Gotta Have Mistletoe

CHAPTER ONE

Glen

I hoist the tree over my shoulder, then march toward the airport. My boots squelch over the slushy snow. The airport prioritized its snowplows for the runway, not the airport parking lot.

Cars slow down, their bleary-eyed drivers clutching styrofoam coffee cups, as if they’ve never seen someone with Christmas spirit before. Must be out-of-towners on their way home.

Mistletoe Springs has always appreciated Christmas, comes with the name. We’re in Nevada, though elevated enough to get snow. Nothing’s prettier than snow-dusted red sandstone hills.

Life ain’t always grand, but it sure as heck is better when it comes with garlands and balsam fir. Today is a new day, and new days are wonderful.

“You need help with that?” Casey asks behind me.

I jump, and the tree nearly topples from my arms. I spin toward her, and Casey winks. A beanie is pulled over her short hair, and she’s knotted a plaid shirt over her jeans. It’s her knowing look that concerns me.

I wrangle the tree back into my arms and pretend my near crash never happened. “Nope. I’ve got this.”

Casey nods, her eyes still on me.

The thing about hiring smart workers is they can figure out some things about you. The good thing about carrying trees, is you don’t have to spend time being psychoanalyzed.

I quicken my trudge toward the airport, slamming my boots against the sludge.

“Word is, some mighty important folks are flyin’ in today,” Casey says beside me. “The airport staff are acting like ostriches in a snowstorm.”

I don’t jump.

I’m a cowboy contractor, not a circus performer on the Strip.

I continue my march toward the pink airport that looks like it belongs in sunny Palm Springs and not snowy Mistletoe Springs.

Casey tilts her head. “My cousin Pete just moved to Mistletoe Springs. Single, sweet, and reckon he could lasso a polar bear.”

I tighten my grip on the tree. Three years since Dean passed, and people think they need to matchmake me.

“Let me guess,” I say. “He’s single.”

“You’re a smart one, Boss.”

She looks at me hopefully, but there’s no way. No way at all.

“I’ve got my son and enough memories to power Santa’s workshop. Don’t need nothin’ else.”

“Uh-huh. Want me to hang that mistletoe in your office for ya?”

“Absolutely not. It’s for the lounge.” I grin. “Garland Contracting always leaves a sparkle behind.”

More passengers exit the airport, their postures rigid. No wonder. They’ve just come from having too little oxygen and have had to hold their positions in too-small seats for too long.

I enter the airport, ignoring astonished glances as I carry the tree.

I head upstairs to the lounge. Mr. Brenner gives me one of his dubious looks when I enter, like I’m doing something bad, when I’m going above and beyond.

Technically, my team was hired to remodel part of the lounge. We’re still fixing up the glass panels on one wall after the expansion.

But Garland Contracting always leaves a sparkle behind, and I won’t let some smarmy California know-it-all with slicked back blond hair who acts like we’re extras in his hair wax commercial, tell me that traveling passengers don’t want Christmas joy.

Everyone wants joy. Because the thing is, life can be sad, and it’s best to seize every good moment there is.

I glue a bright smile onto my face. “Christmas tree coming through. Ho, ho, ho.”

Business travelers glance up from their laptops, and I wink.

Some passengers are curled in armchairs watching planes land and take off again and again and again. Others pile food onto tiny plates.

A TV plays, and the sound fills the room as I set up the Christmas tree and start to decorate it.

The anchor speaks with his customary formality despite wearing a Santa hat: “King Erik of Solberg has arrived in Nevada. He’ll visit Mistletoe Springs with his son, Crown Prince Anders.

It’s the king’s first U.S. visit since Queen Sissel’s passing.

Will one of the world’s most eligible men return to the dating market? ”

My forehead scrunches up.

Mistletoe Springs is amazing. Close to Las Vegas but surrounded by red sandstone mountains instead of bright lights. People here love Christmas.

We’ve got royals coming from Solberg? Ain’t that some Scandinavian country? Geography has never been my specialty. Dean got Max and me passports to go to Italy, but he passed before we could go.

Mistletoe Springs has never had any royals visit it. No wonder it’s made the news. I hang bulbs on the branches and inhale the scent of pine needles and all things wonderful.

The TV flickers. A solemn blond man disembarks from one of those fancy private jets. A teenager is beside him. He looks like a slenderer, more somber version of the king.

A passenger in a crimson velvet blazer takes a scoop of salad from the buffet. “If I see the king, I’m proposing.”

“He’s straight, sugarplum,” the man beside him says, all tender scoffing.

They continue to chatter happily about the royal visit, and nope, I ain’t missing Dean. Wonder what he would make of royals in Mistletoe Springs.

Mr. Brenner’s eyes remain on me, and his jaw does one of those tightening things that means bad, bad, bad. Maybe I didn’t need to get the largest tree, but by heck this lounge deserves a big ol’ fluffy one.

Some people say lounges shouldn’t have Christmas trees because guests can celebrate the holiday once they arrive at their destination.

But what if they get stuck? What if their plane is delayed? Or worse, canceled? What if the tree makes them feel good? And makes their day gets a tiny bit brighter?

I place the Christmas tree near the unfinished glass wall, so even people in the hallway will be able to see it and enjoy it and be happy. Needles sprinkle over the fancy carpet, and I decorate the tree.

The TV anchor continues to talk about the king’s visit, and yeah, it’s huge news. We never have royals visit. It’s big news when anyone from a foreign country visits, much less one of those people who wear a crown.

Christmas music croons in the lounge, and I tap my foot as I hang up ornaments.

Passengers stare at me, suitcases tucked beside their armchairs.

Finally, I grasp the final piece. The thing that makes Christmas, Christmas.

Mistletoe.

The sprigs prickle my palm as I haul myself up the ladder. People walk through the glass hallway. They stare at me as well, like they’ve never seen anyone decorate.

Mr. Brenner glowers with the force of the truly miserable.

I square my shoulders and don’t flinch under his glare. Well, mostly not.

This is the reason I’m bringing Christmas to the VIP lounge. Everyone needs joy in their life, even if it’s the garland and red ribbon sort of joy.

“When I hired your company for a Christmas display, I didn’t expect mistletoe,” Mr. Brenner says.

“It’s my pleasure, Mr. Brenner.” I concentrate on attaching the mistletoe to the ceiling.

“Leave it, Glen. We don’t want guests kissing.”

“We’re in Mistletoe Springs. We gotta have mistletoe.” I perch on my tiptoes, unfazed by the fact I’m already on a ladder.

Some of the passengers stand, then more. I follow their gazes.

Totally worth it.

A blond man in his forties walks in the glass hallway. He’s wearing a suit, like he’s someone important, and he’s flanked by other people in suits and fedora hats. They look this way and that.

Something about him looks familiar.

The light hits the blond strands of his hair in an interesting manner. He turns to me, and for a wild moment, we’re staring at each other through the pane of glass. His mouth parts. Can he see me?

But I’ve been in that hallway. I’m working on that wall. Of course he can.

Pink spreads over his cheeks, and he looks sort of cute and adorable, and I smother my grin.

“That’s one handsome man,” I murmur to myself, then blink.

Haven’t noticed any man since Dean passed.

Casey might be right. Maybe I am ready to date.

His pretty lips part, then he jerks his gaze away, startled.

Recognition slams into me. I just saw him on TV.

“OMG! That’s the king!” The crimson velvet blazer wearing passenger shouts.

More passengers rush to the window, a practical stampede.

That’s also a Mistletoe Springs tradition, though normally it’s done by cows.

Suddenly, the world tilts.

“Oh, no!” Mr. Brenner shouts.

Next thing I know, I’m flying through the air.

Someone must have knocked over my ladder.

In the next half second, I’m thrust against the tree, and the scent wafts through my nose.

I squeeze the branches and grip the trunk as the tree topples, and I’m still holding on when the tree crashes through the unfinished glass wall.