I took a step back and looked up. We were standing underneath a Christmas display with mistletoe hanging right over us. I shook my head. “Did Christina tell you about that, too?”
His arm circled me and yanked me against him. He grinned. “Oh, you mean that you hate the stuff, that you rip it down when she puts it up?”
My heart pounded and I could swear I felt his pounding heart, too.
He looked down at my lips. “Hey, Mol?”
I grinned. “Yes.”
“Do you think you can give me a push on the swing when we get back?”
I laughed and closed my eyes. “Maybe.”
“Good, I’ve been waiting for too long.” His lips touched mine.
Our lips held together and I let myself get lost in this moment.
The man I loved, had always loved, was kissing me, under the mistletoe, on Christmas Eve.
This was the best movie I’d ever watched. But something was missing…
I yanked back. “Miracles…Kevin, we have to get on a plane back to Snow Valley. I…I’ve been so horrible to my parents.”
He laughed. “What?”
I tugged my phone out of my coat pocket. “We need to catch a flight back to Billings if we’re going to make it to the pageant.”
Kevin put his hand over my phone. “Why?”
Impatiently, I tugged it back. “Because Christmas is for miracles…and maybe I can be the ‘prodigal daughter’ or something like that.”
Kevin grinned and dug in his pocket, pulling out my ring. The star ring. He held it out.
I stared at it. “Where did you get it?”
“I found this on the floor by the cash register in your store.”
I stared at it.
His grin widened. “After I found it, I took it as a sign and I asked Sally to help me book two tickets back to Billings at four o’clock.”
“You did?”
“I did.” He shrugged. “Every miracle requires faith. I took a chance.”
I grinned. “I guess His plan is bigger than any of us.” Warmth cradled me. And an urgency to see my parents propelled me. “C’mon.” I took his hand and we rushed to my car.
Christina was waiting inside of it.
I jerked open the door and her kohl-lined eyes sparkled back at me. “Yay!” She did small claps then got out and rushed around the car to hug me. “I knew you’d come back with the heartbreaker.”
I laughed and held her close. “I’m going home.”
She pulled me from side to side. “I know…I dreamed about this baby eagle returning to its’ nest last night.”
I laughed, again. “Are you going to be okay?”
A tear fell down her cheek. “I have Luis.” She winked. “I dreamed about him last night, too and everything is going to work out fine.”
“Merry Christmas.” I gave her one last hug before getting into my car.
She waved. “Merry Christmas!”
Chapter Twenty-One
THE SERVICE HAD BARELY STARTED when Kevin and I walked into the packed church.
Kevin got on his toes to look around, then pulled me forward. “Your parents are up there.”
We found them and I slipped next to my mother. “Any room for angels that have been very unangel-like?”
She turned and stared at me, dumbfounded. “Molly?”
My father immediately reached for my hand.
Kevin slid in next to me.
I took my parent’s hands. “I’m so sorry.”
My mother covered her face, tears ran down her cheeks. “I told the Lord that I just needed something tonight. Something to show me that it would be okay.” She grinned. “On the way here, I looked up and saw the North Star. It was bright. It reminded me of that night in Bethlehem. I knew it would all be okay. That you would find your way home.”
I blinked back tears. “I appreciate the sacrifice you gave to give me life.”
My father’s face was happy, tears on his face. “We love you.”
I sniffed. “I love you guys, too. Thank you.” I nudged my mom. “For everything you gave up.”
Her face brightened and she paused. “Molly, you don’t understand. I didn’t give up anything, having you gave me everything. You are a miracle. You are our miracle. I know that being a mother is the greatest gift I’ve ever been given.”
I put my arm around her and love filled me. I knew I had been given a second chance. To be a daughter. To love the man I’d always loved. I thought of what Pastor John had said about seeing other people’s pain. That was my own, personal Christmas miracle. “I love you.”
Pastor John took the stand. The little pageant kids stood behind him, restless and noisy. Parents’ shooshing went through the air.
He pushed back his glasses. “I want you all to think about a baby born on a night much like tonight. A Savior to the world. A Savior that could give us all peace and joy and love. A Savior that could save us from ourselves.”
Kevin took my hand. “Molly.”
I grinned and squeezed his hand. “Shh.”
Pastor John kept talking. “I want you to remember that Christmas miracles are real.”
“Molly.”
I turned to him.
His aqua eyes were intense.
“What?”
Kevin grinned. “I just have one miracle I need to ask for?”
The moment went slow and sticky—just like in the movies before the lead guy and the lead girl…
“Will you marry me?”
I glanced down at my ring, the star ring. I laughed out a soft sigh. “Who am I to argue with a plan that’s been thrown in front of me?”
Kevin bent to kiss me, but paused right before meeting my lips. “I’m glad I didn’t have to have that conversation for us.”
Our lips met and everything about this moment was completely perfect…more perfect than any movie could be.
I pulled back and grinned. “I guess that dreams really can predict the future.”
Kevin winked back. “Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to say the future…but a kiss I can deliver on.”
Our lips met and all I knew was that the end to this movie was really, really good.
ADDITIONAL WORKS
by Taylor Hart
Contemporary, Clean Romance
When high school football star and ex marine, Ryan Hardman, comes back to Hidden Falls, he doesn’t care that his company wants to buy the ranch he’s always loved. He doesn’t care that he hasn’t seen his two brothers in seven years. And, why would it be any of his business that Charlotte Love isn’t married anymore. It’s not that.Charlotte Love doesn’t believe in fairytale endings or happily ever after. She doesn’t want it, either. To say that she’s not the least bit concerned Ryan Hardman is back in town—would be saying that she even cares that much. All she wants is to raise her son and run her bookstore.
After a news story releases information surrounding the mystery of why Ryan hasn’t been back and Charlotte discovers the ranch Ryan wants to buy—is hers…they are left with a choice—fight or run..
Young Adult, Clean Fantasy Romance
Seventeen-year-old Delanie Hart has a past she wants to keep hidden. Moving to a new state and attending a new high school seems to be just the thing — until she accidentally sees a mark exactly like her own. When the people she is running from come after her, Lanie is left with a choice — give up what she wants or save her friends.
About the Author
Taylor Hart has always been drawn to a good love triangle, hot chocolate and long conversations with new friends. Writing has always been a passion that has consumed her daydreams and forced her to sit in a trance for long hours, completely obsessed with people that don't really exist. Taylor would have been a country star if she could have carried a tune.
You can sign up for Taylor’s newsletter to learn about new releases and bargains on Taylor Hart books here: http://eepurl.com/45Emn
Find Taylor at:
taylorhartbooks.com
│ Twitter: @taylorfaithhart │ Facebook: Taylor Hart
Risking it
All for Love
Kimberley Montpetit
Dedication
For the “women” of Snow Valley, Montana,
whose talent and creativity inspires me
Chapter One
I SAW HIM THE FIRST TIME at Snow Valley’s cemetery. Striding across the dead, snow-covered grass. He wore a black wool coat and leather gloves. Not a ski jacket, a man’s long overcoat. His head was uncovered, hair cut just below his ears, a thatch of dark brown tossed across his forehead. My breath caught, and my palms grew clammy despite the fact that I’d forgotten my gloves and the tips of my fingers were turning to ice.
Was it—no, it couldn’t be. Dread dropped to the pit of my stomach. Because if it was him, I was seeing things. Seeing dead people. Which would mean that the séance at Madame LeBlanc’s parlor back in New Orleans was for real.
I gulped and narrowed my eyes, burring my chin into my zipped up coat so it didn’t look like I was staring at the guy until my eyes bugged out. Now he was coming toward me. Or was the angle of his body merely an optical illusion in the whiteness of the snowy scene, the skeletal trees, and the dreary gray sky?
Even though I doubted who I was seeing, my heart still went into overdrive.
The possible specter coming toward me looked so much like… Oh, gosh, I swore I was having palpitations, maybe even a heart attack. A sharp pain thudded against my ribs.
It couldn’t be him. That was crazy. It meant that I was truly losing my mind. Was I going crazy? I know my mother thought so. She’d been nagging at me ever since the plane landed, wanting confidences about my life, my work with the dance company in New Orleans, my plans for the future, my feelings. This whole trip home was impractical - or maybe it was just being around my mother that brought out all my angst.
“My feelings are none of your business, Mom,” I’d told her tartly an hour ago as I shoved my feet into a pair of canvas sneakers I’d dug out of my closet.
“Jessica, you’ll catch cold wearing those shoes in this weather.”
“Oh, is it snowing again?” Of course, my mother didn’t catch my sarcasm. There was two feet of snow piled up on both sides of the driveway and the yard was a blanket of white.
“And no socks!” she’d continued, her lips puckered disapprovingly. “Not even laces? They’ll fall off your feet tramping around in this snow. I swear living in the South has touched your head.”
Of course I should have worn boots, but I didn’t feel like being practical. Coming home for Christmas was probably a mistake on so many levels. I was used to New Orleans now. The mild weather, the humidity, the crazy, life-loving people, the Creole culture, the dripping Spanish moss from the cypress and oak trees, crazy Bourbon Street with the smell of seafood and wine and vodka that lingered in my nose.
Taking the dance scholarship there had been my wisest decision yet. New Orleans, with its funky architecture and old Civil War history was a great place in which to forget. To forget everything I wanted to run away from. I mean, forget everything I couldn’t stand thinking about any longer before I truly went mad.
Prickles of cold ran up my neck. Guess Madame LeBlanc was right about that part. I was showing signs of grief-induced insanity.
So I threw myself into my dance, practicing twelve hours a day, exploring my new city two thousand miles from home.
Two thousand miles from this, the very thing standing in front of me—Michael’s grave.
The man in the wool coat—I would have laid a hand on the Bible in Pastor John’s study at the church to swear it was the ghost of Michael—was coming toward me.
Sucking in a breath, I crouched behind the tombstone, hoping my white down jacket would blend in.
Of course, my mother was right. My feet were two blocks of ice now. But pain was good. Penance for that last night of Michael’s life.
I ran my fingertips along the words etched into the granite:
Michael Lucas Grant
beloved son, grandson, and friend to all who knew him.
Born June 30
Died December 20
Michael would stay eighteen forever.
Forever locked with my memories of senior year, and all the memories of the previous decade stored away in my mind, my heart, and my soul.
I heard myself whimper. My stomach began to hurt. How would I ever get away from the hold he had on me? We’d been best friends since we were eight years old in Mrs. Ross’s third grade class. Our desk was a long table where we sat two at the table to share.
Michael had bumped my arm and I bumped him back. He made fun of me when I pirouetted in the bark on the playground, when I jumped from my swing. (I was learning how to twirl that year in ballet class.) Michael and I tied for first place in every single recess race.
We began to share homework and lunches by 5th grade, quizzing each other, taking swimming lessons, and gathering the neighborhood kids for teams of Kick the Can—which melted into hot, lazy summer days when we were sixteen and took a picnic to the river. Skipping stones, eating peanut butter sandwiches, talking about the silly church play, when our parents made us mad, sibling rivalry, who was going out with who among our high school class, and then, finally, finally, sharing our first kiss. I’d been secretly wanting it for months. Maybe years.
“You can’t be Sweet Sixteen and not get kissed,” he’d said hoarsely, nervously, one finger fiddling at the hole in his faded jeans.
“It’s already too late, my birthday started this morning,” I’d teased him
“What time were you born?” he’d asked, knowing full well it wasn’t until seven o’clock in the evening.
“No fair,” I’d said, punching him lightly on the arm.
He’d grinned at me. “We have a couple hours left before you’re official.”
I remembered that my stomach rose with anticipation. I’d been hoping he would, at last, attempt to kiss me. I’d been thinking about it for ages, wondering what it would be like to finally kiss a boy, to kiss Michael, who was good and safe. Someone I didn’t have to worry about taking advantage of me, like Ann Davis who left school for her older sister’s house in California to have a baby.
The press of Michael’s lips against mine had been soft and sweet. He’d tasted like cotton candy or Sprite. I’d loved him since I was eight. Loved and hated as we grew up and fought and made up. We’d even played Romeo and Juliet in a summer school production.
That particular memory brought a voice from the past echoing in my ears. Someone from the audience during dress rehearsal. Probably some chick who’d wanted the lead role and the chance to kiss Michael Grant. “You know, Mrs. Snow, just because Michael and Jessica have been dating their whole lives doesn’t mean they should get the lead roles. They have no chemistry together. It’s like watching a brother and sister in love.”
The auditorium had gone stone silent. The words stung, and I’d tried to brush them off, but during every performance of Rome and Juliet from then on I heard those words repeating in my brain. And I realized that every kiss was stale, exactly the same as all the others. No fizzy Sprite bubbling up to my head, or cotton candy taste anymore.
Was I just shy about kissing Michael in public, for the entire town to watch? Or was it true—that Michael and I were truly only friends, best friends, sharing everything, loving each other—but not in love?
We started making plans to attend Montana State University in Bozeman. After graduation, we’d get married. I was marrying my best friend! Wasn’t that the best plan? The one most assured to have happiness and comfort?
But over the next year I realized that even though my heart lit up whenever Michael came into the room, and we still talked for hours every day, we didn’t spend time kissing or making out. It was like we’d already been married fifty years. A peck on the lips, a hug, but nothing in between the daily “hello” and “see you tomorrow.”
What did it mean? Was this normal?
I had no idea. I’d never dated anyone but Michael. I’d never kissed anyone but Michael.
So we decided to do something really daring and really stupid to see what all the fuss was about with sex. Maybe we’d been putting it off for so long, we’d suppressed our hormones—or something like that. Yeah, our thought processes were pretty inane.
But we were barely eighteen. And yes, we were stupid.
We got drunk one night when Michael’s parents were away. Sat on the couch drinking beer, and then put down a couple shots of tequila for good measure.
We tried to do the deed, but never got past some heavy kissing. And by then I was running to the bathroom to throw up from the alcohol.
“Aw, hell,” Michael had said. “Let’s get out of here.”
I still felt queasy, I just wanted to go home, but I went with him. To keep him safe, I told myself.
Michael was solemn and quiet on the ride, his mood growing darker, as we both wondered what our relationship truly was, and what had gone wrong. How could someone get married and never have sexual relations? We wanted a family. I wanted to be with my best friend for the rest of my life.
I’m eighteen!” he’d raged. “I shouldn’t need sex counseling!”
I’d laughed, trying to lighten the mood, reaching for his hand, reaching for assurance because I was so incredibly confused, too.
I could still see his fists slamming against the steering wheel. I didn’t think he was that drunk. I thought after a person threw up, the alcohol was out of their system. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
The accident itself was innocuous. He underestimated the yellow light, slammed on the gas pedal, and went for it. Something we’d done before, something everyone does occasionally.
But neither of us saw the other car turning left. The impact spun our car into a light pole. I’d never forget the sounds of metal slamming, crunching, the screaming, and then the silence. Michael slumped over.
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