Page 10 of Merry Mended Hearts

“I’ve got to go,” I lied, glancing at the room’s dark walls and the horse trophy on the dresser. “I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“Get some writing done, come home Christmas Eve. Win-win!”

“Bye, Mom.”

I hung up before she could say anything else. What did she think she was doing? She and Dad had planned this trip for me, after all. Why throw a wrench in it now?

Work was stressful enough. Working a dead-end job at a call center when my heart was in writing? Sucked.

I intended to make enough money with my stories to quit my job. But scribbling away on napkins during lunchtime and writing only on weekends wasn’t cutting it.

This was my chance. I was working on a fantasy romance between a woman who could wield magic and a elven warrior who’d been raised by trees in a forest wasteland, and it was going to be a bestseller.

The idea was catchy, thriving, and unique. I had the perfect tagline. My brain was bursting with ideas and conversations, and all I needed was the time to craft the story the way it was acting out in my mind.

Tolivein the world I was trying to create.

This book would be the one. It was unique enough. I was sure no agent had represented anything like it. If I gave the story everything I had, immersed myself in the world I hoped to create, I couldn’t fail.

At least, that was what I told myself.

While Mom supported my writing, I knew she wanted me to stop living in my own head. Mom thought I needed to find a man who could ground me in reality. Help me grow up and adult or something.

But I didn’t want reality.

Not when made-up men were so much better than those in real life.

Besides, I’d moved into my own place last year. Wasn’t that adult enough?

After venturing out into the dining room and enjoying a delicious meal of meatloaf, mashed potatoes with creamy gravy, and parmesan-crusted asparagus—with rolls that could rival my grandma’s—I crept back to my room, readied for bed, and settled in with my laptop.

My fingers danced across the keyboard, transferring everything I’d written in my notebook so far. I wasn’t sure what was going to happen from here or who this Boone person was, but from the sound of things, he was an older guy who worked on the property.

Hopefully, he wouldn’t mind me being in here. If I played my cards right, he’d never know until I was gone.

BOONE

I trompeddown the snowy steps, eager to get back out to the barn, back to horses and where women stopped trying to interfere in my life. I’d take the mountain’s frigid chill currently creeping down my shirt any day over fires and intriguing stares.

I should have known better than to go into the radio’s history with so many people in earshot. Telling the little girl had been safe enough—or so I’d thought. I hadn’t thought the brunette woman would butt into our conversation.

I should have kept the story to myself.

Though I’d never admit as much out loud, my reservations sprang from the part of the radio’s history that only Junie, me, and her mom knew much about:

The radio hadn’t played in over a hundred years, but when it had, the guests hadn’t just heard music. That music from Santa’s radio had interfered in people’s lives.

Or so our grandparents had said.

“They had near to twenty weddings at the inn that next year,” Grandma had joked. “That’s what we get for Santa knowing what we’re up to all the time. He knew just who to have the radio play for.”

According to Grandma Harper, the radio wouldn’t respond when someone turned the dial like a normal radio did. Since Santa himself had delivered it to my great-grandfather, the story went that the radiochosewho it would play for and when.

And when it played, it created romantic havoc for whoever heard the songs. Junie’s mom, Aunt Meg, had jokingly called the radio a matchmaker.

I’d heard the story so many times—about the first year Santa had brought the radio, and how the man and women who heard it play ended up getting together in one way or another.

I’d learned the hard way not to share that part of the story. Especially around women.

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