Mistletoe Misses

Chapter 1

Nine Years Later

Maddox

A dmin leave? For how long?” The words shoot out of me like arrows, the sharp points aimed directly at my judge and jury.

Captain Emory sits across the desk from me, his arms folded over his uniformed chest. His Boston Police Department badge nearly disappear in the creases of his soft physique. The hard stance tells me he won’t be receptive to whining. “At least thirty days.”

“Thirty days?”

“You know the protocol.”

“I saved lives.”

“And ended another. Don’t forget that, Maddox.”

“Fine.” He only calls me by my first name when he has no patience for my bullshit. “What project do you have me working on until this nightmare is over?”

“Time off,” he accentuates. “Not light duty. I expect you to clean out your locker and take a break until the investigation is complete.”

“I can’t just … hang out in Boston.”

Captain is more than my superior, he’s a friend. He understands this so-called break will hit me hard. Yet, he stares me down, absolute in his decision.

“What am I supposed to do?” I ask, sounding more like a defiant teenager than a veteran cop.

“It’s a big city. Find a new adventure or club or go visit your family.”

The casual mention of stepping foot in Ember Falls again makes every cell recoil and nosedive into a dark hole somewhere inside me, probably the space where my heart used to be. My hometown is the last place I will go. There must be a thousand ideas better than that one.

“How about taking up a hobby or making some new friends outside of work?” He sighs, realizing I’m barely listening. “Take a hint from Adrian. He’s going on a cruise this summer.”

“Absolutely not. All I need is this job.”

“That’s the problem.” He lets out a long breath again, propping his elbows on the desk. He’s about to give me a good old-fashioned talking to, and I’m expected not to zone out again. If he didn’t have two ranks and a decade of service over me, I’d tell him where to stick his advice. “You’ve already forgotten who you were before you put on a uniform. Your service to our country and this city isn’t everything.”

“It is to me.”

“For goodness’ sake, Maddox. You’re only twenty-seven years old. You can’t keep grinding away here non-stop, wasting your life. You’re worn out. It’s time to step back and think about what you want out of life before the job’s the only thing you’ve got.”

His massive hand slams down on the desk to stop the rebuttal my open mouth tells him I’m gathering. This is bullshit.

“I can pile on more conditions before I let you come back.” His hard features soften, cooling the fire blazing in my core. “Maddox, you’re like a brother to me, I care about you. When was the last time you did something for yourself?”

My silence provides the answer he already knows. I don’t take off. That’s not who I am and keeping busy helps me ignore memories I rather not relive. Rushing from one emergency to the next during a twelve-hour shift provides little downtime to think about my past. No rogue thoughts to poke holes in my sanity, pick at old wounds, and make me long for something I can never have.

“December is a few days away,” Captain continues, capturing my fickle focus again. “I don’t want to see your surly ass until after New Year’s. Or, better yet, after you’ve figured this shit out. Hit the road, take some time away, but steer clear of the station. Don’t come back the same Maddox. If you do, I predict we’ll all be going to your funeral soon.”

“Damn, Captain.”

“Got your attention now?” He sits back in his chair and waves a hand toward the door. “Go on. Get out of here.”

With a dutiful nod, I head out without grumbling. It’s not like I have another option, and arguing will only make him more eager to kick me out, maybe for good.

I reach for my badge—the only thing, other than my Army dog tags, that defines the man I’ve become—flip open the pin and stuff it in my pocket. If I lose this job, my purpose and drive to get up each day will vanish with it.

On my way to the locker rooms, a helpless, ambiguous feeling burrows under my skin. Why am I being punished? It’s not like I’ve done something wrong. Sure, I took someone’s life, but it was either him or a kid. The shooter had a rap sheet a mile long, and he shot at me before aiming the barrel at an innocent child. I had less than three seconds to decide, and I responded like I’ve been trained to do my entire adult life. There had been only one move. Why can’t he see that?

Pushing through the scarred metal doors, I’m like a ticking bomb. My uniform comes off with more force than necessary, and I’m nearly bare, just as raw emotionally, when my buddy Adrian enters to suit up for his shift.

“How long?” he asks, knowing the verdict and how much I loathe Captain’s decision with one look at me. We’ve been friends since the academy and spent three years as partners. You get to know a person after spending years of grueling, late-night shifts together and having each other’s backs in countless life-saving incidents.

I slip into the sweats I had on when I arrived, reach for my shirt, and yank it on. “At least a month.”

“Shit, man.” His fingers comb through his hair as he empathizes. “What will you do?”

“I have no idea.”

He steps closer and places a hand on my shoulder. “Let’s get a beer tonight. Maybe I can help figure something out.”

“Thanks, but—”

“Rusty’s Bar. 8:00. If you don’t show up, I’ll come to your apartment and drag you there myself. And based on our last sparring match, you know I can.”

“Jackass.”

◆◆◆

It took two depressing days of sitting in my dark apartment, with only dispatch on my police radio and a case of beer for company, to decide I couldn’t continue that pattern for twenty-eight more. On a whim, I pack a duffel bag of essentials, climb into my truck, and head toward Ember Falls.

Home—the one place I swore I’d never go again unless I had a dire, unavoidable reason. Outside of my Nana’s third husband’s funeral four years ago, I haven’t stepped foot in Vermont since high school graduation.

My mom calls often, begging me to visit. Her latest attempts have included some story about Nana’s bookshop in near shutdown status. It would destroy Nana to close that shop. There’s no way she’s let it go so far as to jeopardize its future. It’s just Mom playing to my weakness to get me home.

She can stop trying to bribe me now. Thanks to Captain and my rash decision, her wish will be granted soon enough. It’s not like I haven’t missed my family. Nana is one of my best friends, and my parents are the world’s best. I have five younger siblings I’d die for and a town of people who helped raise me. Even after all these years, it’s just not enough. Pieces of my shattered heart are scattered across that town, and I have no faith this or any visit will put it back together. Yet, here I am, navigating the early evening Boston traffic on my way to give it a try anyway.

I choose the long route to avoid Fenway Park since tonight’s Red Sox game starts in an hour. As if that isn’t enough to shut down roads and back up traffic, playing the New York Yankees certainly is, and I don’t have the patience to handle seeing all the pin-striped paraphernalia of our rivals in my bleed red and blue city.

The pregame show plays on the radio, helping me focus on the road instead of what’s waiting for me beyond the horizon. But not thirty minutes later, the green, snowcapped Vermont mountains of my childhood appear ahead. With the setting sun tucked behind, glowing like a beacon, there’s no ignoring their beauty or what they represent—a past I can no longer ignore.

My path continues toward the little valley town until the heavy snowfall gives me an excuse to delay the inevitable. About an hour outside of Ember Falls, I stop at the first place I find—a bed and breakfast. The simple, two-story, brick colonial home looks innocent enough, and the best part is I’ll be anonymous here in Moyer’s Ridge.

Stepping inside, Christmas music, pine and cinnamon scents, and bright, flashy decorations cover every inch of the main living space and bombard my senses. My body revolts without warning, and I stumble backward.

“Oh, honey, did we frighten ya?” A woman, wearing a reindeer antler headband and a festive, oversized sweater, rushes toward me. On the way, she snatches a plate of cookies off the coffee table while a man hangs more lights over the living room fireplace. “Coming down out there?”

“Yeah.” I brush at the melting snowflakes covering my shoulders and favorite Red Sox baseball cap.

Ignoring the mess I made in her foyer, she holds up the plate, piled high with Christmas-themed sugar cookies. “Would you like one?”

“No, thanks.” Maybe I should backtrack and find a quiet hotel room somewhere else.

“How about a place to rest, then? With the storm brewin’, we don’t have any reservations on the books, so you can have your pick of the lot. Although, that’ll change when Ember Falls’ Christmas Spectacular gets goin’. Is that what you’re in town for?”

How could I have forgotten about the event of the year? It’s been a December tradition since the 1940s. For a two-week span, the town nearly shuts down to experience the long list of Christmas events, organized by the mayor and his special committees.

“Pure coincidence. When does it start this year?”

“On the tenth. Sounds like the mayor’s beefed up the events list this time. Gonna be doozy.”

“Great.” Given my horrific bad luck, I’m unable to match her enthusiasm. “Mind if I get one of those rooms you mentioned?”

“Oh, of course, dearie. Right this way.”

I follow her into the kitchen, stopping in the doorway as she fumbles through a stack of papers on the built-in desk. On the third drawer she opens, searching for God knows what, she lets out a squeal.

“Georgie! I found it!”

“What? The missing screwdriver?” he calls from the other room.

“No.” She flashes a mischievous smile over her shoulder before proudly displaying her treasure.

Mistletoe.

“What are you doing?” I take a cautious step back, and she taunts me with the plastic rendition, holding it up as high as her arm will allow.

“What’s the matter, dear?”

Another step back and my feet can’t retreat fast enough. My eyes stay trained on her and that godforsaken fake plant like it’s a loaded gun. “I’m not a fan of the tradition.” Or Christmas, for that matter, since you can’t have mistletoe without the holiday.

“I would think a handsome man like yourself would welcome some spontaneous kisses from the ladies.” She traps me against the couch in the living room, puckering her lips.

“Leave him be.” Georgie scowls at her from where he’s hanging lights above the fireplace. “He doesn’t want to ruin his suave look with your lipstick.”

I glance down at the jeans, flannel shirt, and scuffed boots I put on before leaving my apartment in Boston. It’s simple and comfortable—anything but whatever suave means. My unsuspecting eyes find the woman again and the bright red, smacking lips on their way to me. She’s at least a good six inches shorter, so the mistletoe doesn’t quite reach the top of my head, making the traditional requirement null and void in my humble opinion.

Yet, she leans in anyway, and I side-step her. She falls over the back of the couch, catching herself before her legs follow.

“Don’t mind my sister,” Georgie says flatly, like he’s used to her nonsense. “She gets a little excited around the holidays. Here.” He hands me a key. “That room has an exterior entrance if you want to drive around back. Breakfast is at seven.”

“Thank you.” I snatch the key and rush out the door, the sound of his sister’s elf-like giggles following me out into the winter weather. At least it’s no longer snowing.

Instead of heading to the room to hide for the night, I head toward the roadside bar I passed on the way here. Based on the overflowing parking lot, it must be a good one. All good bars have ice-cold beer, exactly what I need to erase my first mistletoe encounter since the earth-shattering one nine years ago and any lingering memories of both. Even if I’d been prepared for being chased with the dusty twig, I never could have expected it to rattle me like it did.

Ten minutes is all it took for me to regret my presence in Vermont as I knew I would.

After claiming one of the last barstools, the bartender steps up, drying a glass with a towel as they do in cliché movies. He flips the towel onto his shoulder and stares at me while he puts the glass away. “Madds? Is that you?”

I chuckle at the use of my high school nickname, especially since that’s how I feel—downright mad at my current circumstances. “Yeah. I think.”

“What are you doing here?”

Studying his face, I wonder how he knows me so well, and if I’m supposed to know him. I barely remember anyone outside of my ex, my best friend Jamie, and my baseball teammates. When he shifts into the dim overhead lights, I notice his eyes—one blue and the other green—and it comes to me. Our team manager and biggest troublemaker. He was the lighter fluid to our antics and a total blast.

“Drew? Holy, shit. I haven’t seen you since—”

“Jamie’s graduation party at his family farm. Man, that was a wild night.” He sets down the glass, selects a beer from the cooler, and slides it toward me. “What brings you into town? The Spectacular?”

“Shit no. If I’d remembered that was happening, I would’ve stayed home. I’m just … visiting family for the holidays.” No need to bring up the real reason since I’m trying not to think about that either.

“Where’s home these days? I heard you served in the Army.”

“After four years as a soldier, I’d done all I set out to do. I’m Boston P.D. now.”

“Doesn’t sound much different,” he jokes before letting out a roaring laugh, but it fades when something across the bar catches his attention. “Madds, I’d love to catch up with you, but are you sure you want to be here right now?”

“What do you mean?” It is either here or the unhealthy solitude of my room at the B&B. I need company and noise to drown out the unwanted emotions my memories induce.

He points to whatever is behind me that’s wilted his lively demeanor, and I twist in my seat. At the first sight of Carmen setting up a microphone stand on the tiny corner stage, my heart falls into my gut like I swallowed a brick. She’s striking and all grown up, no longer the teenager I remember or the young woman I saw in social media posts.

I’m not proud of it, but I tortured myself by following her actress accounts after she left. When she started posting photos of her at parties and in what looked like dressing rooms with other men, I lost interest. More like I threw the phone into a lake on a temper tantrum, but no one needs to know that.

She bends down to remove the guitar from its case, and her tight jeans show me and everyone in the place the woman she’s become. The dark brown cowboy boots and white, off the shoulder sweater have my mouth watering until I remember— that is Carmen . The girl who broke me and destroyed the future we’d talked about for hours on end. The girl who chose a chance at fame over me. The girl who—

“I’ll ask again,” Drew breaks into my wallowing and leans on the counter behind me, surely noticing my discontent with this surprise. “Are you sure you want to be here?”

“No.” As much as my sanity needs me to, I can’t take my eyes off her. I watch her delicate fingers tune the guitar and reach for the mic. She smiles at the expectant crowd before her angelic voice sounds through the speakers. Iron fists grip my lungs as the lights seems to brighten their focus on her, captivating and enraging me at the same time.

What is she doing in Moyer’s Ridge? Shouldn’t she be living it up in California? Wasn’t that the sole reason she left? Why bother with this small-town gig on the wrong side of the country? She hated it here, even going as far as graduating early to escape it sooner.

She sings an upbeat country song to engage the crowd, and I recognize it as one of hers. Once upon a time, I had been her preferred song tester as she worked through lyrics. This one, she wrote when we were sixteen. A familiar ache covers my entire body, and I spin back toward the bar, chugging the beer I’d yet to touch. Drew replaces it with a fresh one before I can slam the empty bottle down on the counter.

Her loyal audience cheers like they know the song—a song I thought hadn’t been recorded for the world to hear. How is that possible? After a short pause, she starts another, and the roar grows louder by the first word. I recognized the song within the first three notes. It’s our song. Our. Fucking. Song. She’s singing it to all these strangers as if she didn’t write it for a special reason or person. Like it’s just part of the show and meaningless.

Shooting off the stool, I slam a twenty-dollar bill on the counter and stalk out the door. The cool breeze slaps my heated skin along my retreat through the parking lot. I don’t stop when I hear Drew calling for me. I can’t. I need space to breathe, to remember the relaxing techniques that used to help my raging blood pressure, and to forget the love of my life didn’t just break me all over again.