Santa's Cookies (Mistletoe Montana Book 1)

by L. Nicole

  SANTA’S COOKIES

  L. NICOLE

  SANTA’S COOKIES

  Copyright © 2020 by L. Nicole

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including but not limited to being stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, groups, businesses, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  WARNING: This book contains sexual situations, violence and other adult themes. Recommended for 18 and above.

  Created with Vellum

  CONTENTS

  Title

  1. Krissy

  2. Maddox

  3. Krissy

  4. Maddox

  5. Krissy

  6. Maddox

  7. Krissy

  8. Maddox

  9. Krissy

  10. Maddox

  11. Krissy

  12. Maddox

  13. Krissy

  14. Maddox

  15. Krissy

  16. Maddox

  Epilogue

  Epilogue

  Mistletoe Montana Series

  Keep In Touch

  Also by L. Nicole

  By

  L. Nicole

  KRISSY

  WHOEVER DECIDED snow should be white really missed an opportunity.

  Sitting on the window seat with my glass of wine, wistfully looking out the frosty window, and watching the snow fall, I can’t help but think it would be a lot more exciting if the snow changed colors. You know—like one of those fancy new LED lights they have for your house that change color by voice commands.

  “Siri, I want pink snow tonight,” I mutter, breaking the silence of the house and causing my cat, Snowball, who was purring quietly in my lap, to jump up and screech like I just shouted the house was on fire or something.

  I check my arms for scratches as she runs to the other end of the window seat. Eyeing her warily, I instantly miss her warmth.

  Dragging myself from the window seat and the relentless white snow, I walk over to the fireplace and stand in front of it, letting the crackling orange flames warm my butt while I look out over the home that I’ve worked so hard to create.

  It looks like Santa’s elves decorated it, if those same elves were obsessed with Christmas like my sister, Carol, who helps me run this place. It’s called Krissy’s Bed and Breakfast, but my sister has definitely helped me get it up and running.

  I bought the huge Victorian a few years ago and renovated it with Carol’s help. In the process of doing so, I realized it was way too big for me and Carol encouraged me to turn my home into a bed and breakfast.

  I tried to get Carol to live with me, but she decided she needed to live near town. We’re half-sisters, but we grew up separately and I knew Carol mostly wanted her own space. I could even understand it, but her living in town means that I’m living here on this mountain, all alone—alone with my guests.

  Carol commutes into the lodge when needed, insisting having another place to go contributes greatly to her mental health.

  Our place is one of only a handful of places to find lodging in our teensy tiny town of Mistletoe, Montana, and we’re constantly busy. The ‘town’ consists of a tiny mountainside village that boasts one of the best ski resorts in the state. The Christmas season is upon us and our village is teeming with tourists right now.

  So, I don’t mind living in this big house all alone, because I am quite literally never alone anyway.

  Since Mistletoe, Montana celebrates Christmas year-round, every business sticks to a schtick, which means this place is always Christmas-themed.

  All year long. Every single day. 365 days a year, 24 hours a day. Trust me, it’s not as great as my sister says it is.

  Carol insisted having a year-long Christmas themed B&B in a town called Mistletoe would be a great marketing gimmick. She said that, mostly because Carol wishes it was Christmas all year long. There’s a reason the whole town calls her Christmas Carol. Still, she was right. I don’t think we’d get half the business we do if we didn’t look like we belonged on the North Pole. Now, we’re locked in and there’s no changing it, whether I like it or not.

  Most days, I tolerate it. A lot of the time, I find myself rolling my eyes at the constant puns and jokes our guests make. Especially once they learn that my name really is Krissy Kringle.

  The dad-jokes are the worst.

  They usually like to center them around bed. Or breakfast.

  Is there a Dad-joke Facebook group or something? Because I’ve heard most of them more than once.

  What’s a snowman’s favorite breakfast food? Yep, you guess it, frosted flakes.

  What does the gingerbread man use to keep his bed warm? That’s right folks, cookie sheets.

  Har. Dee. Har. Har.

  They might be cute, but I’ll be honest—living through Christmas every day gets old really fast.

  And then, like now, when Christmas actually rolls around and everyone’s eyes are sparkling with twinkling lights and their hearts are filled with candy-cane flavored joy, I’m fighting to keep my Christmas cheer from drooping like an overwatered poinsettia.

  But right this minute, in the quiet of the night after all our guests have retired for the evening, when not a creature is stirring, not even a mouse (thanks, Snowball) as I gaze out over everything that Carol and I have built together, all I really feel is pride.

  From the very start, Carol insisted we be as self-sufficient as possible. I thought at the time she meant we’d be cooking our own meals, but I quickly learned she had loftier goals in mind.

  We do everything ourselves. Not only do we do all the cooking and cleaning and scheduling and administrative stuff, but we also grow our own food. We have chickens for eggs. We grow our own Christmas trees on our property, even.

  And—the part I’m most fond of—we grow our own flowers.

  No bed and breakfast would be complete without a steady stream of fresh flowers. Of course, most of them are themed for the season, but I love them anyway—poinsettias, holly, Christmas cactus, amaryllis, mistletoe, paper whites, orchids, rosemary and a bunch of other herbs we use for cooking.

  To say the greenhouse, we built from the ground up, is my happy place is an understatement. I spend most of my free time there, even in the winter, thanks to the top of the line heating we had installed.

  It’s taken us years of hard work and arguments over kitchen tile, wallpaper, duvet covers and even chicken names (Jingle and Belle, in case you’re curious), but Carol and I have made our dream come true.

  In fact, our dream has recently expanded to include a catering business that we run out of the kitchen. It’s called Kringle’s Catering, to go along with the theme.

  And yes, our last name really is Kringle.

  I know, I know, our parents—well our mother anyway--was insane.

  The term ‘busy’ seems completely insufficient when I think of all the things required to keep this place in top shape. Tis the season, so to speak, and for the last few weeks, we’ve been swamped and up to our turtleneck-covered necks in guests and catering jobs.

  Tomorrow morning, the house will be swarming with freshly woken, sleepy-eyed souls looking for breakfast and Christmas miracles, ready to set off on their next great adventure in the mountains of Mistletoe.

  Mostly, all they’ll find is snow this time of year. And then more
snow. Did I mention snow?

  White snow, which takes me back to my first point. If you’re going to be blanketed in snow just about every single day of your life—wouldn’t it be much more fun if the snow was a different color each day? At least you’d wake up knowing there was a real chance of something different and exciting happening.

  Maybe a Christmas miracle or two would come your way if you woke up never knowing what color the snow would be.

  I sigh and head to the kitchen to refill my wine glass. Snowball follows me, eager to claim her space—which is slithering around my ankles no matter where I go and trying to trip me up for a laugh.

  I can’t blame her, though.

  She’s probably as bored as I am and ready for something new in her life, too.

  Evening is when I start baking, so I take another sip of my wine and begin to pull the ingredients I need from the fridge and cupboards. I can’t help but sigh and wonder if this is really what things will be like for the rest of my life.

  I’ve never been anywhere else, not really — a few trips to Helena and Butte for long weekends away, but no major trips away from Mistletoe, or out of Montana, for that matter.

  But I dream.

  Oh, how I dream about traveling and exploring. I desperately want to go to Paris someday. Maybe even Italy. Float down a canal on a boat with a glass of wine in my hand and a sexy man in a beret serenading me or something.

  Outside of our business, Carol—and Snowball, of course—my life is pretty empty. Carol was my long-lost sister, and now that I have her back in my life, I can’t even imagine living in another town away from her. So, I stay and embrace my life, while dreaming of all kinds of ways out of Mistletoe, that I know will never really come to fruition.

  The thing is, deep down, I love it and I’m perfectly happy here. But what I do need is a distraction. Something—or someone—new to think about.

  An interesting man would be nice, to start with.

  Someone easy on the eyes. Someone that doesn’t look anything like Santa Claus.

  Not that there’s anyone like that in our tiny town to think about, though. Available and eligible bachelors flat out don’t exist in Mistletoe, unless you count old man Jerry Wickers, but he’s only eligible and available because his wife of forty-five years died last year.

  The pickings are slim, to say the least. Carol has got her eye on the new baseball player in town. I hope she gets lucky, because she deserves that. Although half the time I can’t tell if she likes him or wants to choke him. I think it just depends on the day.

  And this cheesy B&B isn’t exactly a magnet for single men, either. Most of our clients are couples looking for a romantic night, with a few families sprinkled in. In fact, I can’t remember the last time a single man stayed here.

  I look down at Snowball after I crack a few eggs into a bowl. I’ve had her for the last five years and we haven’t spent a night apart. She looks up at me with her big blue eyes, waiting for me to drop something she can eat, just like every single day.

  “You gotta have some babies,” I mutter. “If I’m going to die an old maid, at least I can properly play the role with twenty cats running around here.”

  She sniffs the air and swishes between my legs, her tail swirling around my ankles as I keep moving.

  Standing on my toes to retrieve another bowl from the cabinet, she gets under my heel and I come down hard on her tail.

  She yelps—loudly—as I suppress a scream, so I don’t wake up the guests. My feet get tangled up, threatening to send me falling to the floor, as I catch myself on the counter at the last minute.

  She does this almost every day. Both of us should know better.

  “Snowball!” I hiss, rethinking those twenty kittens.

  She runs off, leaving me with a racing heartbeat all alone in the kitchen, thoughts of dying an old, cat-less maid running through my head as I spend the next hour making a few dozen breakfast muffins to feed the tiny hungry army of miracle seeking guests that will be awakening soon.

  MADDOX

  “DAMMIT, Charlene, are you seriously this incompetent?” I roar into the phone as I try to maneuver the tiny tin-can of a car, that the makers had the gall to call “smart”, down the dark and curvy mountain road through the incessantly falling snow.

  There’s nothing smart about this insane waste of plastic.

  “Mr. Holt, again, I apologize profusely, but the flights are all grounded, there was nothing I could do—”

  “Just stop!” I shout, unable to stomach her weak excuses again. I’ll be firing her as soon as I get back to my office, but right now, I need her to field my calls and work out my schedule that seems to be constantly changing, which only infuriates me even more.

  First, she failed to properly book my connecting flight. Once we’d realized the mistake, the snow had started, the sun was setting, and all flights out of the entire state were grounded. Then, once it was clear my only way of getting out of this god-forsaken hellhole was to drive out myself, she failed to find me an available rental car.

  For fuck’s sake, I had to literally bribe the girl at the rental car agency for the pile of crap I’m currently driving. She repeatedly insisted that they had no cars left, but I knew she was lying. I shoved a couple of Benjamins under her nose and she reluctantly admitted they had one car left, but I probably wouldn’t be comfortable in it at all and it was out of commission because the roof of the convertible top was torn.

  Was she ever right.

  I was most definitely not comfortable, but at least I’m moving. Nothing pisses me off more than standing still, even if I am making terrible time. The road conditions are slowing me down and I’m pretty sure I made a wrong turn a ways back.

  Water drips down through the huge tear in the fabric of the convertible top, soaking my hair and my clothes with melted snow. My large frame seems much larger than normal in this clown car, not to mention I keep bumping my elbows into everything. My knees are crammed up under the steering wheel and a wave of claustrophobia washes over me as I hold the tiny wheel in my hands.

  I cringe to think of what I must look like, screaming into my cell phone and taking up every inch of space in this tin can. But I don’t care. All I care about is getting this deal closed and I can’t do that if I’m stuck in a damned airport. If this car is the only tool I have to get there? Then, so be it. Whatever it takes. It doesn’t matter anyway, because it appears I’m in the middle of nowhere and there’s not another soul in sight. If this car breaks down, I’m screwed, I realize.

  “Charlene,” I try again, taking a deep breath, “tell Simmons that if he doesn’t show up for the meeting tomorrow, the deal is off.”

  “That’s what I was trying to tell you earlier, Mr. Holt. Mr. Simmons’ assistant called a few minutes ago—he would like to reschedule for next week—his secretary said he needs to be home with his family for the holidays this year because his mother is sick.”

  “Fuck the holidays, Charlene!” I seethe. Why is everyone obsessed with the damn holidays? Taking two weeks off of work every December is a colossal waste of time, in my opinion. Unfortunately, the rest of the world disagrees with me.

  “Tell Simmons if he doesn’t show up, I’ll find another flour company to make this deal with. He needs us more than we need him.”

  “His mother is sick, Mr. Holt,” Charlene repeats.

  “I heard you the first time, I’m not an idiot, Charlene!” I shout, taking my hand off the wheel to wipe the dripping snow from my eyes before reaching down to turn up the heater, which doesn’t seem to be working much at all anyway. I look down, infuriated at the growing wet spot on my crotch.

  “I apologize, Mr. Holt,” Charlene says. I can almost see her frown through the phone. “I’ll relay your message to Mr. Simmons.”

  “Make sure you relay how fucking serious I am, Charlene!” I roar. The wipers are on high, whipping across the windshield to fight off the fucking blizzard that’s falling out of the sky. It barely makes a dif
ference. All traces of sunlight disappeared many hours ago and the darkness blanketing the roads doesn’t help one damn bit.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Holt,” she says. “Can I do anything else for you right now?”

  “Yeah, look up how long it’s going to take me to drive to Billings. I’ll wait.”

  The sound of her nails clicking on her keyboard fills my ears and it’s like nails on a chalkboard. I try to remember why I ever hired this woman, but then I remember the killer pair of legs she showcased during her interview and I roll my eyes. I was obviously duped into thinking there was a brain to go along with them.

  “It’s three hundred and forty-two miles from Missoula to Billings, Mr. Holt.”

  “Okay, fine,” I say, trying to do the math in my head, bracing myself for the long drive ahead. I’d already been driving a few hours. Unfortunately, the snow-covered roads are slowing me down immensely.

  “Tell Simmons he better fucking be there tomorrow!”

  “Sir, what should I say if he refuses?”

  “What should you say, Charlene?” I shout, my anger rising. Between her incompetence, the blistering cold, my very wet hair and pants, this absurd clunker, and Simmons thinking his family was more important than closing on a multi-million-dollar deal, my lid is about to blow right through the torn rooftop. I fume, the words scraping across my tongue like razors. “Tell him if he wants to maintain his reputation and keep his fucking company afloat, he’ll tell his Mommy that he’ll be arriving a day late!”

  “But, sir, do you really—”

  “—Charlene!” I shout, just as another cold wet drop falls right into my mouth. I cough and roar at Charlene. “Don’t question me!”

  I reach up to push the wetness out of my eyes just as a blur appears out of the tree line to the side of the winding road. I squint through the frosted over windshield, the wipers doing the most miserable job, just in time to see a deer, a buck—his huge horns jutting from the top of his head—stop mere feet ahead of me, right in the middle of the road.