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Overview
Sometimes all it takes is a leap of faith for Christmas to work its own magic in BLAME IT ON THE MISTLETOE, a charming novella prequel to Nichole Michaels' HEARTS AND CRAFTS series
'Tis the season for small-town Missouri boutique owner Brooke Abbott to get crafty. Much as she adores making art for art's sake—decorating windows, designing ornaments, crafting the perfect present for under the tree—this Christmas she needs the gift of good customers. Lots of them. Sweet Opal Studios will go under if she can't do some serious business before the New Year...and she has no time to lose. What Brooke needs is an honest-to-goodness miracle. Instead, she finds a burglar lurking in the back room of her shop. And here she thought the holidays couldn't get any worse!
Or maybe things just got a lot better. Turns out the burglar is none other than Alex Coleman—local bad boy slash legendary heartthrob, childhood best friend to Brooke's older brother, and…future landlord? That is the question. He's come home for the holidays to see his grandmother, make peace with his distant mother, and settle his grandfather's estate, an estate that includes the building that houses Sweet Opal. What he never expected was to bump into a grown-up Brooke, whose spirit, charm, and irresistible good looks give him pause. Should he go back to Oregon as planned, or give small-town life a chance? The only thing Alex knows for sure is that before he walks out that door, he's going to get Brooke beneath the mistletoe, where anything can happen…
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781466867550 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | St. Martin's Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 10/14/2014 |
| Series: | Hearts and Crafts |
| Sold by: | Macmillan |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 149 |
| File size: | 3 MB |
About the Author
When she's not writing, cooking, or hanging out with her family, NICOLE MICHAELS is a portrait and wedding photographer. She enjoys writing love stories with happy endings and lives outside of Kansas City with her husband and three sons. Blame It on the Mistletoe is her first novel.
When she's not writing, cooking, or hanging out with her family, NICOLE MICHAELS is a portrait and wedding photographer. She enjoys writing love stories with happy endings and lives outside of Kansas City with her husband and three sons. Blame It on the Mistletoe is her first novel.
Read an Excerpt
Blame It on the Mistletoe
By Nicole Michaels
St. Martin's Press
Copyright © 2014 Nicole MichaelsAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4668-6755-0
CHAPTER 1
Snowflakes whirled around Brooke Abbott's head in blustery waves as she started down the sidewalk and back to her shop from the Stop & Go convenience store. Knowing it was the only place open on Thanksgiving evening, she'd just popped in to purchase dinner — a king-size Kit Kat and a grape soda. Sadly, a typical meal these days.
The entire length of Main Street was quilted in a soft white, and she was grateful she'd worn her snowboots. Brooke passed the darkened storefronts of antique shops, a knitting store, even an adorable little bakery. Preston, Missouri — her hometown — was as idyllic as a small town could be, and on a peaceful night like this it was easy to imagine you were traipsing through a magical snow globe.
She shoved her mitten-clad hands further into her coat pockets and sidestepped a hideous orange "Road Closed" sign — managing not to kick the stupid thing over in annoyance — and a muddy ditch before the sidewalk resumed. Brooke headed toward the lone building, 100 Main, at the end of the street before the commercial area turned into the industrial back side of town, running alongside the railroad tracks. Tilting her head up, she stopped to admire the Christmas display she'd put up the day before: a storybook gingerbread house complete with white Christmas lights, giant gumdrops, and swirls of frosting over the windows and doors.
Brooke pulled out her key and rattled it around in the old lock. Shifting it slightly to the left, she shook it again until it gave way and turned. The front door creaked open, and she rushed in and spun to close it before the snow could roll in and dampen the wooden plank floors. As always, she had to shove the door hard with her shoulder to be able to lock it back up. The quirks of old buildings took some getting used to, but she wouldn't have it any other way.
Once inside and away from the cold, she breathed in the satisfying smell of her life's work — and savings — as she leaned against the old door. A heady mix of handmade soy fig candles, soldering flux from her jewelry table, and a slightly earthy undertone of old stuff — because there was plenty of that cluttering the tables and refinished furniture. She'd opened Sweet Opal Studio only five months earlier despite her parents' extreme protests, yet the little shop already looked like it had been there for years — just the way she loved it.
Before her grand opening, the building had spent some time vacant, but she remembered it being the office of John Coleman, Attorney at Law, and also the town's mayor through most of her childhood. About eight months ago he'd passed of a heart attack. Shortly after, his widow had decided to put the storefront up for rent, and Brooke had gone straight to Beverly and begged to be the tenant. Beverly had happily agreed — probably because Brooke's mother had spent plenty of time on the Addison County Junior League with her. For once, Brooke was happy to use her mother's social connections in her favor.
The store was Brooke's dream come true. Even in the dim light, just looking around it made her smile. The Christmas tree she'd put up this morning before she went to her parents for Thanksgiving lunch filled a good hunk of the retail space and held hundreds of beautiful vintage, handmade, and new ornaments she hoped would sell like mad. In addition to the crafting supplies, the store was a good mix of unique wholesale items and local independent art pieces sold on consignment alongside her own creations.
Brooke stepped over to the wall and tapped on the power strip, making the tree come to life with the soft sparkle of white lights. The decorations flickered, and she felt immense pride at how lovely the store looked all decked out for the holiday season. With a heavy sigh she removed her coat and scarf and tossed them on the counter, along with her shopping bag.
The day had been emotionally exhausting. As always, her parents had doted on her brother, asked if he was dating anyone "special," which he wasn't. Then they proceeded to remind him — gently of course — that they weren't getting any younger and did in fact want grandchildren. After Ryan sheepishly assured them that he'd settle down someday (sure!), they turned their attentions toward Brooke. The difference was that her third degree always had a slightly more accusatory tone, as if a twenty-eight-yearold single woman must have something wrong with her, or was obviously going about things all wrong. Her mother had even asked how Chad, Brooke's ex, was, causing Ryan to nearly explode, although no one noticed his silent anger but Brooke. Her parents didn't really know the reason she'd broken off her nearly four-year relationship, and she planned to keep it that way. Along with the love-life drilling, they also gave her a hard time about the state of her business, which was not only infuriating but depressing.
Alone at last, she was grateful the official holiday festivities were over so she could get back to her real passion, her shop. Making things beautiful, helping others, and being selfsufficient meant more to Brooke than finding some nice-enough guy and settling down. Something her mother had trouble understanding. While Brooke had nothing against love in general, she knew that a man could potentially be the cause of so much pain. She wasn't sure if she would ever be ready to try again.
Brooke kneeled down by some boxes she'd left beside the tree and began to sort through the various items inside. There were several odds and ends to finish up before she would open up tomorrow at ten. That was the time that she would start praying that customers would actually cross the closed road to visit her shop for Black Friday deals. If not, then for sure on Saturday, which was lovingly named Silver Saturday ten years ago by the local business owners of Preston. Knowing they couldn't compete with the megastores on Friday, they started the tradition in an effort to draw folks to the scenic downtown area to Christmas shop. It had become an expected and necessary economic boost each year, since after the holidays tourist traffic dwindled until spring. Every year things got better and better, but unfortunately, Brooke required the holiday boost or Sweet Opal Studio wouldn't make it until March.
Six weeks after she'd opened, a water main below the street that ran alongside her building had broken, and the town had decided that was as good a time as any for road repairs. That was three months ago, and Brooke was losing patience. It was killing her chances at making it, and failure was not an option because she'd die if her parents were proven right. She could only hope that her colorful new storefront made it obvious that she was in fact open for business and that they should cross the closed road to take a look.
Preston was a destination town, drawing girlfriend-group weekenders and day-tripping families to visit the surrounding fruit farms and small wineries — and, of course, their adorable little Main Street filled with unique shops. She knew the clientele was perfect for selling her jewelry designs to. But for Brooke, it was more than that. Preston was home, the perfect place to find success and happiness.
Stepping behind the counter, she pulled her soda from the yellow convenience-store bag. She unscrewed the cap and took a sip, sighing as the tart beverage crashed over her taste buds. Her love of grape soda ran deep, since childhood, and that first swallow was always the best. She let her eyes flutter closed, savoring the fizzy artificial flavoring. It was glorious.
Suddenly a muffled thud sounded above her head, and she froze, drink halfway to her mouth. Utterly still, Brooke waited to hear if it happened again, but as the seconds passed, she heard nothing but her own shallow breathing and the whine of the winter wind outside.
One Hundred Main was an old building, at least a hundred years. It had a radiator that ran with the grace of a freight train, floors that were squeakier than a mouse, and pipes that moaned and clanked. Sometimes Brooke swore the old building was alive, but this noise hadn't sounded structural. It sounded like something heavy had fallen upstairs. Her cat Diva was up there, but surely she wasn't that overweight, and Brooke couldn't imagine her doing anything to make a sound that loud, she was too lazy. Maybe she'd knocked something over, but Brooke didn't feel certain enough to go investigate.
From the corner of her eye, Brooke saw headlights go slowly down empty Main Street. The streetlamp caught a reflection of a police light on the top of the vehicle. Only one cop would bother crossing the roadwork to check on her end of the street. Ryan. Her brother was on the Preston police force, which made him not only perfect, but also a hero and a saint, according to her parents. The last part was debatable, but right now she needed him to be a hero.
She slowly pulled her phone from her back pocket with one eye on the closed curtain that led to the storage room at the back of the shop. She texted Ryan: Please come to the shop. Scared.
She knew that would work like a charm, but realizing he might panic, she sent another one: It's not Chad.
Or at least she didn't think it was. She hadn't seen Chad in over eight months, since the last time he'd shown up in Preston begging her to come back — around Valentine's Day. Brooke shivered, telling herself that Chad didn't know where she lived now, that it couldn't be him. But what if he'd been spying on her? She shouldn't put anything past him; she knew better. Edging closer to the door, she said a silent prayer for Ryan to hurry.
Creak.
Brooke gasped and clutched the edge of the wooden counter. Somebody was definitely upstairs in the apartment; she'd heard that same creak many times as she walked across the floor. It was dark out, on Thanksgiving. She considered her options. Duck and hide behind the counter, then wait for Ryan to come busting in to save her? Or run screaming toward the front door so the murderer could catch her from behind? Brooke had always been fairly brave as a young person. She'd been a little shy, but she had made friends, had loved scary movies, and had had no reservations about speaking her mind. All of that had changed while she dated Chad.
Now she was insecure and jumpy about so many things, and she hated it. This was her shop, her chance at happiness, and here she was afraid. Hearing feet shuffling on the stairs, Brooke swallowed hard and tried to speak. No words came out. She pulled herself together, sweat beading on her hairline. The urge to run was overwhelming, yet she was bolted to the floor. She tried to speak again.
"Who's there? I've already called the police!" Her panic was unmistakable.
"Shit. Why'd you do that?" a deep voice called out.
Her gut flung out from beneath her, knees buckling. It was definitely a man, and his voice was close, in the back room. Her head darted from side to side looking for a weapon. Her fingers found and gripped a ceramic owl, and she held it over her head, her heart hammering like a machine gun in her chest. All the things she'd learned in her self-defense classes began playing out in a jumbled mess in her brain.
"Stay, stay right where you are. The police will be here any second."
"Well, then do you mind if I come out and use the restroom? I think I'm bleeding."
What? "No! Who the hell are you?"
The curtain rings rattled as they slid along the metal rod. A shadow walked through the door from the back room, and Brooke clutched her owl tighter, ready to hurl it like a baseball. He was tall. His head dipped to clear the doorway, and Brooke saw that he had a hand raised to his head. In the dim light of Brooke's ironically cheerful Christmas lights, he appeared to have a dark beard. Crap. Was he homeless? A biker? Charles Manson?
Something metal flashed near his fingers. Oh god. She didn't hesitate, just let the owl fly. He looked up just in time and ducked like a boxer; the poor bird crashed into the wall and splintered into several pieces.
"What the hell is wrong with you, woman? I'm already injured, are you trying to kill me?"
That voice. Now closer, it was familiar, and it flowed over her, bringing memories of a very bad boy with sparkling blue eyes and lots of swagger. A young handsome face, large calloused fingers, and hours of secretly watching him flirt, laugh, and charm every teenage girl at Preston High. The same boy who used to star in so many of her young girlish fantasies. What the hell was that voice doing coming out of this man, who had just broken in to her shop?
Before another word could be spoken, a frantic pounding came from the door. Brooke turned to find a wide-eyed Ryan standing on the other side of the glass. She felt an irrational flash of annoyance. Why hadn't he just broken it down like on TV? Some hero. Ryan quickly assessed the situation — his eyes darting between her and the intruder — lowering his hand from his gun before breaking out into a huge smile.
"Shiiiiit," the voice from Brooke's past said, drawing it out almost comically. His voice was full of humor, and he was at the door in four long strides, pulling it open with a whoosh, bringing a blast of cold air with it. "You can take me to jail for the night if I can drive that squad car down Doomstrail going a hundred twenty miles an hour."
"Hell yeah, in the snow is my favorite. You make that turn at the end to avoid bottoming out and you slide nearly fifty feet sideways." Ryan laughed and embraced the bearded guy from the past in a manly bear hug.
"Shit, man. I heard you'd become a cop, and I couldn't even believe it."
Ryan chuckled as he pushed the door shut. "Crazy, right? And I'll tell ya, payback's a bitch."
Brooke managed to shake off her surprise and step out from behind the barrier of the counter, studying the two men framed in the entryway completely lost in conversation. Seeing the guys together, laughing like old times, confirmed what she'd known deep down inside. She stepped forward. "Alex?"
Alex Coleman turned, and his deep blue eyes widened as he looked her up and down. Never in all the years she'd known him had he looked at her so thoroughly, and suddenly she felt very frumpy in leggings, snow boots, and a giant hoodie.
"Brooke? Holy shit, look at you." He shocked her to her toes by stepping forward and pulling her in for a hug. She wanted to love it — hug him back because her version was definitely not manly — but her body responded and stiffened before her mind could assure it that he was not a real threat. She couldn't help it, it was the first time a man besides her brother or a self-defense teacher had touched her in almost a year. And he must have sensed it because he released her immediately and allowed some distance between them. An awkward smile worked at the corner of his mouth. "You're just as cute as I remember."
She blinked, unsure of how to respond. He thought she was cute before? How had she not known that Alex Coleman, her brother's friend and her childhood crush, had thought she was cute? Then again, people said puppies and babies were cute, but it didn't mean anything.
"How long has it been since you met a razor?" Ryan asked with a laugh, his eyes curiously darting between her and Alex.
Alex chuckled, but didn't take his gaze from Brooke as he ran a hand down his scruffy chin. "A while I guess. I've been living up in Oregon; it's like a coat — for my face. Cold up there." His eyes narrowed a little. "Brooke, I'm really sorry I scared you. I heard somebody come in, wasn't expecting that. I should have spoken sooner, but there was a damn cat up on a high shelf. Knocked something off and hit me in the head. Scared the shit out of me. I wished I would've known it was you." He gave her a warm smile.
"Oh, no. That's totally okay, I wasn't that scared." She was too mesmerized to do anything except babble like a moron while she stared at him. He gave her a yeah right grin and finally turned to chat with her brother, giving her an opportunity to gawk openly.
Ryan wasn't kidding, Alex was hairy, but his beard wasn't as grizzly as it had appeared in the shadows. It was full, but not unkempt. Even a decade older, this man was still incredibly gorgeous. She'd forgotten that he was so tall, or how perfect his jawline was ... and those shoulders. Even with his coat on, she could tell he was even stronger and more toned than he'd been before. It was official — he was even better looking now than he'd been in high school. Something she wouldn't have guessed was even possible.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Blame It on the Mistletoe by Nicole Michaels. Copyright © 2014 Nicole Michaels. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
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