Say No to Mistletoe
Sheila Roberts
One
Of course, it was meant to be. Love was only a kiss away.
—Hailey Fairchild,What the Heart Seeks
Mistletoe is my kryptonite. One kiss under it, and I go weak in the head. My last three mistletoe kisses resulted in relationship disaster. Which is why I, Hailey Fairchild, am swearing off it.
You’d think after three love fails, I’d hate cupid. I don’t. I’m one of his loyal acolytes. I write romance novels. I’m a believer.
If you ask me, everyone should be. We need more love in the world.Ineed more love, but so far I’m only finding it on the pages of my computer screen.
On the screen is better than nothing. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.
Consider this a public service announcement, a warning. Don’t go under the mistletoe. It’s hazardous to your heart. Here’s what it did to me.
Mistletoe Disaster Number One
Gregory, as in Gregory Peck, a.k.a. Atticus Finch in the classic movieTo Kill a Mockingbird. Tall and dark and noble-looking. My grandma made me watch the movie with her when I was a kid, and I was hypnotized by his deep voice.
Like the movie star, this Gregory was tall and lean with darkhair and brown eyes, and he had an air of brooding mystery. Which was appropriate, since he wrote mysteries.
I met him at a party thrown by a friend of a friend. I spotted him across the room, surrounded by drooling women dressed to kill in body-hugging holiday dresses and heels high enough to give their arches cramps, and I thought,Don’teven try.I wasn’t dressed to kill.Dressed to maim,I thought, in my black silk pants and red top with a black silk jacket.
I’m not so bad to look at anymore. I’ve shed some poundage. Lost the zits. And hey, glasses are in style, and I have great frames. I think they make me look smart and glam. But I knew I couldn’t compete with those women. I mean, they were beautiful. So I tried for aloofness, thinking it might make me look mysterious and unattainable.
I got my Christmas punch and strolled around the room, trying to pretend I belonged. And sort of nudged closer to Mr. Gorgeous and his fans.
“I think it’s so rad that you’re a writer,” one gushed.
A writer! I was a writer. I’d just sold my first romance novel to Heartfelt, my publisher’s romance line.
“It’s not easy,” Gregory said. “Everyone thinks they can write a book, but most people never do, and half the ones who do just write drek.”
Hmm. A bit of a snob. What did he think of romance writers?
I had to know, so I abandoned my mysterious vibe and inserted myself into the conversation. “And what would you describe as ‘drek’?” I challenged.
He shrugged and looked down his elegant nose at me. “I suppose you want to be a writer?”
I lifted my chin just a little. “I already am.”
“Oh, who’s your publisher?” he asked, and the other women drifted away.
I couldn’t help feeling a little superior since I’d outshone them. (Outshining never happened to me when I was younger.)
“Herald Publishing,” I said, and his eyebrows went up in surprise.
“Really?” He motioned to the sofa. “Sit down. Let’s talk.”
And so we did. He seemed perfect. I gave him my phone number.
Before I left, well, there was the mistletoe, hanging in the doorway. He caught my arm and gave me a little tug. It was so cute and romantic, I stepped right up and let him kiss me.
It was an impressive kiss, heady stuff for a girl whose first mistletoe kiss at the age of fourteen had about scarred her for life. This man wanted to be under there with me. Oh yes!
