Love, Snow and Mistletoe: Four Sweet Christmas Romance Novellas

by Victorine E. Lieske

  Chapter 7

  “You got the walk. Oh----- You got the talk. Oh-----” Max’s voice reverberated in the large walk-in shower as he sang a song from one of his first albums. “You got that sassy way o’ sayin’ you don’t like the game I’m playin’…”

  While scrubbing away the day’s dirt and enjoying the blast of twelve massaging waterjets, an image of Amy’s sparkling eyes, like pieces of sky, passed through his mind. She’d certainly changed things at the McCoy Ranch, and he hoped those changes would stick after she was gone.

  She’d only been in his home for five days, and he’d already gotten used to having her around. He looked forward to her smiling face at breakfast, her appreciative comments about his cooking, backed up by a ravenous appetite. When he first met her, he would’ve described her as cute and sassy, but each day as they spent time together and he watched her interact with Cadence, her true beauty came to the surface.

  Those incredible blue eyes, framed with dark lashes, were innocent and childlike, yet she somehow saw his hidden pain and eased it. Rather than a delicate chin, she had a strong jaw, to match her courage.

  She wasn’t exactly fearless—more like determined. A few days ago, mounting a horse for the first time, she didn’t say a word about her nervousness. Muscles flexing along her jaw, she white-knuckled the reins and flashed a weak smile. Within thirty minutes, she was galloping across the field, whooping with glee.

  She was way too sweet, though. People could take advantage of her. The only guy she’d ever mentioned was Damon, but something in Max’s gut told him Damon wasn’t good for her. Maybe it was the worried expression that always seemed to accompany any mention of his name. Like that incident in the stables a few days ago… Just thinking about Damon had made her face turn so white, Max thought she might faint.

  His cheeks heated, remembering the moment. She’d been standing there, with her eyes closed, her oh-so-kissable-lips enticing him. When his arm went around her, she had relaxed against him. It felt right… like she belonged there. And he’d almost kissed her.

  Thank goodness he stopped himself. How embarrassing would that have been, to steal a kiss while she was thinking about another man? And besides, he knew better than to start something he couldn’t finish. Amy had made it very clear she was leaving on Friday.

  As Max dried off with a warm towel and climbed into bed, his gut clenched, knowing tomorrow was her last day at the ranch. Tonight at dinner, he’d made a last-ditch effort to get her to stay longer, proposing she should go with them to his sister’s house for Christmas. For a moment, when she’d sucked in a sharp breath and fluttered her hand to her throat, he thought she was going to say yes.

  “Please,” Cady intertwined her fingers under her chin with an expression he knew was hard to resist. “Please come to Christmas.”

  Amy’s lower lip folded between her teeth. “I don’t know…”

  “You really should come.” Max grinned, thinking she was about to give in. “Zoey said to bring you so she can meet the sock girl.”

  Her face had fallen, as if she remembered some obligation. No doubt it was Damon. She replied in a flat tone, “Tell Zoey thanks for the invitation, but I have to fly out on Friday.”

  Rather than beg her to stay and make her feel even worse, he hid his disappointment with a joke. “Try not to ram any snowbanks on the way to the airport.”

  She’d looked so sad, he’d promised her a special treat for her last day at the ranch. The only problem was he had no idea what it would be.

  Amy hadn’t reminded Max about connecting her phone to the Wi-Fi until tonight. It was hard enough dealing with Damon’s frantic emails without having to hear his voice. He would’ve left her in peace, if only she were willing to sign the stupid NetShows contract. But the whole deal felt off, and she wanted an unbiased opinion.

  She only had one more day left with Max, and she didn’t want to ruin it worrying about the contract. But as she was getting ready for bed, her cell phone rang, and she answered it with a groan.

  “Hello, Damon.”

  “Finally! Your phone is back on. What’s the deal? You were completely off the grid.”

  She didn’t like his accusing tone. “That’s exactly why I came here—to be off the grid.”

  “Where are you, anyway? It looks like you’re in the middle of nowhere.”

  “What are you talking about? How are you looking at where I am?”

  “On the MapMyFriends app on your phone.”

  “You’re tracking me? Like a stalker?” An involuntary shudder rippled down her spine. “That’s just creepy!”

  “You can see where I am, too. Everybody does it.”

  “Well, I hate it. Please stop.”

  “If you’d come back to California and sign the contract, I wouldn’t need to track you. Matthew Compton is on my case about this.”

  “I need more time to think about it.” She fell onto her pillow. “Tell Matthew I need a few more weeks.”

  “You were ready to sign it a week ago,” he said, with an undercurrent of irritation. “What’s the holdup, now?”

  What should she say? That she’d hired her own attorney to look over the contract and an accountant to see if he’d been taking an extra cut of her profits? A brilliant idea hit her.

  “I met someone… a guy.”

  “A guy?” He chuckled as if she’d told a joke. “Who? What’s his name?”

  Of course, he didn’t think anyone could’ve fallen for her so fast. The fact that he was right made it even worse. She had to defend her pride.

  “His name is Max. He’s a rancher, and he’s very nice.”

  “You don’t know this guy.” His voice quaked with some powerful emotion. “I’m the one who cares about you, Abigail. I thought we were taking our relationship to the next level.”

  If she’d been eating something she would’ve choked to death. A relationship? With someone who doesn’t even call me by my real name?

  “You’ve never said anything like this before, Damon,” she said, to buy time, while she searched for the right words. “Let’s not rush into anything.”

  “Bet you didn’t say that to Max,” he said, in a small voice.

  He sounded jealous. Was it possible he really had feelings for her? She had to let him down gently, without leading him on.

  “I need time to think about this. About you. About the contract. Everything.”

  “Are you afraid? Is that the problem?” he challenged. “You know what Rebel would say. ‘While you stop to think, your life is passing you by. Sometimes, you have to take a chance.’”

  Her mouth went dry as her heroine scolded her in her own words. Was Damon right? Was she nervous about the contract just because she was afraid of change? Damon told her the language was fairly standard.

  “I’ll try to make a decision by tomorrow.”

  “What about us?” His heavy sigh resounded in her ear. “I wanted to surprise you, but I guess it can’t wait. I think we should get married, Abigail… before the new year. I have a ring.”

  She only thought her mouth was dry before. Now it felt like she had a mouthful of saltines.

  “I can’t give you an answer right now,” she rasped. “This is too much, too fast.”

  She disconnected before he could respond and turned off her phone, her brain spinning. Maybe she would wake up and discover this whole conversation had been a dream.

  More like a nightmare.

  Chapter 8

  At precisely 5:09 a.m., Max’s eyes popped open. No alarm blared to wake him from his sleep, but a melody played in his head, impossible to silence. He blinked at the darkness, listening to the catchy tune. And he knew what he had to do…

  From the bottom of the drawer in his bedside table, where it had rested, undisturbed, for five years, he removed a single key. He moved through the darkened house to the family room and flipped a switch. Across the room, a light came on in the alcove, illuminating the door within the recess. With his chest s
o tight it was hard to breathe, he leaned against the door and squeezed his eyes shut, working up his nerve. As his trembling fingers inserted the key and turned the lock, the door swung open with only the squeak of a hinge to greet him.

  With the flip of a switch, the room filled with a warm glow of indirect light, bouncing off the ceiling. But for a thin layer of dust, everything was exactly as he’d left it the day after Monica’s funeral.

  He perched on an armless chair and opened a black case at his feet. With reverence, he lifted the Martin D-45 to his lap, stroking the guitar with his fingers in apology for his long absence. His anticipation grew as he quickly tightened and tuned the loose strings, sighing with satisfaction when he strummed his first chord. The five-year-old guitar strings barely detracted from the resonance of the magnificent instrument.

  Why had he waited so long, ignoring the solace he would’ve found in his music? But he knew the reason. When his wife lost her battle with cancer, he didn’t want to be comforted. In his grief, he was convinced he didn’t deserve to be happy if Monica had to die.

  Since Amy arrived at the ranch, he’d started singing again, often waking with a tune on his mind. But this morning was different from the others—this morning the melody playing in his head was one he’d never heard before.

  A new song! I thought I’d never write again!

  The verses flowed quickly from his head, and soon he added a chorus and a bridge. Using the built-in computer microphone, he made a rough recording, singing and playing the guitar.

  He crossed his legs at the ankles and leaned back in his desk chair. 7:01. In less than two hours, he’d written and recorded a brand new song.

  Mack McCoy is back!

  Then, sudden insecurity attacked him, sending acid to his stomach. Maybe the song was terrible. What if he’d lost his knack for writing? After all, it had been over five years. He’d been so excited, he hadn’t stopped to question whether his new composition was the same caliber as his previous hits.

  Filled with dread, he clicked the replay button, closed his eyes, and listened to the song with critical ears, pretending he’d never heard it before. He didn’t move a muscle until the last lines of the song played.

  “Hidden deep in my heart

  Was an empty hole.

  But you put the music

  Back in my soul.

  Baby, you put the music

  Back in my soul.”

  The truth hit him like a freight train. He gripped the desk, his head swimming as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. Even in rough form the song was as good as any on his last album. But he had a bigger problem...

  I’m in love with Amy Pinkerton.

  The bedside clock read 6:45 a.m. Bleary-eyed, Amy threw back the covers in surrender. She’d hardly slept after her phone conversation with Damon the night before.

  If only she had someone she could go to for advice. An image of Max’s face came into her mind.

  I can’t talk to Max about this. What would I say? My creepy, stalker agent, who may have been skimming money from my account, wants me to sign away all my book rights to NetShows. I’ll be really rich, but I might be miserable. Oh, and he also asked me to marry him.

  She glanced at her phone, face-down on the bedside table, but decided to leave it turned off. Why spoil her last day with Max and Cady? She halfway wished the road hadn’t been plowed so she would have an excuse to miss her flight the next day.

  Her stomach growled, anticipating her early morning breakfast with Max, a habit she already knew she would miss after tomorrow. Out of habit, she brushed her teeth and swiped some lip gloss on her lips. She held no hopes of getting a kiss—he’d never expressed an inkling of romantic interest.

  In comfy jeans, a sweater, and warm Zoey-socks, she went down the hall, sniffing the air. Where were the usual smells? No fire burning in the fireplace? No bacon cooking in the kitchen? Max must be sleeping in.

  Entering the family room, she groped the wall, searching for the light switch. Then she froze, her eyes drawn to the light across the room, shining on the secret door. Her breath caught in her throat. Maybe this meant Max had unlocked the door and she could see inside. What if it really was a hidden library?

  She tiptoed to the door and pressed her ear against it. The faint sound of music filtered through the wood. No one answered her first timid knock or the second slightly louder one. Her hand twisted the brass knob, and the door swung open, releasing the imprisoned music.

  Recognizing Max from the back, sitting at a desk, she hesitated. Was she intruding? But dozens of framed photographs beckoned her inside. She tiptoed along the wall, inspecting the images. Max had evidently posed with a lot of different people, some of whom looked familiar.

  The music stopped, and she froze. The silence echoed in her ears. Her own breath sounded like a hurricane. She didn’t dare move or even glance over her shoulder at him. Then the hair stood up on the back of her neck, and she knew he’d seen her.

  “Amy?”

  Chapter 9

  Max hadn’t even recovered from the shock of realizing he loved Amy when she suddenly appeared in the room. She whipped around to face him, as nervous as if he’d caught her with her hand in the cookie jar. He had to tell her how he felt—he only had a day to convince her to choose him over Damon. But if he said the wrong thing, he might scare her off.

  He smiled at her, or at least he tried. It must’ve looked like a scowl, because she flinched.

  “Did you hear that song?” he asked.

  “No, I wasn’t listening.” Her voice was as shaky as her hands, twisting together in front of her. “I didn’t mean to snoop. I knocked and—”

  He was beside her in an instant. “Hey, I’m not upset.” He put his arm around her waist and guided her toward the soft leather couch in the corner of the room. “Come sit with me. I need to… to tell you something.”

  Seated beside her, the pressure of her thigh against his made a warm feeling grow in his chest. It wasn’t a novel occurrence… not really. If he was honest with himself, his attraction had started from the moment they met on that snowy road and grown with each progressing hour. The same thing had happened when he met Monica—instant attraction that evolved into something strong and beautiful. Strange how a week ago, he only felt pain and sorrow when he thought of his late wife. Now, happy memories took the forefront.

  Amy clasped her fingers together in her lap, her knuckles blanching. “What do you need to tell me?”

  Where should he start?

  “Have you ever heard of Mack McCoy?”

  She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her brows bending. “No. Was that your father? Is he the guy standing with you in that picture by the door?”

  “No, that guy is my agent. I’m Mack McCoy.”

  She tilted her head to look up at him, scrunching her nose. “You want me to call you Mack instead of Max?”

  “Mack is my stage name. I’m a country music singer… at least I used to be.”

  Her hand flew to cover her mouth as she gasped. “Oh! I’m sorry I said I don’t like country music. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.” She grabbed his arm. “I think you have a lovely voice—probably better than most of those big-name country stars who have awful voices but somehow got lucky. Please don’t give up because of anything I said.”

  It started with a chuckle and grew to an out-of-control belly laugh. When he finally stopped laughing, he had tears in his eyes.

  Amy, however, did not look amused. With her arms crossed over her chest, she frowned. “What’s so funny?”

  “You are, but in a good way.”

  Her scowl deepened.

  “You see…” He patted her jean-clad knee. “I am one of those big-name country stars, or at least, I used to be.”

  “You’re a star?” She flicked an are-you-kidding-me eyebrow at him.

  He walked to a shelf behind his desk and retrieved a magazine from the stack beside his Entertainer of the Year statue.<
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  Slack-jawed, she stared at the cover, then looked up with a sheepish grin. “Sorry about that awful-voice-but-got-lucky comment.”

  “Yeah, that was pretty harsh.” Chuckling, he sat beside her again. He lifted her hand and pressed his lips to her fingers. “Is this okay?”

  “Uhmm…” Her eyes were round as clocks, but she didn’t pull away.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” He slowly interlaced his fingers with hers, marveling at how right it felt. “I know you’re supposed to leave tomorrow, but I don’t want you to go. I want you to come have Christmas with me and Cady in California.”

  “Because Zoey wants to meet me?” She stiffened, tugging at her hand, but he held it fast.

  “Because I—” He stopped himself. She wasn’t ready for the big L-word. “Because I like you… a lot. And I thought maybe you liked me, too.” He held his breath, waiting for her response, the warring emotions on her face making him nervous. “Cady likes you, too,” he added, thinking this might be a selling point.

  She slipped her hand away and tucked it under her arm. “I like Cady, too. But—”

  “Just Cady?”

  She huffed in frustration. “Fine. I like you, too. But you don’t really know me. I have a lot of baggage.”

  He bent his arm and pulled up his sleeve, exposing a bicep he hoped was impressive. “I’m strong. I can handle baggage.”

  Her lips twitched in an almost smile. “I’m serious, Max. This isn’t the real me. I’m not really adventurous and brave, you know. I was terrified to ride Lady the first time. And the snowmobile… well, let’s just say I was screaming on the inside. That fearlessness was all an act.”

  He leaned close and whispered in her ear. “I have bad news for you. You’re a terrible actress.”

  “What?”

  Her lips made the cutest pout, one he almost couldn’t resist kissing.