Page 69 of The Mistletoe Makeover

She shakes her head in disbelief. “I can’t believe you eat on paper when you have china that probably costs more than all the furniture I own. This one still has the sales sticker on.” She points to the white sticker.

“I only pull out the fine china when my agent bugs me to throw a fancy party.”

“Which has been...?”

“Twice... total,” I admit, pulling the baked pasta from the oven.

“That’s a shame,” she says.

“Ironic, coming from the woman who didn’t even pack a dress.”

“You have so many beautiful things here, and no one uses them.”

“Allan uses them when he’s in town. My band stays over occasionally. But I’m careful about who I let inside my home.”

I can’t tell her I believed one day I’d have a full, bustling home with lots of company. Fine china might have been impractical, but I thought my future wife deserved the best.

“Not even your family?” she asks, pulling out two plates.

“I don’t invite them over.” I avoid looking at her as I concentrate on cutting the steaming pasta. “We’re not like other families. My parents started pushing me to perform when I was a kid. But then it got to be too much. They only cared about what I accomplished and how it made them look. For my eleventh birthday, all I wanted was to order pizza and have a pool party. Instead, my parents told me I had to perform for a county fair eight hours away. They’d signed a contract that I couldn’t get out of. So instead of celebrating, I had to work. And that’s how I spent the rest of my time at home until I left at eighteen.”

She leans against the counter, the crease in her brow deepening. “No kid should have to miss their birthday.”

“The hard part is that they pretend things between us are good, and they’re just too busy to visit.” It’s a problem I’ve tried to push to the back of my mind.

“Do you have any siblings?” she asks, grabbing silverware.

“I occasionally hear from my brother. But he’s often backpacking in some remote section of the country. Living off the grid. That’s his way of dealing with our parents.”

It’s not like I wanted things this way. Somehow, my parents’ obsession with my career took over our lives. Having a normal childhood was never an option for me.

Mia sets the silverware neatly next to our plates. “Mom loved having you over, and you’re welcome back anytime. Granted, we’re loud and chaotic and crammed together like sardines.”

“I don’t know how your brothers felt about having me there.”

“After you left, they gave their approval.”

“Really?”

“They told me they’d teach you to play hockey.”

“Even after our epic accident?”

“Our whole family is very...physical.” Our eyes catch, and something ripples between us. The memory of our bodies crashing into each other. My hand cradling her back as I hovered over her.

“That’s better than never seeing each other.” I set the pasta in the middle of the table. “Do your brothers talk about your dad?”

“They never bring him up. It’s like he never existed.” She stops behind a chair, gripping the back. “My family is spontaneous and fun, but they also pretend that nothing is wrong—that my dad didn’t walk out a few days after Christmas and leave forever. For years, my mom acted like it didn’t happen, and everyone could go on with their lives. She pretended things were fine, because it was easier than facing the truth. The only time I saw her cry was when I found her sobbing silently in the bathroom, wiping mascara-striped tears from her cheeks.”

I shake my head. “I’m sorry, Mia.”

She shrugs, then sits down. “That’s why I don’t like to come home for Christmas. Too many memories that I don’t know how to deal with.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and then waves her hand. “Enough about me. This looks delicious.”

She digs into her spicy mostaccioli pasta. “Was it weird leaving home at eighteen and heading to Nashville on your own?”

“It was so freeing at first. Nobody to tell me what to do. So I started playing my songs any place that would take me. I eventually met my agent, and he helped me to get a record contract and told me I needed a makeover.”

She laughs. “You mean you weren’t always a hot country star?”

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