Kiss Me By Christmas (Mistletoe Kisses)

One

Liam

W hen you’re a kid, a game of pretend is fun. Easy. Zero effort. As an adult, not so much. I wish I could say it’s due to lack of practice, but I’ve been pretending pretty much my whole life, even once I started considering myself fully grown. That’s thanks to my father.

Being a ski-slash-snowboard instructor doesn’t make the list of approved professions for a MacLellan, never mind that people participating in snow sports keep dear dad rolling in dollar bills. Therefore, I’m a disappointment. A slacker.

The thing is, I like snow. I like helping people learn to ski or snowboard or both. I do not like being told what to do or that I’m not living up to the MacLellan name. I get it. We can trace our ancestry in a direct line to the founder of Kilt Valley, Colorado blah blah blah something-something MacLellans are Kilt Valley royalty. I stopped listening to my father quote this line a long time ago while pretending it’s fine that he has never seen me .

Pretending has become my specialty. It’s the only way to prevent a death spiral of angst and no one wants that. Least of all me. I have a slacker-don’t-care reputation to maintain.

My phone pings as I shake snow off my boots and duck into the lobby of the main lodge at the resort. Yes, my job requires me to regularly hang out under my father’s nose, though he doesn’t sign my paycheck, not by a long shot.

Tourists who book lessons stay at the lodge or nearby in luxury cabins. Therefore, this is where I have to be too. Dad’s guests happily pay the obscene amount I charge, so I do all right.

It has to be worth it to darken the door of the MacLellan empire.

Waving to Kara at the front desk, I check my phone on the sly in case the ping is a message from BookGirl47, aka Tabitha Douglas, the most amazing woman on the planet.

It is from her.

I grin as I tap on the notification, which brings up the clunky book club app that holds everything special to me. Do many ski bums care anything about books? No. Am I most ski bums? Also no. Plus, Tabitha runs the book club, and that might have been fifty percent of the reason I joined. Okay. It’s a hundred percent. Note: I pretend a lot, even to myself.

But I do actually like books.

BookGirl47 : Chapter 12!!!

We’re reading The Rosie Project , which is a funny, fantastic romcom written by a dude, no less, and I’m nowhere close to chapter twelve.

I reply back: you started without me ??

My ski group loses my interest as I consider doing a very fast pivot out of the crowded lobby—it’s six days until Christmas in a popular resort, so not a lot of room for actual pivoting—with the intent of getting right on a thing that will allow me what precious little access to Tabitha I can cobble together.

But that’s not fair to my paying tourists to ditch them in favor of reading, and besides, I have a better than average sense of responsibility. Don’t tell my dad, but I’m not really a slacker.

I pocket my phone with a promise. Later .

Fresh powder fell overnight so Lochside Lane, the baby run I use for my beginner lessons, is perfecto . It has picturesque views of the lake, which is not a loch because we are not in Scotland, but good old James MacLellan the First, his royal highness of the great Colorado land grab of the late eighteen hundreds, thought this area reminded him of home. So everything here is pseudo-Scottish. Including me, I guess.

The guests love it. There’s a plaster Loch Ness monster in the middle of the roped-off area of the frozen lake that’s more cartoon character than Lovecraft. The adults skate around, but the kids climb all over its slippery, freezing cold neck. You can see the entire Kilt Valley from here. Not on accident. MacLellans know how to pick their enterprises.

guest winds up with an injury, a blemish on my perfect record this season. The middle-aged guy didn’t heed my warning to stay in the center of the run and crashed near the edge of the lake, scraping his wrist on a rock. I yelled instructions to everyone, but there were two little girls in the group, twins that can’t be more than five, and they were adorable with their little boots and half-pint-sized skis.

Cute, but they couldn’t stay on their feet for more than half a second. They’d each grabbed one of my hands and held on the entire time, which limited my range.

Thanks to my soft spot for kids, I end up back inside the main lodge, escorting Mr. MacCrashypants to the instant clinic (yeah, yeah, I make non-Scottish things Scottish too—it’s a curse I tell you). Just as I walk back out into the lobby, a flash of unmistakably familiar white-blonde hair freezes my entire body.

Except my feet, which pick that moment to rebel against physics, and that is how I end up on the floor in front of Tabitha.

“Um, hi?” She peers down at me as I climb to my knees.

I’m not going to lie. I’ve envisioned this situation many times, except I was holding a ring or flowers or something bookish that she squeals over.

This is not that situation. I leap up and clear my throat. “Hey, Tabitha.”

Normally I am way smoother than this, or at least I’d like to think I am, but my track record with women is mostly smoke and mirrors. Sure, they inevitably appear in record numbers when there’s an empty seat next to me at the bar, but I’ve gotten good at faking interest. Slackers don’t live happily ever after, right?

Besides, most women who seek me out are very aware of my last name. Which means they like money. Not me. Makes it far easier to go through them at supersonic speed.

“I’m glad you’re here.” Tabitha smooths back her hair with her hand, a nervous habit she falls into when she’s out of her element.

Which begs the question. Why is she out of her element? “I work here. You do not. Bookstore closed today?”

She shakes her head with a small smile that causes the single dimple on her left cheek to pop out. “I’m on my lunch break.”

The dimple is my favorite thing about her.

“Looking for Lyra? I’m sure she’s around here somewhere.” My sister is the golden child. By default, since both my brother, Leith, and I have shunned the family business, but it still counts. And she likes working in hospitality for some reason. “Want me to find her for you?”

“No, thank you. I was looking for you, Liam.”

If my eyes could fall out of my head, they would be rolling down the mountain as we speak. “For me?”

Repeating it doesn’t make it less of a four-alarm fire drill. What on earth could my sister’s best friend want with me ? I have never—and I mean never —let on to Tabitha or Lyra that I have a tiny, little unrequited crush on the goddess standing here amongst mere mortals.

Tabitha is flawless, with long white-blond hair that frames cheeks with a tendency to blush when she gets flustered, which I love, but she does not. Therefore, it’s generally my goal to get her to relax when our paths cross, which is sadly not that common anymore.

“Can we go someplace…else?” she says, biting her lip as she throws a glance over her shoulder.

She doesn’t mean it like it sounds, much to my chagrin. “Of course. There’s an employee break room around the corner that’s usually empty this time of day.”

Or will be ASAP once I glare at anyone unlucky enough to be present in the space. Fortunately, the coast is clear when I lead Tabitha through the door.

I turn and that’s when I realize my mistake. This room is far, far too small for the hugeness of her effect on me. Deflection time.

“Now that you have me at your mercy, whatever are you going to do with me?” I tease.

She laughs, which always makes me feel like I’ve won the lottery.

“I’m going to ask you for a favor,” she confesses which shoots my eyebrows into the stratosphere.

“You want to know what Lyra wants for Christmas? You could have texted me that question.” I think. I’m pretty sure she has my phone number. I definitely have hers.

“No, Liam, hush,” she says with a swipe in my direction. Good. That means she’s chilling out, which I like being able to do for her. “Let me get this out before I lose my nerve. I met a guy online and I think he likes me too.”

Oh, man. I do not like the direction this is going for a stack of reasons. “That sounds nice.”

“It is.” Her eyes light up and if I had a favorite look on her before, whatever that was just flew out the window because she’s angelically beautiful right now. “I really connected with this guy. He’s funny and we share a lot of interests.”

I resist the urge to crack my knuckles but just barely. I’m seriously thinking about punching whoever this online sleaze is in the face. “How do you know the person you’re talking to is a guy, Tab? Or even the appropriate age. He could be fifty and live in his mom’s basement.”

Plus all of my other objections that I can’t say out loud which are namely: not and me .

When someone tells you you’re wasting your potential and a slew of other negatives, it’s easy to believe that other people—Tabitha—might think so too. Easier to pretend I’ve barely noticed her than it is to line up for rejection.

“Well, I mean, I guess he could be lying, but I have asked some leading questions.” She looks crestfallen, which immediately makes me want to fix it. “Besides, there’s this vibe. You know? When something is just working for you and you lose all sense of time and place while you’re chatting. I have it with this guy and I really want to meet him in person.”

“Whoa.” My hands fly up automatically, palms out as if I can stop this madness with sheer force of will. “You cannot meet a guy in person that you’re vibing with online. It’s not safe.”

Now she’s looking at me as if I have grown an extra head. “Liam, women meet men in person that they connect with in dating apps all the time. Why is this any different? I’ll take precautions. That’s not even the part I’m worried about.”

“Oh, thank God,” I mutter. “What’s the worrisome part?”

“That I’m me.” She pauses to let this sink in and must realize that my face reflects my abject confusion because she shoots me a look. “Shy? Awkward? Not the least bit socially competent? You have met me, right?”

I wave that off. “You’re talking to me just fine right now.”

“But I’m comfortable with you,” she argues. “I’ve known you since forever. This is going to be a disaster unless I get some help, quick. That’s where you come in.”

Okay, I really don’t like where this is going. “What kind of help?”

Pretty sure she doesn’t mean the kind where I sit in the corner and glower at Mr. MacSleazey. Though I’m liking the idea of being in the room when she meets whoever this guy is.

“I need coaching,” she says as if this is obvious. “From someone who knows how to act on a date, especially a first one.”

I lift a brow. “I’m the someone in this scenario? Are you accusing me of being a serial dater?”

She blushes. “That didn’t come across as a compliment, but I meant it as one. You seem to float between women pretty easily, so I figured there’s a trick—”

“No tricks.” I resist holding up my hands traffic-cop style again. Barely. “I’m naturally charming. You can’t teach that.”

“Please, Liam.” Man, I wish I didn’t like the sound of my name on her lips so much. “I’m begging you. I really need your help. I’m going to ask ShreddingPages to meet me under the mistletoe in the square—”

“Where did you say you met this guy?” My heart is hammering so hard I worry I won’t be able to hear her response, but of course I do.

“Online. I run a book club and he’s one of the members. He goes by the user name ShreddingPages.”

A laugh strangles in my throat. Yeah, like I don’t know anything about it. This is one more example of how huge elements of my life are a game of pretend.

I brought this disaster on myself because now I can’t say no. I have to say yes to whatever she asks me to do so I can talk her out of this . Otherwise, she’s going to get seriously hurt. Which will be my fault.

Additionally—and I can’t stress this enough—I need to know exactly what she’s planning.

Funny story. Tabitha doesn’t know I’m in her book club. I never told her who I was, hiding behind an online handle.

ShreddingPages .

She wants to meet me .