Fake Relationship for Christmas (Spruce Crossing Christmas Book 3)

1. Violet

Closing the door to the empty property, I head out of the house on Silver Lane, vaguely distracted by my cell phone as I move. Life is never stopping as a real estate agent with texts and emails coming through, my eyes almost constantly glued to the screen of my phone when I’m not driving. This is not a good combination for someone as clumsy as me.

My heeled boot catches the hidden patch of ice on the front walk, and I slip, comically tumbling forward into the few inches of snow in the front yard, hands first. I land on my knees, heels kicking out behind me as my phone goes flying into the snowy lawn. A dusting of snow goes everywhere around me, landing all over my long, gray coat.

Instantly, my head jerks up to look for witnesses, and I groan internally as I catch the horrified stare of a neighbor a few feet away on the sidewalk. To my added chagrin, I recognize her. We graduated from high school together eleven years ago.

“Oh, my gosh, Violet! Are you all right?” She rushes to my aid immediately, her dog jumping excitedly around me, attempting to lick the flakes from my skin and coat, but I’m back on my feet. Grinning sheepishly, I brush the white from my pants as my coat falls into place and nod vigorously, searching for my wayward phone.

“I’m good,” I reassure her. “Heels in the snow don’t mix.”

“I’ll say,” she agrees, looking me over for signs of injury. “Are you sure you’re okay? I can run you over to the medical clinic. My car’s just over there.”

I maintain my embarrassed smile, resisting the urge to mention that I stumble at least three times a day. “All good,” I reiterate, locating my phone in the thick of the lawn. “No need for medical attention. Thanks for stopping, though.”

Reluctantly, she moves along with her dog, casting me a worried backward glance, and I wave her off as I unlock my car, shivering as the snow melts against my pants. I hope I’m presentable enough for my upcoming house showing. In my mind’s ear, I can hear my best friend, Ethan, lecturing me on wearing proper boots during winter in Spruce Crossing. As if I have much of a choice when I have clients to see. Being one of the few real estate agents in Spruce Crossing keeps me busy.

If I had a choice, I’d much rather be in hiking boots for traction on the ice to ensure my safety during late November in Montana. But I have to maintain some level of professionalism in my clothing choices.

I back out of the driveway and make my way north past the town’s center, blasting the heat to dry myself off as the local radio station pipes out a cheery version of White Christmas by a band I’ve never heard of before. It puts me in a good mood, my spill forgotten by the time I pass the community center. I smile as I glimpse the familiar nativity set on my right. It’s still too early in the day for the rustic barn scene to be lit up with the animals and wise men, but it never fails to give me warm fuzzies when I see it. That will come with the Winter Wonderland Festival, along with the lighting of the enormous Christmas tree in the center of the park.

Sometimes when I see a mother and daughter strolling through Spruce Crossing Park enjoying the Christmas decorations, I envision myself as the girl a long time ago. One of the few wonderful memories I have of my mom is walking through that park, checking out the sparkling fairy lights dripping off the towering pines that flank the spacious courtyard. I always wondered how the lights got up so high when I was small. Mom used to tell me Santa would drop them from his sleigh as he did recon on Pine Tree County before Christmas Day, and I believed her until I was way too old to believe such fairy tales. But then again, I believed a lot of the lies my mom told me.

My phone rings, and I answer it through the Bluetooth speaker, carefully guiding the car through the non-existent midday traffic of the little town in which I was born and raised.

“Violet Whitaker speaking,” I chirp brightly. My smile widens to see Ethan’s name on the screen. Before he can speak, I add, “Hey! I was just thinking about you!”

He grunts. “Please tell me you’re downtown today,” my best friend begs me. “I need rescuing.”

I titter and intuitively glance left down Main Street as I pass, but I’m not going that way, and Bennet’s Hardware isn’t in view as I drive. The road slips by, and I respond honestly.

“I can be—for lunch,” I offer. “I have a showing right now. It shouldn’t take more than an hour.”

“I’ll meet you at the diner,” Ethan says. “Pray for me.”

I make a commiserating noise. “Are your parents already starting this morning?” I ask sympathetically.

“Is it only morning?” he complains. “It feels like they’ve been at it for hours already.”

“Just tell them the truth. If you don’t, they aren’t going to stop.”

“Have you met my parents?” he counters. “Can you imagine how that conversation will go?”

He has a point, but honestly, I think he’s blowing things out of proportion. His family only wants him to have stability, insisting he take on more hours at the hardware store so Ethan can eventually run the place when his dad retires. He has no idea how lucky he is that his family has a plan for him. I wish my mom had had any kind of vision for me before heading out to Mexico with her latest fling. She didn’t even leave me a note.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I promise.

“You better be,” he growls playfully. “I may not make it.”

I snicker. “You’ve made it all these years. Another hour doesn’t seem to push things.”

“See you soon,” he responds.

We disconnect, and I drive toward the mountains, steering the car through the snow-dusted side streets until I’m at a charming ranch-style property out of the downtown area. The client hasn’t arrived yet, giving me the opportunity to ensure the homeowners haven’t left the house too messy. To my relief, everything is in order. There’s nothing left to do but wait.

But after half an hour, my client still hasn’t arrived, and I call him, stifling my exasperation when I receive his voicemail.

“Hi, it’s Violet Whitaker from Spruce Crossing Realty. We had an appointment to see a house at ten this morning. I’m just wondering if we got our lines crossed. Let me know if you need to reschedule. Thanks!”

I slip my phone back into my oversized purse, leaning forward to peer out into the kitchen window. A cardinal hops through the pine tree next to the covered pool. We make eye contact briefly before he flies away.

He probably has a family to get to, I think, and my chest constricts instinctively.

Sighing, I spin away from the window and grab my purse from the counter, digging out my phone again, but as I do, there’s the chime of a notification. I pull out the device and read the message from my very late client.

Client: So sorry, Violet! I got detained in Helena on business. Can we reschedule? I’ll call you.

It’s the nature of real estate, cancelations and rescheduling on a whim. I’m used to it by now, and it doesn’t upset me the way it used to when I first started out five years ago. I’ve learned to roll with the punches that life deals me—both personally and professionally.

After responding to my client, I send the owners of the house an “all clear” message so they can return home. I close and lock the front door before pausing on the front steps. My head trails wistfully back to the side of the house, hoping to catch a glimpse of the cardinal again before heading back into town, but I don’t get that lucky. It’s a running theme in my life, apparently. What’s gone is gone for good.

Swallowing the inkling of resentment growing inside me, I climb into my car. My morning was wasted. I’m tired of people disappointing me. But I have to remind myself that nobody really owes me anything—including my mother. If she wants to run off to Mexico with this latest guy she met online, who am I to judge? We are both adults now. She has her life, and I have mine, mostly consumed by work but with a healthy roster of friends, too. But a phone call now and then would be nice. Wherever she ends up, I hope she is happy.

Shrugging off the thoughts of Mom, I focus on the prettiness of Spruce Crossing as I head out to meet Ethan. It’s impossible to ignore as I take the long way back into town, knowing I’m too early to meet my best friend for lunch. Even with my client standing me up, I still have some time to spare.

The children break for recess at the elementary school, trying to build snow forts and snowmen among the gentle dusting that we have received over the past few days. My memory of my time at the school is not too distant in my head. I can’t hear the din of their calls to one another through the closed window of my car, but I catch their grinning faces when I pass, and I can’t help but toss them a wave, catching the attention of some teachers who wave back, too. Among them are friends and older educators who taught during my time as a student, but I can’t be sure if they recognize me or if they are just waving because I am. That’s Spruce Crossing for you.

By the time I circle back up toward Main Street in search of a parking spot, my mood has lightened considerably, and I easily find a spot in front of the Maple Leaf Diner where I’m supposed to meet Ethan soon.

As I exit my vehicle, I cast a glance down the sidewalk toward the hardware store, but I don’t see him coming yet, even though I see his black Durango sitting near the entrance. I’m sure he won’t be long.

Light Christmas music pipes from the speakers of the diner when I enter. I pause in the vestibule between the doors to shake off my boots, and the hostess greets me at the wood stand with a smile.

“Hi, Violet,” she chirps brightly. “Just you?”

“No. I am meeting Ethan,” I reply. “Is he here yet?”

She shakes her head. “Not yet. Window seat or fireplace?”

I glance around the cozy interior, taking in the half-filled establishment before deciding. It’s not very busy, and I always prefer the spectacular views of the mountain peaks from the floor-to-ceiling window seats.

“Window, please.”

She gestures for me to follow, taking two menus, and leads me to a table.

“Thanks.” I accept the menu as she walks away.

As always, I find my gaze trailing to the glorious view in front of me, the white dusted peaks in the distance framing the picturesque town which I’ve called home for twenty-nine years. No matter how many times I sit in this very spot, this view never gets old, and with Christmas inching closer, it only gets more magical. Truly, I could sit here all day, taking it in.

Town workers stand on ladders, draping the fairy lights over the lampposts as passersby walk around them. They haven’t wasted any time with the Christmas décor, Thanksgiving having just passed last week. It’s the precursor to the shops and restaurants downtown following suit, painting their storefront windows with holiday characters and strategically placing red bows along their awnings to accent boughs of holly. Soon, the Winter Wonderland Festival will be upon us, officially marking the beginning of the Christmas season in our little town.

I don’t notice Ethan enter until he’s directly in front of the table, his amber-green eyes uncharacteristically shadowed, and yet he still takes my breath away for half a second, his attractive features always taking me aback as if I’m seeing them for the first time.

Surprised by his stealthy appearance, I grin up at him as he slides into the chair across from me, but before I can open my mouth to greet him, his hand flies through his dark mane, the agitation on his angular features clear now, and he reaches out to grab my hands imploringly. My brow furrows at the unexpected contact, concern striking me. His behavior is entirely unusual.

“What’s wrong?” I demand, alarmed.

“You have to help me,” he says urgently.