worked even when you have no reception? Noise-canceling headphones.

  I slipped mine on and started to write. Not the book. That would have to wait.

  No, this was a gift. A gift for Josh.

  Chapter Eight

  This Christmas

  Delivering Josh’s gift would be a lot harder than planned.

  I’m guessing I was the last person Josh expected to see barreling toward him at the Morelli Family’s swanky Christmas gala in Bishop’s Landing, which he’d attended with Shelby as his date.

  I would have loved to have caught him alone to give him my gift discreetly. But the person stationed at the front door with the guest list hadn’t believed my cover story about having been invited by one of the Morellis to help them write a last-minute speech. Most likely because I was wearing an off-the-rack cocktail dress at what turned out to be a designer evening gown and tux sort of affair. And also maybe because when he asked which Morelli I was here to assist, I’d answered, “Leo?” with a hopeful question mark.

  So, that’s how I ended up darting into the party past the armed guards who hadn’t thought the spritely girl with the large chest would present a problem—or run so fast. (The secret is wearing Converse with your party dresses, not heels. Though, now that I think of it, that might have been another red flag for Guest List Guy.)

  Anyway, I had several henchmen in black-on-black suits chasing after me when I found Josh and Shelby power couple networking with a group of dapper men in tuxes and women dripping in jewels.

  Not a great look. All those fine partygoers gaped at me when I came skidding to a stop in front of Josh with a brown office envelope clutched in my hands.

  My heart cracked at the sight of him and Shelby together. They truly did look like the perfect power couple—tall and fair and regal as royalty as they stared down at me from on high.

  “Neisha, is that you?” Shelby asked as if she barely remembered me. “What are you doing here?”

  I ignored her and thrust the brown envelope at Josh.

  “This is for you,” I told him, just as the security guards caught up with me.

  “Miss, you’ll have to come with us!” one of them said, reaching out to grab my arm.

  “Don’t touch her,” Josh ordered as if this was his party, not the Morellis’ and the guards were under his command.

  To my surprise, the guy who tried to grab my arm took a few steps back and went into hover mode with the rest of the guards.

  Leaving Josh fr
ee to give me and my envelope a cold up and down look before he asked, “What is this?”

  “It’s a speech—two speeches, actually. The announcement speech you wanted from me. That speech will change hearts and minds and get people to vote for you, no matter their party affiliation. You can deliver it with Shelby standing by your side if you want.”

  Shelby’s eyes lit up with excitement.

  “So, you did manage to procure a Neisha Winters speech!” she trilled as if she’d been in on his plan from the start. “How exciting!”

  I guess she suddenly knew exactly who I was now.

  Josh simply took the brown envelope from me and said, “Thank you,” with a noble nod of his head.

  I swallowed and rushed on before I could lose my nerve.

  “The other speech is in there too,” I told Josh. “The one I dream wrote for you. The one that will set you free to live your own life. And there are two things you need to know before you make your decision.”

  I held up a finger. “One. You’re free. You think you have to be a good soldier. I don’t know the full reason why, but it guides everything you do. But it’s time to take off your invisible uniform and put down all your heavy gear. You’re free, and you can do what you want.”

  Josh’s gaze shuttered, and he said, “Tell me the second thing, and then it’s time for you to go.”

  The urge to run and hide in the shadows like I always did racked my body, stronger than ever before.

  I was a speck in this universe. I didn’t matter beyond my ability to write speeches that won elections. Not to my parents. Not to my caretakers.

  Speaking up was for other people. Talented people like my clients. Not me. And Shelby was so pretty. Pretty as the sun.

  Fear clogged my throat. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t….

  But then Josh flicked his eyes to the guard, and I knew what would come next. Josh might not be a billionaire, but he exuded command.

  He was powerful enough to stop those guards from rushing me, and he was powerful enough to have them take me away.

  This was my one chance—my only chance. I had to speak. I had to tell him….

  “It was me! I’m your secret admirer, not Shelby. I’ve been in love with you ever since we met,” I admitted.

  Then I stepped closer to tell him, “I’ve tried to stop, but I’ll probably stay in love with you for the rest of my life. You’re a wonderful man, Josh. Everything I’ve hoped for and dreamed of in a life mate. And I’m so scared you could never feel the same way about me. But I can’t let another Christmas go by without telling you that I, Taneisha Winters, love you. So much. And it was me who wrote those cards.”

  Josh squinted at me, his expression as cold as his nickname.

  And Shelby said, “Oh my goodness, I’d heard your real mother was mentally ill. And unfortunately, it must have passed down through the family. I’m so sorry, but you need help.”

  I ignored her and kept my desperate gaze on the man I never stopped loving. The man I couldn’t stop loving, no matter how many Christmases passed by. “Josh, please…please believe me.”

  Now Shelby addressed the guards like a queen on a throne. “Guards, do us and Neisha the kindness of removing her from the party before she embarrasses herself any further.”

  The guards came forward like Terminators unpaused, and I braced myself to get yanked away.

  “I knew it.”

  Three words.

  But they froze the entire party in place. Me. Shelby. The guards. All the decked-out millionaires who’d been watching our soap opera play out with wide eyes. Everybody but Josh….

  He stepped forward, his river-moss eyes no longer cold.

  They bore into mine as he said, “I knew it was you and not Shelby. From the moment I saw you again. I couldn’t say why. I thought I was going out of my mind. But somehow….in my heart, in my gut, I knew it was you.”

  “Josh!” Shelby exclaimed behind him. “What are you saying. I’m the one who wrote those Christmas cards—”

  He shifted his body, purposefully blocking her from my view as if she hadn’t said a word, as if she didn’t matter at all.

  “I knew it,” he continued saying to me and only me. “I knew you were the one I was searching for all this time. The woman I’d been holding out for.”

  Wait, he’d been holding out for me, like I’d been helplessly holding out for him?

  His words hit me everywhere, slathering my sad, lonely heart in warmth. But the only out loud response I could come up with was, “Okay, well, here I am. Hi.”

  He smiled, his entire face creasing with what looked like genuine happiness. Then, he said, “Hi, Neisha. Are we going to seal this big reveal with a kiss or what?”

  There was still so much I had to explain. I needed to tell Josh who my father is…and the real reason Shelby hated me.

  But in that moment, there was only one thing I needed to do. Wrap my arms around Josh’s neck when he drew me in for his kiss.

  For the first time, my polite soldier gentleman had gone off plan. He kissed me, and I kissed him back. In front of Shelby. In front of all those elite party guests. In front of the world.

  That first Christmas, I confessed my love to him in a card.

  Last Christmas, I vowed not to bother him anymore.

  But this Christmas….

  Well, sorry, Mom, I’d be bringing at least one Donny Hathaway album back to the cabin to play along with all the Roberta Flack.

  Because I already knew that I’d be spending This Christmas with Josh. And hopefully, every Christmas after that for the rest of our lives.

  * * *

  Thanks so much for reading the beginning of Josh’s and Neisha’s love story. Who’s her father, though? And why is Shelby out to get her? Pre-order their book here. Meanwhile check out Sawyer’s wondrous story, His Everlasting Love, and Thel’s beastly one, Her Russian Beast.

  Wrapped in Red

  Sam Mariano

  Chapter One

  Georgia

  Humming a favorite Christmas tune from childhood and ripping a piece of tape off my desk dispenser, I am fully immersed in my own festive little world when my boss strides into my office.

  In my mind, a chubby caveman is dressed as Santa Claus, clutching his jolly belly and singing about how Christmas is his favorite time of year. In actuality, a tall, gorgeous man is preparing to startle the hell out of me.

  Ordinarily, my boss would never be able to sneak up on me when my back is facing a wall; I’m too aware of him. But tonight I am so wrapped up in wrapping presents, I don’t notice he has entered my office until his shiny black loafer crushes the piece of wrapping paper I was about to grab and fold over.

  Growing up, my mom used to shop the after-Christmas clearances to buy next year’s paper. When she cut a piece and didn’t use all of it, she rolled it up and saved it for a smaller gift.

  I do not abide ruining wrapping paper just for the hell of it.

  Horrified, I push at his expensive shoe, but he doesn’t budge. “Have you lost your mind?” I ask him. “What kind of person deliberately steps on wrapping paper? Move your foot, please.”

  He doesn’t.

  I’m sitting on the floor by my desk to wrap, so I have to look up to glare at him.

  He’s looming over me in his coal-black Tom Ford suit, one dark eyebrow cocked as if unimpressed—a sight anyone else under his employ would find intimidating. I’m not intimidated, but I do hate to feel his displeasure. Even the threat of it causes my stomach to sink for a split second before he speaks.

  Because I’m not terribly good at hiding my emotions, he can see that fleeting feeling written all across my face. He doesn’t know the threat of his displeasure is what put it there, though. He must believe the reason for my distress is him stepping on my wrapping paper, because he finally moves his foot.

  “Is this what I pay you for?”

  He sounds serious, but I know he’s not.

  First of all, I could have le
ft hours ago when I finished my work. Instead, I hung around and did my Christmas preparations at the office just in case he needed anything.

  Secondly, he did ask me to wrap gifts for his family. I also did the shopping for most of them, so he has no idea if the presents I’m wrapping are for him or not.

  Since this particular gift is a baby doll and I’m not sure whether or not that will trigger memories of Christmases past for him, I dust off the paper and swiftly cover the box before he sees what it is. Casually affixing tape to the paper seam, I focus on finishing up my task as I answer him. “Actually, yes, but these aren’t the ones you asked me to wrap for your family. These gifts are for the shelter.”

  “What shelter?”

  “The women’s shelter.” He blinks at me, uncomprehending. “Remember that gala you took me to in September when Stacie had to cancel and you were short a plus-one?”

  “Yes,” he answers patiently.

  “The organization it was benefitting has a shelter in Harlem for women and children fleeing domestic violence. Remember? That woman we were talking to told us all about it.”

  “Did she?” he asks in a tone that tells me he has no memory of any such woman.

  I nod as I carefully fold and crease the wrapping paper at the edge of the box closest to me. “Their lives are in transition right now. They can’t afford to buy presents for each other, which I’m sure is so heartbreaking. Anyway, we’ve adopted a few of the families, and we’re making sure every child at the shelter has as lovely a Christmas as they can under the circumstances.”

  “Oh, are we?” he asks, cocking that black eyebrow at me, but by now he knows better than to argue with my assertion on something like this.

  I nod, slap the last piece of tape on the package, then set the gift aside and stand as gracefully as I can in this tight black pencil skirt. “We’ve paid for their Christmas dinner, too.”

  He watches me smooth it down and straighten my green silk top, his gaze lingering on my cleavage for a moment before returning to my face. “How Dickensian of us.”