Page 1 of Gotta Have Mistletoe
CHAPTER ONE
Glen
Nothing says Christmas like hauling a pine tree from a pickup truck at 8:30 in the morning. The sun is doing its dramatic thing, all pink and orange streaks, like someone spilled paint buckets in the sky, though my view ain’t great from all the pine needles. They prickle my face, but it doesn’t matter: the tree will look great in the Mistletoe Lounge.
I hoist the tree over my shoulder, then march toward the airport. My boots squelch over the slushy snow. The airport prioritized its snowplows for the runway, not the airport parking lot.
Cars slow down, their bleary-eyed drivers clutching styrofoam coffee cups, as if they’ve never seen someone with Christmas spirit before. Must be out-of-towners on their way home.
Mistletoe Springs has always appreciated Christmas, comes with the name. We’re in Nevada, though elevated enough to get snow. Nothing’s prettier than snow-dusted red sandstone hills.
Life ain’t always grand, but it sure as heck is better when it comes with garlands and balsam fir. Today is a new day, and new days are wonderful.
“You need help with that?” Casey asks behind me.
I jump, and the tree nearly topples from my arms. I spin toward her, and Casey winks. A beanie is pulled over her short hair, and she’s knotted a plaid shirt over her jeans. It’s her knowing look that concerns me.
I wrangle the tree back into my arms and pretend my near crash never happened. “Nope. I’ve got this.”
Casey nods, her eyes still on me.
The thing about hiring smart workers is they can figure out some things about you. The good thing about carrying trees, is you don’t have to spend time being psychoanalyzed.
I quicken my trudge toward the airport, slamming my boots against the sludge.
“Word is, some mighty important folks are flyin’ in today,” Casey says beside me. “The airport staff are acting like ostriches in a snowstorm.”
I don’t jump.
I’m a cowboy contractor, not a circus performer on the Strip.
I continue my march toward the pink airport that looks like it belongs in sunny Palm Springs and not snowy Mistletoe Springs.
Casey tilts her head. “My cousin Pete just moved to Mistletoe Springs. Single, sweet, and reckon he could lasso a polar bear.”
I tighten my grip on the tree. Three years since Dean passed, and people think they need to matchmake me.
“Let me guess,” I say. “He’s single.”
“You’re a smart one, Boss.”
She looks at me hopefully, but there’s no way. No way at all.
“I’ve got my son and enough memories to power Santa’s workshop. Don’t need nothin’ else.”
“Uh-huh. Want me to hang that mistletoe in your office for ya?”
“Absolutely not. It’s for the lounge.” I grin. “Garland Contracting always leaves a sparkle behind.”
More passengers exit the airport, their postures rigid. No wonder. They’ve just come from having too little oxygen and have had to hold their positions in too-small seats for too long.
I enter the airport, ignoring astonished glances as I carry the tree.
I head upstairs to the lounge. Mr. Brenner gives me one of his dubious looks when I enter, like I’m doing something bad, when I’m going above and beyond.
Technically, my team was hired to remodel part of the lounge. We’re still fixing up the glass panels on one wall after the expansion.
But Garland Contracting always leaves a sparkle behind, and I won’t let some smarmy California know-it-all with slicked back blond hair who acts like we’re extras in his hair wax commercial, tell me that traveling passengers don’t want Christmas joy. Everyone wants joy. Because the thing is, life can be sad, and it’s best to seize every good moment there is.
