Page 12 of Mistletoe Meet Cute
“I mean, I guess this was one way to get out of being Mrs. Claus,” Hadley grumbles.
“Maybe Sophie can see Nanny kissing Santa under the mistletoe,” Ryleigh snickers. “I’d kiss him.”
And shit . . . anger flares at that idea.
Anger I have no business feeling.
He’s my new boss, not my boyfriend.
“You’d probably drop to your knees and blow him,” Hadley laughs, and Ryleigh shoves her off the bed.
Yeah . . . I’d probably do that too.
Not that I’m going to.
No blowing the boss.
“I’m not kissing him. I’m taking care of his baby. This is just a job,” I tell them and myself. And maybe if I say it enough times, I’ll believe it too.
HOLLY
I don’t need mistletoe to kiss someone.
Alcohol, lower standards, and a bad-decision playlist should do just fine.
—Holly’s Secret Thoughts
The lakefront drive the sexy British man from my maps app tells me leads to Camden’s house has the prettiest view, and that’s saying something because I’m a view snob. Sorry, but it’s true. What else would you expect, considering I grew up with an entire vineyard as my backyard? But as I pull into Camden’s driveway, I can’t help but stare at the beautiful, old farmhouse and the gorgeous view of Sweetwater Creek frozen behind it. One, because it’s seriously stunning, but more importantly, two... because it’s the only house on the street not decorated for Christmas.
Well this simply will not do.
“What was that sigh for?” Hadley asks through the Bluetooth.
“His house is the only one on the street not decorated,” I grumble as I roll to a stop at the base of the long, tree-lined driveway. “Do you think maybe he’s not a Christmas guy?”
“He might be more of a Hanukkah guy, Holls,” Hadley tsks. “Or you’re stuck working for the Grinch but with better cheekbones.”
“Very funny.” I roll my eyes and grab my bag while I continue to stare at the house for another hot minute, envisioning just how pretty it would look decked out. Joanna Gaines has nothing on this well-kept farmhouse with its crisp white siding and stately black shutters trimming floor-to-ceiling windows. A porch wraps around the entire first story of the three-story house, and I’m positive white Christmas lights and red ribbons trimming green garland would look fantastic hanging from the eaves. Add a sprig of mistletoe and a festive door mat and voilà, cozy Christmas perfection.
Come on, Monroe. You’re killing me.
“I’ll call you later, Hadley.”
“Be nice to him, Holls. He’s your new boss. Not everyone can be Santa’s favorite elf,” she reminds me before I end the call.
Be nice . . . Like I’m not always nice.
The front door pushes open as I rap my knuckles against it, and I stand and stare.
Well crap. Am I supposed to just go in?
“Camden,” I call out and give the door a tentative shove.
“Come on in, Holly,” he calls out from somewhere that sounds at least a flight of stairs above me. “I’ll be right down.”
I tentatively step inside, half expecting him to yell at me for letting myself in because this man doesn’t seem like the let-yourself-in kind, but let’s see how this goes.
Warm wood floors, high ceilings, and a lived-in, quiet, non-showy kind of comfort that doesn’t scream pro athlete at all surrounds me. This house is made for two point five kids and awhite picket fence. Not a single-dad, broody, pro footballer, who doesn’t even have a single Christmas decoration up. At least not one I see. And I might be looking a little harder than necessary. At least I am until I hear Sophie softly babbling to herself and turn the corner into a family room to find her contentedly swaying in her oversized swing. Chubby cheeks, wispy dark hair sticking up in a million directions, and wide green eyes crinkling with excitement from across the room, while a bulldog with a face only a mother could love stands guard at her feet.
