Chasing Mistletoe (Havenwood #3)

Chapter 1

McKenna

Nothing screams holiday cheer like a classroom full of sugared-up four-year-olds in Christmas pajamas reciting How the Grinch Stole Christmas verbatim while the movie plays for the third time today.

Personally, I’d prefer to have Rudolph on repeat, but the little ones vetoed that. Because of course they did, and honestly, I love that about them. Have you ever tried to win an argument with twenty toddlers? I would not recommend it. Zero out of ten.

Green and red paper garland loops around the whiteboard and our makeshift Christmas tree. The purple paper star on top has yellow fireworks glued to it, because “a plain yellow star is boring.” Who knew?

“Miss Monroe!”

“Miss Monroe!”

“Charlie has a snowflake in his mouth!”

A collective, giggly, “eww, Charlie,” breaks through the room. I turn my head to hide a laugh and school my face enough to address the class.

“Charlie, honey. You shouldn’t put paper in your mouth.”

The little girl who started the tattletale situation wrinkles her nose as Charlie spits a piece of construction paper into his hand and carries it to the trash can. That’s better than on the table or floor, I guess.

These are the moments that make the job worth it—the pure, unfiltered imagination of a preschooler who just wants to catch snowflakes like the kids in the movie. Even if it means eating construction paper.

“I just wanted to catch snowflakes on my tongue, Miss M.” He pouts as he returns to his chair.

“Ah, I understand. I love the imagination, but what if we pretend to catch snowflakes instead? We really shouldn’t put the paper ones in our mouths.”

“I guess so.” The little boy nods, but his shoulders drop and the little frown on his face is the cutest thing I’ve seen all day. The great thing about little ones is it only takes a few seconds for them to find something else to occupy their time.

The feminine snort that sounds over my shoulder draws my attention, and I nearly fall into another fit of giggles at the sight of my co-teacher in her full-body Grinch onesie.

“Hey, now,” Lauren says with a laugh as she tosses her blonde hair over her shoulder. “This is the most comfortable holiday thing I own. Don’t knock it ’til you try it.”

“I think I’ll pass, thanks,” I say before making a show of adjusting the ribbon in my auburn hair. “I’ll stick with sweatshirts and Christmas bows.”

I smooth down my favorite oversized Christmas sweatshirt.

It’s soft and worn from being washed so many times, the green wreathes fading into something softer on the cream-colored sleeves.

It’s practical and comfortable and doesn’t require a full undress to visit the restroom.

Lauren can have her chaos; I’ll take cozy any day.

“Suit yourself,” she whispers before snagging the children’s attention. “Hi, friends! Santa’s elf dropped off something special for you guys.”

My gut drops as the kids squeal in excitement.

The flinch is reflexive, and I do my best to keep the panicked expression off my face as I try to piece together what I’m seeing.

We work for a small daycare and preschool.

It’s a good facility, but the board doesn’t put much financial effort into providing extra perks for the children.

Rent, groceries, gas—every dollar already had a job.

While I live semi-comfortably with two incomes, I didn’t have the funds to spoil my kiddos this year.

Except, Lauren has an oversize gift bag filled to the brim with wrapped boxes.

“What is all of this?” I ask in wonderment and mostly to myself.

Confusion colors Lauren’s face as her head tilts to the side. “What do you mean? They are from you.”

I shake my head slowly. “No,” I say, drawing out the word. “I made them all little goody bags, but that’s it. I couldn’t swing the funds for more this year.”

“Well, yeah. Same here, but your friend’s brother—oh, shoot. What’s his name?”

My stomach cramps as realization dawns. No, he wouldn’t have.

Except Reece Taylor absolutely would. The man who barely tolerates me face-to-face somehow always knows exactly what I need before I do.

It’s infuriatingly thoughtful and completely him.

He’s always fixing problems I haven’t asked him to fix, stepping in where he doesn’t belong, and making it impossible to maintain the careful distance I’ve built between us.

I sigh heavily, dropping my head to my crayon-covered desk. Of course, he would.

“Reece,” I whisper as a multitude of emotions rush through me.

“Yeah, him,” Lo says as she passes out presents to the now-silent toddlers. It’s astounding how little it takes to get them to sit quietly on their dots. “The office staff said he dropped them off this morning, that you had forgotten them at home.”

Her words draw a choked laugh. I refuse to look her in the eye, but I can imagine the raised eyebrow and smirk as she says, “I know you claim to hate him, but I find that hard to believe if he was at your house this morning and just happened to drop off gifts for twenty feral toddlers.”

I tilt my head just enough to cut my eyes at her with a groan. “I do hate him.” Most days, I add silently. I hate how he knows my coffee order, how he remembers how many kids are in my class each year, and how he makes me feel like I’m more than just his sister’s best friend.

But admitting that to Lauren is a no-go.

Those thoughts can stay locked up. “And Reece Taylor was not at my apartment.” It seems silly to stress that point, but our relationship is too complex.

He is my best friend’s overbearing, overprotective, act-first-ask-second older brother—and the only man I ever find myself lip-locked with in a storage closet or the bed of his truck.

Until I come to my senses and reality delivers a swift kick to my perfectly toned ass. Heaven help us if Jett ever finds out that her brother and I have had this frenemies-with-benefits thing going on since college.

“So…your best friend’s sexy, older, hay-slinging brother went out of his way to not only drop these off”—she gestures to the shredded paper and boxes strewn across the room—“but he also spent money on our students, wrapped twenty kid-approved board games, and did it so no one from administration would question it.”

The hand on her hip would be comical if I wasn’t on the receiving end. “Honey, if that’s hate, let me have a go at him.”

***

I am almost clear of the preschool doors for our holiday break, intent on heading straight to my mother’s home in Raleigh, when the director stops me.

“Miss Monroe, a word?” he says, motioning me into his office.

I try not to let my shoulders sag. This can’t be good. I pause outside his door, breathing in the familiar mix of crayons and coffee, hoping it’ll calm me the way it does my students. It doesn’t.

When I step inside, I start apologizing. “Look, I’m sorry about the presents that were dropped off this morning. I left them at home, and my friend was kind enough to bring them to the school, and—”

“That’s not what this is about, Miss Monroe.”

“Oh.” I breathe a sigh of relief and smooth my hands along my sweatshirt. “Okay, great. The kids were overjoyed, so I’d hate to—”

“Miss Monroe, please,” he says before walking around his desk and leaning back on it, his hands braced on either side of his body. “This isn’t about the mysterious gifts dropped off today. I’m thrilled your students were fortunate enough to receive them. This is about your career choices, McKenna.”

“I’m a preschool teacher, Nathan,” I say, hesitantly. He just flipped from last name to first name, and in my experience, nothing good ever comes from the type of look on my boss’s face.

“Who moonlights as a sexy workout instructor—”

“I am not moonlighting as anything,” I snap. “I am a preschool teacher who has a second job as a certified personal trainer.”

He sighs and crosses his arms, his shirt pulling tight across his chest. It does nothing for me. It’s not that Nathan isn’t attractive. He is, in that boy-next-door sort of way, I guess. He loves the kids in this school and cares about the well-being of his staff.

Taking a breath before I lose my cool on the man in front of me, I say, “I was up front with you about what I did before you hired me. I told you I’m part owner and trainer at Naughty Peach, and you swore it would never be an issue.”

“It wasn’t until now.” He looks away before turning back, his chin dropping to his chest. “One of our primary donors found out. The family has threatened to pull funding if you are still on the payroll when we return from the holiday break.”

His words settle heavy in my chest, sinking through me until even breathing feels like work.

I can’t tell if my heart is in my stomach or my throat.

Maybe both. This job was supposed to be stable.

Safe. The one thing I could count on as I tried to build up Naughty Peach.

And now it’s slipping through my fingers because of that dream.

“Nathan, please,” I say, the whisper so soft I am not sure he hears me.

“Officially, you are not to return to campus. Gather your things and leave the grounds after this meeting,” he says. “Unofficially, I want to fight this but I can’t make any promises.”

“Okay.” I mean, what else is there to say?

“Tell Lauren I’ll meet her at home, yeah?”

The walk back to my classroom is a blur, but I force my “teacher” smile before stepping through the door. When Lauren sees my face, her amber eyes widen in surprise.

“I thought you were gone for the day. Why are you crying?”

“I’m not crying,” I say, but it comes out a high-pitched squeal. Liar I am not.

“McKenna Monroe, I will gladly kick my best friend’s butt for you but knowing the reason would go a long way in me explaining why I’m pissed off at him.”

“He said he’ll meet you at home, by the way.”

Lauren wraps her arms around me as I protest. “Stop fighting me on this, friend. You need a hug. Let me hug you.”

As I let her pull me into a hug, I feel myself draw away emotionally as my brain sorts through all the logistics that losing this income entails. If I slow down long enough to think, I’ll unravel. And that just isn’t an option right now.