That Time We Kissed Under the Mistletoe (Abieville Love Stories #4)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Sara

I’ve been at my family’s new lake house for less than an hour, and a dozen smoke detectors are already wailing. Or maybe it only sounds like a dozen smoke detectors. After all, I’m in the middle of the Adirondacks. In December. The snow-covered mountains, towering pine trees, and frozen lake could be causing an echo. Then there’s the fact that I’m hungry, which—let’s face it—makes everything worse.

Either way, what could possibly be burning?

I swear I was only preheating the oven.

Oh, Sara. Curse you and your obsession with fresh-baked brownies .

Thanks to my goal of single-handedly supporting Betty Crocker—not to mention avoiding a certain lifelong resident of Abieville—I’d made a pit stop at a market outside of town before I even got here. Along with enough grocery staples to help me survive my current mission, I bought a box of chocolate fudge brownie mix.

What can I say? I’m a big fan of fudge .

That is, when my ears aren’t exploding.

As smoke snakes across the freshly painted kitchen, I snatch the fire extinguisher from the pantry and haul open the oven door. Clouds of gray smoke billow out like an appliance tornado. Unfortunately the burst of oxygen only riles up the flames. Coughing and choking, I try to engage the fire extinguisher, but nothing happens.

“Nooooo!”

The thing should be brand new, but it must be defective. Which is so not convenient. My parents bought this house six months ago and renovated every inch of it, hoping to turn the home into a high-end rental property. So burning the whole place down right before Christmas would be a less-than-holly-jolly glitch to everyone’s holiday.

Grabbing the stainless steel bowl I’d planned to use to mix the batter, I quickly fill it at the sink, then I spin around and toss the water directly into the flames. Unfortunately, half the liquid doesn’t reach the oven, and the other half just seems to anger the fire gods.

Still, I refuse to give up without a fight. So I refill and toss another bowlful of water at the fire. Then a third. Half blinded by waves of smoke, I listen as steam sizzles and pops in the blackness. That, at least, sounds promising.

Stepping forward—gasping and waving—I peer at my results. The flames seem to be out, so at least the immediate emergency is over. But there’s a mystery pile of … something … still smoldering inside.

Wait … are those … dish towels? And cloth napkins? Placemats? Yep. And they’re all printed with Santa’s reindeer. Make that Santa’s very charred reindeer. Which means this is the full set of matching kitchen linens I gave my mother last Christmas.

So how did they end up in the oven here?

I suddenly flash back to my mom telling me she was sending some of our “extra” home goods off with the movers so future guests could enjoy them in Abieville. She explained people vacationing in the Adirondacks would expect rustic appointments, not Waterford and Limoges. And apparently deer placemats equal rustic.

So in this moment, I’ve learned a few important things:

Moving companies sometimes stick stuff in ridiculous places.

Impulse brownies come with unexpected risks.

Katherine Hathaway thinks my Christmas gift is … “extra.”

I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised. My parents love me a lot—almost too much sometimes—but they’re also sticklers for appearance and tradition. Our family traces its roots back to the Mayflower, and their appreciation for pedigree knows no limits. So while this particular set of linens came from a luxury store, the pattern is definitely on the kitschy side.

Not exactly repping that Hathaway life.

So long, New York City penthouse.

Hello, small-town Abieville .

My family started coming here the summer I was fourteen. That’s when a client of my father’s offered up his vacation house as a thank-you for some long-shot settlement outside of court. The location was perfect: far enough from the city that it felt like a getaway for my mom and me, but close enough for my dad to visit us on weekends.

We all stopped coming to the lake after I went off to college, but when the owner passed away last spring, my parents bought the place, hoping to get it listed on Platinum Stays.

For the record, Platinum Stays is an exclusive vacation rental site that requires an evaluation of potential listings before they’ll give their seal of approval. Unfortunately, the scheduled home visit fell just days before our family’s annual fundraising gala on Christmas Eve.

A.K. A. my birthday.

The Hathaway Gala raises tons of money each year, which we always donate to Children’s Village. The cause is almost as important to my parents as I am, so we all agreed my mom couldn’t possibly leave the city in the final days of planning. That’s why I volunteered to come to Abieville to handle the home evaluation myself. What can I say? I’m a team player who also thrives on pleasing my parents. And all I had to do was meet with an evaluator from Platinum Stays.

And oh, yeah, not burn down the house.

So far, I’m doing a less-than-stellar job on my first goal. Which makes me a little worried about my second goal: avoiding Three.

Not the number three.

I’m talking about Three Fuller.

The man .

Three’s actual name is Bradford Fuller, in case you’re wondering why any parent would saddle their offspring with a digit for a first name. Mrs. Fuller didn’t. What she did do is join all her sisters in using their maiden name—Bradford—for their sons. And since all the male cousins are also named Bradford, each baby got a nickname handed to him at birth.

Mac. Ford. Three. Brady. You get the picture.

Three the man broke my heart ten years ago, right here in Abieville. On Main Street, to be specific. And I already have a hard enough time not thinking about Three now, which is awfully annoying after a decade.

My best friend, Bristol, warned me being in this town again might rev the engine of my Three-thinking. So I promised her I’d keep away from him at all costs. But I can’t focus on keeping away from anyone while this kitchen’s full of smoke.

Maybe I should try the extinguisher one more time just to be absolutely positive the fire’s out. With a bit more effort and a lot of luck, my mom and dad might never have to hear about this. Which would be good for me, not to mention good for whoever temporarily stored my mom’s rustic reindeer in the oven.

My hands are still a little shaky, but I pick up the fire extinguisher again. No dice. This thing is definitely busted. After taking a couple of deep breaths to calm my nerves, I peer through the dark haze at the stainless steel oven that betrayed me. And that’s when the side door into the kitchen flies open with a bang behind my back.

For the record, this door leads out to a lakefront surrounded by acres and acres of tall, snow-heaped pine trees. I’ve stayed here enough summers to know this property has plenty of space for murder.

If I screamed no one would hear me.

A gust of icy winter air raises goose bumps on my neck, and I spin around to face my intruder. I can barely see through the smoke, just enough to make out a pair of broad shoulders filling the doorway. The intruder appears to be dressed all in black. The hoodie over his head is drawn tight like a robber’s mask. Without thinking, I rush forward and heave the fire extinguisher at his head.

“Get out!” I howl as the metal thunks off of the robber’s skull, and he goes down hard. “I’m calling the police!” Yanking my phone from my pocket, I’m about to call 911, when I hear the front door slam open across the house.

Seriously?

When did Abieville become a village of people busting down doors?

From the entryway a deep voice calls out, “Hey! Everyone all right in here?”

“Help!” I shriek. “I’m probably being robbed.” Then I realize whoever’s in the doorway could be a robber too. “I’ve got a fire extinguisher,” I shout, “and I’m not afraid to use it!”

Sure the extinguisher is broken, but the front-door robber doesn’t know that. So I sneak along the wall, tip-toeing toward the dining room, prepared to make my escape into the backyard. And that’s when two men dressed in sweats and beanies burst around the corner from the entryway .

“Don’t come any closer!” I chuck my phone at the taller one in front, but it bounces off his big body, clattering to the floor.

“Whoa, lady. Are you nuts?” asks the smaller of the two men. As both their gazes follow the trajectory of my phone from the ground upward, I catch my first glimpse of the taller one’s face. Then I have to gulp to keep from throwing up.

Because the tall stranger is none other than Three’s cousin, Ford Lansing.

Welp. This is awkward.

“Ack! Sorry, Ford,” I manage to choke out. “I thought you might be trying to rob me.”

When Ford hears me say his name, he does a double take, squinting down at me. “Sara Hathaway?” His eyes slowly widen. Like teacup-saucer wide. “I haven’t seen you in—what’s it been—ten years? What are you doing here?”

“Oh, you know. Just putting out a fire.” I chuckle nervously, nodding to indicate the kitchen behind us. Meanwhile my cheeks flame up hotter than the reindeer I just roasted. Not only is Ford a firefighter, but I’m sure he’s heard all about how Three broke my heart.

I met Three and his cousins my first summer in Abievlle. We all hit it off, but there was a special spark between Three and me. We quickly became a thing—just a sweet, innocent romance. At least that’s what I told my parents. But by the end of August, I had to face facts: I’d grown real feelings for Three.

Every summer after, we spent as many waking minutes together as we could, and we spent the rest of the school year longing for June again. By the time college rolled around, I was blindly in love. And by that I mean I’d fooled myself into believing Three loved me back.

So on our last night together, I offered him my whole heart along with my commitment to a long-distance relationship. That’s when Three Fuller dumped me, and my first love went up in flames.

Now that I just scorched a bunch of oven mitts in an actual oven? Ford’s probably going to think I’m even more pathetic than I was a decade ago. As evidence of my theory, his face wrenches into a frown. “No, I mean what are you doing back in Abieville?” he asks. “I figured you’d be lawyering it up in the city by now.”

“Oh. That.” More nervous chuckles from me. Then, to make matters worse, I begin to babble. “I actually spent a few years after undergrad working internships, building up my resume before law school. But I should be offered a position at my dad’s firm soon. And I’m here now because my parents bought this house to turn into a rental property. Except they want it listed on some exclusive site that requires an evaluation first. Platinum Stays. My mom calls it the Rolls Royce of vacation rental sites.”

A wave of hysterical laughter bursts from me.

Why, Sara? Why?

There’s zero chance Ford Lansing cares about my parents or their soot-filled lake house. Not to mention some exclusive new vacation rental site. Still, my adrenaline’s pumping too hard for me to stop now. “Anyway, Platinum Stays scheduled the home evaluation for December 21st,” I ramble on.

“Tomorrow?”

I nod. “Which is super-inconvenient since my parents have this big fundraiser thing they do every year on the 24th. Actually, it’s a full-on gala. And Christmas Eve is also my birthday. So yeah. It’s a lot for them to juggle. Heh heh heh.” I flash a desperate smile at Ford and the other guy, who’s now staring at me like I’ve lost my mind.

Yes, sir. I do not disagree with you .

“So”—my shoulders slowly creep up—“I offered to come to Abieville for a few days to handle the process for my parents. And when I stopped for groceries, I got some brownie mix. You know. To make brownies.” I pause for a breath, but I’m pretty much having an out-of-body experience, hovering above an iceberg of awkwardness in the dining room. “Unfortunately, some movers with bad ideas stuck my mom’s reindeer placemats in the oven, and I accidentally set them on fire. I was just putting out the flames when this intruder broke in! See?”

I grab Ford by the elbow, dragging him into the kitchen and over to the hooded man sprawled face down on the floor. “So I defended myself with a fire extinguisher.”

“Yeah, you did.” Ford shakes his head, squatting to check out the body. When he rolls the limp stranger over, the man’s face is covered in blood and hoodie. I squeeze my eyes shut.

“I’m too freaked out to look,” I moan. “Is he dead?”

“Nah.” Ford grunts. “But he’s no intruder either. That’s my cousin, Three.”

Great smoldering reindeers.

My second goal just went up in smoke.