Page 18 of The Mistletoe Makeover

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Jace

The snow falls lightly, spiraling from the sky like dandelion seeds as I load my backpack in the trunk for our excursion to Evergreen. My phone buzzes in my coat pocket, and I take a deep breath to release the stress ballooning inside me. If I pretend I’m alright, maybe Allan will buy it.

“Hey, Allan,” I say. “I’m on my way to Evergreen today.”

“What’s in Evergreen?”

“Oh, men in lederhosen and a German village.”

“Huh,” Allan says, trying to hide his worry over my nonexistent new songs I’m supposed to be writing. “How’s the songwriting coming?”

“Same,” I answer, which is short fornothing yet. My songwriting dried up when everything tanked in my life. Every time I sit down to write, my mind goes blank.

“Your record label is begging for something,” Allan says. “The concert would be the perfect time to try out a new song.”

“Yeah, but that means I need to write a new song first.” Based on the last few months, it’s not just a dry spell. It’s more like I’m lost in the Sahara with no GPS. I’ve never had a case of writer’s block this bad. But I’ve also never had this much pressure to deal with either.

“I know, but I can’t debut a song I don’t have.” I pull on my beanie to cover my ears. “It’s not that I’m not trying. There’s just nothing to inspire me.”

“I’ll tell the record company you’re working on a surprise,” Allan says. “But I don’t know how long I can keep them from demanding a song.”

“I’ll come up with something,” I reassure Allan, even though it makes me feel even more pressure. “I’ve got ideas rolling around in my head. This month at home is just what I need to recover from the year.”

“Well, don’t take too long,” Allan reminds me.

It’s already been too long.I’ve been home for over a week, and I still can’t find inspiration.

A trip to Evergreen won’t solve it either.

When Mia arrives, she climbs out of her car, holding two cups. I glance down at her dress boots, which seem like an odd choice for a winter day.

“Are you sure about those boots?” I ask, lifting an eyebrow.

“What’s wrong with them?” she asks.

“Impractical, for one. And two, they won’t keep your feet warm.”

She waves my concerns away. “I’ve worn these all day and my toes are toasty.”

“Outside?”

“Does it matter?” She takes one look at my face and holds out a white cup. “You look like you need this.”

“Uh, thanks,” I say, wondering what’s under the lid.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “Wanda told me you like your coffee black.”

“You got this from the diner?”

“I saw you had coffee at our meeting. I did my homework.” She smiles, clearly trying to make up for the first time she didn’t do her homework.

“My last assistant just asked me what I wanted.”

Something’s different with her, and I can’t put my finger on what. She’s beingtoonice. Like she’s trying to win me over.

I hold up the cup before taking a sip. “Did you poison this or something?”

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