His Mistletoe Miracle

by Jenny B. Jones

  The car turned down another dirt road. “The project could be better. The holidays are getting in the way of my writing time.”

  “Christmas isn’t an inconvenience. It’s magical and awe-inspiring and reverent and fun and—”

  “You’re the type who’s playing holiday music in July.”

  “It’s the sign of a sound mind and full heart.”

  Will parked next to a tree-laden SUV. “It’s the sign of a mental imbalance.”

  She reached over and patted his shoulder. “Scrooge, the Grinch, and Susan Lucci in the Lifetime movie classic Miracle at Christmas all saw the light and dropped their bah-hum-bug ways. I predict it might even happen to you.”

  “Your faith in me is uplifting.” Will’s smile fell flat. “And weird.”

  Cordelia rescued Isaiah from his carrier and walked toward the entrance. She turned a slow circle, taking big gulps of the pine-scented air, and hummed along to the festive music piped into hidden speakers. The Wonderland Tree Farm was a popular destination for families or really anyone with a pulse. Where else could you get such an authentic photo backdrop while eating a funnel cake and picking out the most perfect tree?

  Will stopped by Harry’s Holiday Hot Chocolate stand and ordered two deluxe mochas, extra whip. “Let me take the baby.”

  Cordelia hesitated.

  “He’s safe with me.” Will gently plucked Isaiah from her hands. “Just drink your coffee and grab the first tree you see.”

  “That’s not how you select one. It has to feel right.” She walked down the first flawlessly symmetrical aisle of Douglas firs. “You need to look at the branches, touch the needles, envision the majestic tree in your home.”

  “I still think the one at the dollar store would’ve worked just as well.”

  Cordelia took a sip of her mocha, needing a caffeine infusion to deflect Will’s dark vibes. “Just trust me.”

  They strolled past a five-person bluegrass band playing “Away in a Manger.” The mandolin, guitar, and banjo wove together in holy harmony, giving Cordelia her first sense of peace of the night. And though the lead singer was a wee bit warbly, the song was imperfectly perfect, as bluegrass was meant to be. And, she decided, as Will’s tree should be as well.

  They continued on to the second row, and she watched Will work to keep Isaiah warm while he chatted to the baby as if Isaiah understood. And apparently he did, as her foster son repeatedly broke into gusty giggles. Why didn’t he laugh that much with her? Wasn’t she funny? Didn’t she make silly faces and adorable sound effects? Why, yes she did. And then Will Sinclair just showed up, and he was an instant hit? Unacceptable.

  “Why are you frowning?” Will asked. “We’re in your happy place.”

  Cordelia took a deep breath, willing herself to blow out the negativity. “I stepped in sap.”

  “So let’s discuss our story.”

  She nearly choked on her mocha. “We have a story?”

  “If we want to be convincing to my family, we do.”

  “Great,” she said. “Fabrication is a solid foundation for any relationship.”

  “Your foster mama has some sass.” Will tickled Isaiah’s chin. “How have I put up with her these two months?”

  “You’ve been in Sugar Creek two months?”

  “Three.”

  “How on earth have you kept that a secret till now?”

  “Between restaurant delivery and Amazon, I don’t have much need to get out.”

  “Don’t you feel guilty for lying to your family about us?”

  “No. I’m giving them the gift of peace of mind. Almost beats a gift certificate to Target.”

  “Oh, here’s a good tree.” She stopped at a Leyland Cypress. “Nice round shape and—”

  “Nah. Keep looking.” Will was now blowing raspberries into Isaiah’s neck, eliciting more giggles.

  Look away from the hot man with shockingly good baby skills. Look away!

  “So, how’d we meet?” he asked.

  Cordelia let her hands drift over a branch, the foliage sliding across her fingers. “I rescued you from an ill-advised job as a dancing snowflake in the community Christmas pageant.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You went door to door singing Holiday Grams?” She glanced back at Will. “You wore tights, of course.”

  He stopped at a Fraser Fir. “Isaiah, your foster mama was just checking out my legs.”

  “No, I wasn’t!”

  “I feel objectified.” He caught up to Cordelia and nudged her shoulder. “But sometimes I appreciate a woman who boldly ogles.”

  “I wasn’t—”

  “Let’s say we met at Noah and Emma’s.”

  She’d sat in a few city council meetings with the mayor and his marketing director wife. “I barely know them.”

  “Which makes you extra grateful these new friends introduced you to the sexiest man you’ve ever met.”

  “Were you born with this arrogance or is it just something you’re generously sharing for the holidays?”

  Will lifted the baby higher against his chest. “Isaiah, Cordelia saw me across the room and it was love at first sight for her. Your foster mom’s a little vain and into appearances, while I typically seek a deeper connection. I wanted to talk to her first and really get to know the heart and mind behind the woman.”

  She bit her lip, refusing to reward Will with a smile. “So Noah set us up?”

  He nodded. “That works.”

  She pointed toward another tree. “That one is nice.”

  “Leans to the left.”

  She tilted her head and squinted, unable to see any such thing.

  Will led them down another aisle. “We’ll say we discovered we had so much in common, we’ve spent nearly every day together since.”

  “We’ve been dating three minutes, and you’re already smothering me.”

  “It’s not my fault you can’t resist me. All our dating is probably why I can’t get this book finished.”

  “Blaming me for your inadequacies.” She lifted her cup to her lips. “We won’t make it past New Year’s.”

  “I promise not to cry when we break up.”

  “Noble.” They turned a corner and walked side by side, the trees buffering the wind. “What are these things we have in common?”

  “We both like me,” Will said.

  “Too unrealistic. Next.”

  “How do you feel about dogs?”

  “Adore them. It’s impossible to frown when you see a dog hanging out a car window.”

  “Book or movie?”

  “Both.”

  “Agreed. Sports?”

  “I can tolerate basketball.”

  “Now you like football,” he said. “Don’t forget my brother’s a former NFL quarterback.”

  “Then I guess it’s a good thing I’m not pretending to date him.”

  “He’s married to a saint, and they’re expecting baby number two this spring.”

  “Got it.” Cordelia threw that in her mental file cabinet, trying to focus on the task at hand and not on the fact that she was so out of her league. Will was this rugged, model-gorgeous, award-winning journalist, with a twin brother who used to play pro ball, and if she remembered correctly, also looked like he’d taken a deep dive in the Beautiful People Gene Pool. Both had pedigree, money that probably did grow on trees, and what sounded like a caring, fully functional family. They had so little in common.

  “What’s your favorite food?” she asked as she stopped near a gorgeous fir.

  “Cheap pizza.”

  She could respect that. “Mine’s pasta.”

  “Red sauce or white?”

  “Red is healthier.”

  “In other words, you like the white.”

  “So, so much.”

  He laughed at that and let Isaiah grab a branch.

  “How tall’s your ceiling?” Cordelia saw a tree that had her heart singing.

  “Living room’s probably ten fe
et.”

  She all but levitated to the evergreen, with its full branches, bright hue, and substantial stature. She could envision gold garland, vintage bubble lights, and a plaid tree skirt she’d spotted at a store downtown. “This is it,” she declared.

  “I don’t—” Will clamped his lips on the rest of the sentence and pulled them both behind the tree.

  Cordelia’s nose pressed against his sweater. “I thought you agreed not to accost me during this fake relationship.”

  “Shhh.” He jerked his chin toward the left while Isaiah babbled. “It’s my neighbor, Mrs. Chen. Three o’clock.”

  “So?”

  “So, she’s here with her daughter, and twice when I’ve talked to Mrs. Chen she’s used the term ‘arranged marriage.’”

  Cordelia knew Janet Chen from the bank, and the woman was harmless as her knitting needles. “I don’t usually date someone easily scared by a five-foot-tall gal who likes cat sweaters, mall walks, and sings Sinatra karaoke every Tuesday at the Dixie Dairy.”

  “That short lady is lethal, and she’s got a military-general strategy to get her daughter Mae married off quick.”

  “Maybe you should’ve picked Mae as your fake—”

  “Mr. Sinclair! Oh, Will! Hello!”

  He gave a low growl. “It’s go time.” And before Cordelia could say figgy pudding, Will reached for her hand, laced his fingers through hers, and gave her a resigned frown. “Don’t forget you adore me.”

  Chapter 7

  “Helllooo!” Mrs. Chang broke right between a family of five, her statuesque daughter behind her. “How delightful to run into you this evening!” The woman’s eyes cut to their joined hands, but she soldiered on. “You can finally meet my daughter. Mae, this is Will Sinclair, famous television journalist and overall hero.”

  Cordelia felt Will tense at the description.

  “It’s an honor to meet you.” Mae’s smile was envious, with her full lips and not a smidge of lipstick on her teeth.

  “Mae’s a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader,” Mrs. Chang said. “Did I tell you that?”

  “Three times.” Will wrapped an arm around Cordelia’s shoulders and hauled her tight to his chest, right next to Isaiah. “Do you know Cordelia Daring?”

  Mrs. Chang found a smile. “How are you, dear?”

  Confused. Perplexed. Wondering why this man’s embrace felt so unnervingly sweet. “Good, thank you. Nice night to pick a Christmas tree, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” Mrs. Chang said, while her daughter seemed content to openly stare in appreciation at Will. “My daughter’s in for Christmas break and wanted a tree for her room. Will, maybe you could help us carry it upstairs? You two could have so much to talk about with your traveling and football connections and such.”

  Subtle as a sledgehammer.

  “I work some pretty long hours,” Will said. “But I could probably round up some help and send it your way.”

  Not to be deterred, Mrs. Chang switched gears. “We’re having dinner tomorrow night and would love to see you there. Wouldn’t we, Mae?”

  Mae nodded with an exuberant amount of enthusiasm, as if her mother had just said, “Would you like to see Will take off his shirt?”

  “Thank you, ladies, but Cordelia’s been begging me to get a tree, and I promised her we’d decorate it.” He nudged his fake girlfriend in the ribs.

  Cordelia slipped her gloved hand up his solid chest and rested her head near his shoulder. Her brain raced for convincing words, but there was no script to be found. “Um, yes. We’re going to hang things and garland stuff and maybe drink eggnog, except I don’t like egg drinks, and Will does, but he also likes cider, which is good too, and I like cider, and we’ll probably cuddle like the cuddlers that we are because we’re a couple. A real, true couple.”

  His hold on Cordelia tightened, as if he wanted to squeeze some assistance right into her.

  “We should get our tree and go home,” Will said. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, ladies.” Will guided them away from the match-making mama and her pom-pom princess of a daughter.

  “But that’s the tree I wanted,” Cordelia hissed.

  “Just keep walking.” He steered her down another aisle and guided them toward the little cabin where an elf stood taking money. “Was that act the best you got, Daring?”

  “I’m sorry.” Her tone held little sincerity. “You said to pretend to be your girlfriend. You didn’t say I needed to turn in an Oscar performance.”

  “I think Noah could’ve put in a more convincing portrayal of my significant other.”

  “And be more likely to kiss you.”

  Will stopped so suddenly, her hand slipped from his grip. As the night wind blew its icicled breath, Will closed the distance until there wasn’t a snowflake’s width between them. “You’ve mentioned kissing a few times.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Yeah.” One brow raised. “You have. You thinking about it, Daring?”

  “No.” Maybe a few times, but that was completely normal. Wasn’t it? It was Will Sinclair. Mrs. Claus herself would fantasize about a little lip lock after five minutes in his presence. “It never crossed my mind.”

  His head tilted to study her better, and a rogue’s twinkle lit his eyes. “You haven’t wondered at all?” He reached out and captured a strand of her long hair the breeze had freed, let his fingers run the wavy length of it, then slowly tucked it behind her ear, his gaze steady on hers. “Maybe we should practice.”

  She swallowed, as all thoughts of Christmas trees and cheerleaders cartwheeled away. “Practice?”

  He nodded. “We do want to look convincing. You know, when we’re cuddling like cuddlers.”

  “I . . .that is . . .you . . .”

  “What if my family doesn’t believe our ruse, and we have to get drastic?” Will sounded at least semi-serious. “If we have to throw them off with a kiss, do we really want it to be our first one?”

  She couldn’t move if the ground turned to ice.

  Was he being serious?

  Did she want him to be? Kissing practice wasn’t the worst idea a man had thrown at her. It was better than running practice or tax prep practice.

  Will’s forehead creased. “I mean, I could go left, you go could right. Our noses might bump. The rhythm be all off, and you might not know where to put your hands.”

  Cordelia had a few ideas. “That. . .that sounds a bit complicated.”

  “Fake relationships often are.” He traced the curve of her cheekbone with a cold finger.

  As if drawn by a gravitational pull, she leaned toward him.

  His eyes held hers, searing and searching. He slid his hand down her arm and tugged her toward him.

  “Can we help you find a tree?”

  Cordelia’s head jerked at the arrival of two teenage helpers in matching Wonderland Tree Farm sweatshirts.

  She took a healthy step away from Will as if he’d turned leprous. “No! No, thank you. Found our tree. It’s a good one. Just spending quality time with my boyfriend here. We’re super dating. This is a date. Will’s my sweetie. We like trees.”

  From the droll look on Will’s face, she knew she’d done it again. This pretending stuff was hard. Maybe she could pretend not to speak English.

  “Check out is up ahead,” a spiky-haired boy said. “We’ll be glad to take care of you.”

  “Thank you,” Will said, calm as a spring morning. As if he hadn’t been about to kiss her.

  Meanwhile her cheeks burned scorching hot, her heartbeat could surely be spotted thudding against her three layers of clothes, and her deodorant had surrendered and gone home. “Let’s get out of here.” Fueled by embarrassment, Cordelia’s feet propelled her to the checkout, where, Saint Nicholas be praised, there was no waiting. “Mr. Sinclair will take the tree number seven on aisle three, row nine. And I’d like the small fir from row one as well.”

  Will caught up to her, and her anxious eyes automatically went to the baby, who was still c
ozy in his coat and passed out, oblivious to the elements and strain around him.

  Cordelia handed cash to the high school girl using her cellphone to calculate payment. “I’d like the small tree taken to the Smithfield trailer park on Whitney Mountain. Is that too far for delivery?”

  The girl nodded. “In town deliveries only.”

  She handed the gum-popping checker another twenty. “Does this put it in city limits?”

  “We’ll see it gets there.”

  “Who’s that for?” Will asked.

  “Some friends.”

  He frowned as two workers set off to aisle three, row nine. “Did I decide on a winner?”

  “You did,” Cordelia said.

  “I’m pretty sure I rejected every one of them.”

  “I don’t have time for you to work through your evergreen commitment issues.”

  He had the nerve to smile. “Do you have time to decorate tomorrow before my parents arrive?”

  She did. Her day was wide open after a few morning appointments. “I’ll have to check my schedule.”

  “Cordelia!”

  She dropped her wallet into her purse and smiled at the familiar face approaching. “Mr. Fillmore.” Who knew the tree farm would be the social spot of the night? “Kind of late picking your tree, aren’t you?”

  The white-haired man, her boss for the last ten years, glanced between her and Will. “Been busy, you know. End of year can be brutal. My wife bought a tree from the mall, but those fake things don’t even compare, do they?” As was his pattern, he didn’t give but a second’s space for a response he didn’t require. “Cordelia, looking forward to seeing you at the Christmas party next Saturday.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Are you still thinking about my offer?”

  Anxiety was a tangle of Christmas lights around her heart. “I am. I’ll let you know.”

  The man stuck out a hand to Will and handed him a card. “Arthur Fillmore, of the accounting firm Fillmore and Associates.”

  “Will Sinclair.”

  If Mr. Fillmore recognized Will, he gave no indication. But her boss rarely had his nose out of his spreadsheets to know what the weather was, let alone identify a television personality. “This lady here is one of my best accountants.”