Mistletoe Over Missoula
By Ellen G. Kelley
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 2015 by Ellen G. Kelley
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior permission of the author.
Cover design by Ellen G. Kelley
Formatting by Ellen G. Kelley
Editing by Claire Tallier
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
About the Author
Write a Review
Connect with Ellen G. Kelley
Upcoming Books
Chapter One
There are two things that I positively cannot stand in this world.
Number one: Celine Dion.
Number two: Christmas music.
Put them together and pipe them all over a crowded shopping mall that looks like one of Santa’s elves threw up holiday cheer on every available surface? Well, then you have the official soundtrack to my own personal hell.
I wasn’t always a big-ole-bah humbug.
Once upon a time–in a relationship now far, far away–I was practically Mrs. Claus this time of year. I had more holiday decorations than I knew what to do with. And I could seriously throw down at the annual Morris family bake off. I even had a handsome man to curl up with in front of the fireplace on those cold Montana nights.
It was perfect. He was perfect. My life was perfect.
Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who thought so. One cheating boyfriend later, and I am now, Becca Morris-Holiday Hater. From a fan of all things festive to Saint Stick-In-The-Mud herself. That’s been my story ever since my ex-boyfriend decided to stuff someone else’s stocking. I’ve been single ever since.
See, the dating pool in Missoula, Montana, is a lot like shopping on Black Friday. Everyone starts out so hopeful that they’ll find a great catch. That this year will be the year they secure the elusive gift on everyone’s list; love. Everyone signs up for this dating ordeal believing that will escape unscathed. Alive. With their soul and extremities still intact.
But dating (and shopping) in the modern age is cut-throat stuff. Faster than you can say, “Ho, Ho, Ho,” you find yourself at the back of the line while the deal-drunk masses trample over your remains. Clawing and scratching complete strangers eyes out to claim their prize.
This is dating. Especially, the “ho” part. A pack of husband-shopping hoochies, all out trolling for what few good men are left in this town. No ring? Well, then, it is game on!
I thought I had really scored big in the love department. I literally pinched myself sometimes. Just to make sure my good fortune was real. I spent the better part of a long while thinking that with every passing Christmas I would be asked to no longer be just a girlfriend. That I would finally hear that four-word question I had been waiting for. Will you marry me?
What I heard instead was the sound of my boyfriend’s architecture intern screaming his name. In our bed. On Christmas Eve. I guess that was karma’s way of punishing me for leaving work early to surprise him.
Oh, I surprised him alright!
Two years later, and the only thing I want for Christmas is indeed a “Silent Night.” There will be no stockings hung by the chimney with care. No thoughts of sugar-plums dancing in this girl’s head. The mere thought of chestnuts roasting on an open fire is enough to make me break out into a cold sweat.
Now, I would not go so far as to say that I am…bitter. Sure–according to some of my friends–I’ve become a bit of a recluse now that I work from home. And I admit they may be right. But, that doesn’t make me a crazy cat lady. At least not yet. All things considered, I’d say I’m handling things rather well.
So what if my ex, decided to skip out on our life together? Who cares if he took his new arm candy on the tour of Europe that I had been planning for two years? Big deal. I had the mortgage to pay on the townhouse, and the car loan, and my work, and…oh, my God! I hate that man!
Forget what I said about not being bitter. I’m still as salty as a sea captain about the whole damn thing. As far as I’m concerned the entire holiday season can suck my big toe.
Oh! And how’s this little slice of irony: Know what I do for a living? I design book covers. Not just any books, though. Romance novels.
That’s right. This holiday-hating, romance-repelling ray of sunshine is one of the best romance cover designers in the business. That’s like asking a recovering drug addict to be a pharmacist. I’m supposed to package up other people’s starry-eyed B.S. so it can be doled out to the addicted masses. All while desperately trying to recover from my own dependence on the exact same substance. If that is not the very definition of what makes a masochist, then I don’t know what is.
Maybe my friend Drew is right. Maybe I am emotionally constipated. I honestly haven’t given a crap about love, the holidays, or much else since that Christmas Eve two years ago.
Crap! That reminds me. Drew is waiting for me so we can ride together to our company’s God-awful holiday gathering.
Drew and I met in college and instantly bonded over our love of Aimee Mann, good bourbon, and bad chick flicks. She’s the one who held my hair while I bent over a toilet on spring break. She’s the one who helped get me my graphic design gig after my life imploded. She’s also the reason that I am forced to leave my house two days before Christmas in search of a present for the company gift exchange. An exchange I hadn’t planned to participate in because, I had every intention of skipping the company commanded revelry. Again. At least, that was the plan.
Then my best friend informed me that our enigmatic head honcho would be flying to our little metropolis to greet his underlings. This new development meant that faking the “black lung” and mailing in my contribution to this year’s festivities was not an option.
Red Reads (or R&R as it is known to those in the publishing biz) is a small branch of the Redmond publishing empire. R&R specializes in “Red Hot Romance,” or so the company slogan says. As chief editor of the boutique operation, Drew was able to set up shop pretty much wherever she wanted. Most everything can be done electronically nowadays, so Missoula was as good a place as any. Only a handful of people work in the Missoula office, with many opting to telecommute.
This pleased me.
Once a year, however, Drew is tasked with rounding up all the employees to endure the time-honored tradition that is the office holiday party. And this year, Harris Redmond has decided to crash it. This means that the Christmas catastrophe waiting to happen just went from optional nonsense to mandatory mayhem. Complete with Secret Santa shenanigans, mistletoe, and a cash bar.
This pleased me not.
If anyone tries to strong-arm me into an ugly sweater, I will NOT be held responsible for my actions.
Now here I am. Wandering around aimlessly through a Scrooge’s worst nightmare on the hunt for a work appropriate gift.
Fan-frickin-tastic.
What does someone bring to one of these things? And what do you bring when the boss you’ve never conversed with outside of e-mail elects to
grace you and your fellow minions with his presence?
Baked goods are out. These days, seems like everyone is allergic to nuts, gluten intolerant, or on some no-sugar/no-fun diet.
Not everyone appreciates odd, humorous gifts like edible underwear or bondage tape. Even though those items are staples of just about every book I design for these days.
A bottle of wine perhaps? Not a good idea. Given my current stress level, I have no doubt I wouldn’t even make it to the parking lot before I was tipping that puppy up like a back-alley hooker looking to score.
Now that I’ve given you that visual…what’s a girl to do?
I sought refuge from the masses by ducking into the lone bookstore in the shopping mall. I work for a publishing company. Everyone at R&R must at least like books, if not love them. Right?
Okay, yes…bringing a book to publishing company Christmas party is the ultimate in lame.
Whatever.
I am officially out of time as well as ideas. So a book it shall be. Now that that’s settled, the only question is which book? I’m standing in the self-help section, and there are way too many titles to choose from. There is the classic, I Used to Miss Him But, My Aim is Improving. Hmm. Perhaps, that’s a bit too close to home. Shut Up, Stop Whining, and Get a Life. I think that might be way too blunt. Even for me.
Here we go: “The Complete Worst-Case Scenario Survival Handbook.
I think we have a winner.
I wonder if there is a chapter on company Christmas parties?
Chapter Two
I pull up to Drew’s house and park my sage-green Subaru Outback by the curb out front. No doubt if you’ve ever been to Missoula, you are well aware that the unofficial state car is none other than the tried-and-true Subaru. Sure, a grocery-getter is not the hippest ride for a single twenty-seven-year-old gal. But four-wheel drive is a requirement in these parts. I would rather give up some cool points than get stuck in a snow-bank on some poorly plowed side street.
Side-stepping a giant pile of snow, I make my way to the scorching scarlet front door of my friend’s house. Just as I begin to begrudgingly raise my hand to knock, the bright red surface is yanked out from under my knuckles. I am now standing face to face with Drew. At this range, I’m close enough to see her face shift from delight to horror as she takes in my appearance. She inhales sharply, and with the blunt honesty only a true friend is capable of, she chastises me for my attire.
“I suppose I should just be grateful that you at least showered for tonight!”
“It’s nice to see you too, Drew.”
“And I’m glad to see you dressed for the occasion, Becca. I know that this holey jean, oversized sweatshirt look is your new uniform of choice around the house. But this outfit doesn’t exactly scream, “Hey, boys! Who wants to test out the mistletoe?”
“Really? Darn it. I was so hoping to be some random guy’s tonsil hockey teammate tonight.” I snapped my fingers in mock disappointment.
“Bec, I cannot–absolutely CANNOT–let you leave my house looking like that.” She shook her head and pushed me towards her bedroom. “You are barely fit to be seen in public looking like this. I can’t be seen with you at the R&R party dressed like a Jennifer Beals’ Flash Dance doppelganger.”
“You wouldn’t have to be seen with me at all if you hadn’t forced me to leave my house in the first place.”
“Becca, I know you would rather go into hiding during the holidays. But I am not going to allow it this year.” She began rifling through her massive walk-in closet in search of what she considered appropriate party garb.
“So I don’t lose my mind over the holidays. Lots of people share my disdain for the commercialization of a holy day.” Drew popped her head out of the closet to call me out.
“Nice try. Cut the crap, Morris. You only developed this ridiculous aversion to holiday socializing after…”
“Don’t say it.”
“Then don’t make me.”
“Fine.”
“Great. Now free yourself from that sorry excuse for an outfit and get changed already. I don’t want to be late for when you know who gets there.” Drew tossed multiple dress and shoe pairings on the bed. It was truly mind-blowing to watch her work.
“Good God, woman! How many pair of shoes do you own?”
“Enough that I can stand to loan you something other than those old boots you’re always sporting.”
“Hey, don’t dis the Frye’s. They’ll hear you.” I shushed her as if my beloved boots might actually take offense.
“Right.” She left me to case the closet. As I searched for anything with a modicum of breast coverage, I could hear Drew shuffling items around in the bathroom. That couldn’t be good. I was about to slip into a high-neck black number when Drew reappeared to halt my progress.
“That’s what I was afraid of.”
“What? That I would do what you asked?”
“No. That if given the choice, you’d bury that figure of yours in fabric, so that you can be as invisible as possible tonight.”
I pointed to my rather ample cleavage for my five-foot four-inch frame and said in rebuttal, “Maybe I just wanted to make sure the girls didn’t freeze to death tonight.”
“Bec, come on. Stop trying to hide that bod. You’ve got ‘it.’ You know it, and I know it. Now it’s time to unleash those ‘girls’ of yours, and let everyone else know how beautiful you are.” All I could do was groan my compliance. She was right. I had been hiding myself away. Burying myself in work and baggy clothes.
“The gold number. That’s the ticket. Now, throw it on. Quickly, so I can paint your face. Then we’ve gotta run.” She stepped out of the closet again.
“The things I do for you.” I sighed and muffled the laugh threatening to escape me.
“Bitch, please. You love it when I’m bossy.”
“True. Just promise me that you’ll take it easy on the boss sauce tonight. I don’t need you trying to auction off my vagina to the highest bidder.”
“That’s providing anyone could find it through all the cobwebs,” she bellowed from the bathroom.
Touché.
I did as requested.
I felt completely exposed as I met Drew in the bathroom for my next round of punishment. Encased in a gold, sequined dress that clung to me like a second skin, there was no hiding every curve. While I was thankful for the long sleeves and modest neckline, I still felt like the manufacturer had skimped on fabric. The hem came to a halt at mid-thigh, and the dress featured a plunging cowl back that left my entire backside on display. At least the opaque black tights made me feel a bit more covered and a little less likely to pull a “Britney Spears” and flash my lady bits to all my co-workers.
“I’m guessing from the look on your face and your sudden inability to form words that my appearance now meets with your approval?”
“Bec! You look awesome. Don’t you think?” She spun me ‘till I was facing the mirror.
“It’s a little short.”
“It’s a LOT hot! Now get your butt over here.”
I shifted uncomfortably. It had been a while since I had worn four-inch heels and I was feeling clumsy. Good thing Drew was a tall blonde beast. Even with the shoes I had on, her five-eleven self towered over me as she went to work on my hair. Releasing the messy bun I had caged my hair in, Drew helped my auburn locks fall down my back in waves. She then turned her attention to my face. With the speed and skill of a seasoned make-up artist, my friend slashed, dabbed, and dusted my face to painterly perfection.
The reflection that stared back at me was someone I had not seen in two years. Full red lips, blushed cheeks, pale green eyes made wicked by the mascara-laden cat eye. It was like looking at the memory of whom I was before I let someone steal my happiness.
And, if I may be so bold…I looked good. Even I would make out with me.
Not that I planned to make out with anyone.
Or that I even wanted to.
I didn’t w
ant to. Did I?
As I pondered that question, my thoughts were interrupted by the cold slap of a leather jacket tossed hastily in my direction. I turned to see Drew rounding up presents, purses, and car keys as she nodded for me to help her with the door. There was no more stalling. This holiday party was happening and I was along for the ride. I slid into the soft leather and held the door for Drew as I zipped up my coat. Closing the door behind me, the click of the lock notified me that there was no going back to change.
Just breathe Becca. Just remember to breathe.
It is just one night. What’s the worst that can happen?
Chapter 3
I take it all back. Holiday parties are the worst.
In fact, I am now fully convinced that whoever first dreamed up reality television is the same person responsible for this annual torture. No doubt this brand of corporate sponsored merriment began as the brainchild of some former frat boy in a suit. I bet he thought, “Hey, I got a great idea! Let’s take a bunch of people who have to work together in a professional setting, sprinkle in a full year’s worth of pent-up hostility, then douse the lot of them with cheap booze. Then we toss in some stale crackers with Costco artichoke dip to stave off the alcohol poisoning. And then let’s just sit back and see what happens.”
Every fiber in my being wanted to reach for the panic button the moment we entered the room.
We arrived fashionably late. Mercifully, we got there before his majesty Harris Redmond arrived. Unfortunately, we were not early enough to put the kibosh on the handful of co-workers who had pre-gamed the event. You can always tell who is ahead on the beverage count. Typically, it’s the first brave souls to hit the empty dance floor and writhe around to the music blissfully off the beat. At least, the DJ was getting some free entertainment out of the display.
And of course, no party would be complete without that one co-worker who hits the courage juice a bit too hard and-then proceeds to use little baby Jesus’s birthday as an excuse to ambush unsuspecting colleagues under the mistletoe.
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