Page 1 of Mistletoe and Mischief

One

Trent

Dirty clothes overflow my laundry basket as I lug it around my room grabbing stray items.

The ringing of my phone cuts off the music that’s accompanying my chore/distraction session. Landon’s name and number light up the screen—ironically he’s one of the people I’m trying to stay distracted from.

Dismissing the call, I wait for the music to resume, then shove my phone in the pocket of my athletic shorts. I kneel, grab socks from under my bed, and carry the mess to the laundry room.

I’d rather make an excuse later, something along the lines of the snowstorm keeping the call from coming through, thanexplain why I’m not at the Christmas Cherry Auction with him and my other two roommates.

Stuffing the washing machine as full as possible, I add the detergent, start the load, and grab the feather duster.

Stepping to the window, I enjoy a hint of peace while giant snowflakes swirl in the amber glow of the landscaping lights. The snow-covered driveway has already blended with the snow-covered everything else. Winter used to be my favorite season. Snow my favorite weather. But now they’re just painful landmarks.

I wouldn’t have been any fun at the auction anyway. Surviving another anniversary of my broken heart is my singular goal for today, although I didn’t admit it to my roommates, who also happen to be my business partners.

That’s not going to happen by shacking up with whichever woman my friends decide to drop a fortune on. And definitely not at a sex club where everyone can watch. And not—

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Landon again.

“Hey. I’m getting ready. Be out of here in a minute.” I wedge the phone between my ear and shoulder, continuing to move magazines and every other item that’s been laid on the flat surfaces, so I can dust.

“Better hurry, Mo.”

Excellent that he’s not calling my bluff, but I hate it when they call me that. Mo—short for Mopey because they don’t understand that a guy doesn’t have to constantly be in pursuit of a woman. “Yeah, yeah.”

He continues, “The original set of auction virgins hit a patch of ice and slid off the road. They’re fine, but won’t make it, so some of the waitresses are stepping up.” Landon’s voice comes through with a backdrop of excited chatter.

I glance out the window at the rapidly accumulating snowfall. “Shit. I didn’t realize the roads were that bad. Go ahead and bid without me if I don’t make it.”

I instantly regret adding that last bit.

“I’m starting to think you don’t have any intention of showing up. Maybe we should switch to a video call so I can show you this raven-haired hottie who’s about as savvy as they come.”

I swallow. He knows I like smart, dark-haired women—or did, back when I used to date. “Sounds like fun, be there shortly.”

I’m about to hang up when he says, “Two years is too long to nurse a heartbreak.” Landon doesn’t pull the punch.

“Fuck off.” Smashing my thumb into theEnd Callbutton, I send my phone tumbling to the floor.

Vulnerability races through me until I pull myself together. Landon’s using two years generically. He doesn’t know that in one hour and fifteen minutes, it will be exactly two years since my failed marriage proposal or even that there had been a proposal.

I put my phone on the charger and return to my music and chores.

Is he right? Is there a time limit on heartbreak? Am I only stuck because I don’t try? I just can’t imagine being with anyone but Jasmine.

We were perfect together, which means I just might die a virgin—another detail I’ve left out. But even if a miracle happened and I felt something for another woman, I damn sure don’t need my first sexual experience to be at the age of twenty-five in front of spectators at the Aubergine Affair sex club, even if it is for the Christmas Cherry Auction. It’s not the guys that are supposed to get a fabulous first time.

Two

Jasmine

I weave through the crowd, amped up by the adrenaline-fueled vibe.

Flashing a dazzling smile, I lock eyes with a rugged cowboy type.

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