Meet Me Under the Mistletoe (Holiday Romance Collection #3)

2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Noelle

S till fuming over the revenge post to my Insta account—while doing damage control and fielding DM’s from those that had seen it before it was taken down—I’m half tempted to ship Willow off to Timbuktu.

Theo has been relentless.

I shut my phone off two hours ago to escape the texts while grocery shopping—what a nightmare that had been. The store had been in literal chaos, last minute shoppers doing their final grocery runs the day before Christmas Eve.

A box of Shells n Cheese, a bag of frozen, microwavable broccoli, half of a roasted rotisserie chicken, and a discounted loaf of French bread is making up my dinner tonight. The next few days will be hectic and noisy and bittersweet, and I don’t have the energy to care about making a more balanced meal.

When Beau had first told me and Willow that he wanted to propose to our sister Val on Christmas Eve, we were ecstatic to help him with the plans… But then he’d had to go and get Mom involved—the damn brown-noser that he is—and the plan for a quiet, intimate Christmas Eve proposal had gone out the window as Mom had announced she was bringing back our traditional Compton/Collins Christmas Eve Party in honor of the two families officially joining with the engagement of Beau and Val.

Mom hasn’t hosted Christmas Eve since Dad died two years ago. Mom usually makes an appearance at Marnie and Drew Collins’ home, at least for a little while, before she heads back home. Before Dad died, the four of them were always together; our mom’s had been best friends since grade school and our dad’s had joined in during and after college and had been best friends as well. When my dad knew his time was coming, he’d made Beau promise to watch out for all of us—Mom included—and he’d done just that. I know he takes Mom out for dinner dates every week, he’s always caught up on whatever trashy tv show Willow is obsessed with, and during college football season, he invites me over for every College Football Saturday, something my dad and I used to do every weekend. He helped us move Val back home when her scummy ex-husband cheated on her and she filed for divorce, and even let her rent out the studio apartment over the coffee shop that he owns—which happened to be directly across the tiny landing from his own studio apartment. Val had decided to try dating after her divorce, and when he’d found out she’d been dumped the night before Valentine’s Day earlier this year, he’d gallantly stepped in and offered to take her out for a fake date; a fake date that had turned into much more.

I can’t begrudge my sister the happiness she’s found—finally—after everything she’s gone through in the last two years, but knowing what’s coming in the next few days… I need to mentally prepare for it.

My roommate’s car isn’t in the driveway when I pull in, and no tire tracks mar the perfect white blanket of snow that covers the pavement. That’s when I remember her telling me she has a corporate Christmas party she’s photographing tonight, and that she’d be out late and not to keep dinner for her. Heh. Guess this whole dinner is just for me.

I’m probably too old to have a roommate, closing in on thirty in a few months, but living alone is lonely , and honestly, rent is expensive. It’s nice to have help with some of the bills, especially in the last year since we opened Three Blossom Haven . Getting it off the ground and rebranded took most of our combined savings. And as I inch closer to that big three-oh, I realize I’m probably just destined to being single forever. Dating is stupid, anyway.

Lugging my groceries out of the passenger seat, I step through the six-inch-deep snow in the driveway to the front door. I should shovel a pathway, at least. Belle must have left the porch light on before she left, and I grimace at the Christmas wreath hanging lopsided on the front door.

Belle—my roommate—and I, had put up the janky looking dollar store wreath with glitter holly berries that are half falling off on the front door, and then lined the front windows with strings of multi colored Christmas lights. I have a string of them along the headboard in my bedroom, too, though the rest of them never made it up. Instead, they’re piled in a cardboard box in the living room, still in a jumbled, tangled mess. A tiny, tabletop tree sits on one end table in the corner, and a few hastily wrapped gifts sit in front of it.

Normally I go all out for Christmas; my apartment would look like the Christmas aisle of Hobby Lobby had thrown up everywhere, with a giant balsam fir, vintage glass icicle ornaments that used to belong to my Nan, three different sizes of white twinkle lights, and Christmas themed décor scattered across every possible surface. I’d once wrapped all the upper cabinet doors in wrapping paper and bows. It had turned out fantastic. Mom had been furious. Dad thought it was hilarious.

It’s different without Dad though. No record player dusted off and playing all of his old Christmas records; The Carpenters Christmas, Osmond Christmas, Elmo & Patsy … This year, I fully identify with “Percy the Puny Poinsettia”.

I sigh heavily, setting my grocery bag on the kitchen counter, devoid of any holiday décor, and empty the contents of the bag. I fill a pot with water and set it to start boiling, and put the broccoli in the microwave to steam.

Sliding my phone out of my pocket, I groan and grimace, powering it back on.

Within seconds of it powering on fully, a barrage of texts and DM’s from my Insta account come through, the majority of them from Theo.

Theo

I think I need an in-person demonstration of that lingerie, in order to make a fully educated decision on whether to take you up on that Christmas date ad.

Hold on, this calls for corny pick-up lines.

I groan again, shaking my head as I read down the line of suggestive texts.

Theo

I’m not Santa, but do you want to sit on my lap and tell me what you want for Christmas?

Do you like the song “Jingle Bells”? Because I'd like you to jingle my bells.

We could make this a not-so-silent night.

Screw the Nice List. Let's both be Naughty and save Santa the trip.

I choke back my laughter at the horribly cheesy pick-up lines and type up a response.

Me

All you’re going to get for Christmas is a harassment charge and a restraining order, you idiot.

The three text bubbles immediately pop up, as if he was waiting for me to respond, and I laugh out loud. I pour the pasta shells into the boiling water on the stove and stir it as my phone pings with another message.

Theo

Noe, you wound me. I'll find better ones.

Hold, please.

I can’t help the smile. Theo may be a giant pain in my ass, but he’s the best friend I’ve got—other than Belle—or my sisters. He never fails to make me laugh, even when I don’t want to. Val calls us a ‘reverse-grumpy-sunshine’, something I’m assuming comes from the copious amounts of romance books she’s always reading. The text bubbles come back, then disappear. He starts a message several times before deleting it and starting over. Good god, this is going to be a bad one.

Theo

If a big man puts you in a bag tomorrow night, don't worry. I told Santa I wanted you for Christmas.

A snort of laughter escapes me as I stir the pasta. The microwave dings and I hot-potato the steaming hot bag out with the tips of my fingers grasped around one tip of a corner. I place it in the sink and come back to my phone.