Page 2 of Tangled in Mistletoe

“That would be wonderful,” I say, following her gaze. “Thank you.” Close to the side entrance of the establishment, two men are in an intense conversation. Though I can’t hear what they’re saying, their body language ripples with tension. They are both dressed in black suits. The one doing the talking, with occasional daggers aimed toward my server, is the shorter of the two. While the other is at least six one, with a lean frame. His side profile suggests he has a low stubble covering a firm jaw that is even harder than the bulging arm muscles under his jacket.

June clears her throat and I cringe at being caught staring.

“Here we are.” She places two menus on the table.

It isn’t an ocean view, but June sits me at a table with a widow. “Thank you.” I place my purse in the empty chair and my small suitcase against the wall.

She glances over her shoulder again, then back at me. “I haven’t seen you in Magnolia before. Are you visiting or passing through?”

“That obvious, huh?”

She shrugs. “The luggage gives you away.”

“Accurate observation.” I laugh. “I’m here for work, actually.”

“Yeah?” She tilts her head. “I didn’t think I’d hear that excuse until January.”

I frown.

She braces her hip against the table. “Magnolia sorta slows for anything that isn’t Christmas this time of year. Folks are either coming to experience the joyous atmosphere, the sounds of laughter and merriment, and the sights of colorful decorations, or to join in the fun, perhaps even leading a parade or singing in traditional caroling.” She shrugs. “It’s nuts, if you ask me.”

“You don’t like the celebrations?”

She shrugs. “What’s there to celebrate?”

I clamp my mouth shut. Some people need a reason to celebrate, while others celebrated even when it’s cheering on someone else’s happiness. I put June in the category of those who need a reason. “Well, newspapers don’t stop printing because of holidays. Sorry to pop your ballon, but I’m here for work.”To appease my boss, anyway.

“You’re a journalist?”

I nod. Although I’m not sure fluff pieces in the weekly column section counts as journalism. Although Daniel’s entry to the team is steep, a front-page article will undeniably elevate my profile as a serious writer, opening doors to new opportunities and attracting the attention of other publications.

“Well, sorry to burst your bubble, but you won’t find your next story here. Trust me, I’ve lived in this town all my life and Magnolia is boring.”

How can she say that, with the cheerful chatter and bright sunlight illuminating the town square, making everything seem so joyful and vibrant?

“Can I get you a drink?”

I relay my drink order, closing the cocktail menu. If June doesn’t think the festivities happening outside are entertaining, then I’ll have to work really hard to dig up a story Daniel will love. I consider asking June for her help. After all, this is her town and who better to tell me about all its secrets? I cringe. Digging up secrets isn’t my cup of tea, but perhaps just a small one will be enough.

June returns with my glass of water and lemonade. I don’t get my chance to ask for her help. “Are you okay?” A dusty pink blush rose on her cheeks, and her lips press together in a thin line of anger. “What happened?”

“I got fired.”

My eyes widen. What could have possibly happened between her serving me and now? I glance toward the men, but they are both gone. “What can I do to help?”

“Want to hear a real story about the secrets hidden beneath all this festive Christmas magic?”

My heart hammers in my chest. Is she giving me my story?

She locks gazes with me. “Only a scrooge fires a broke college student two weeks before Christmas,” she says.

I typed for several hours,my fingers flying across the keyboard, and my sympathy for June growing with each keystroke; I was reluctant to stop until the article was complete. It took a few edits to get the words just right, painting Mr. Lister just as June described him. I lean back into my seat at the coffee shop, my finger lingering over the send button. It isn’t as if I hadn’t given him a chance to tell his side of the story, either. After he didn’t return to the restaurant, I’d called insearch of him, but the moment I mentioned June, he declined to comment.

I sigh, rolling my lower lip between my teeth. I really hope writing these sorts of stories doesn’t always feel like a punch in the gut.

I hit send and almost fell out of my chair. This is so different from my baking column that my skin tingles. And there’s a hollowness in the pit of my stomach. I mentally go over the piece, on my way to the bed-and-breakfast.

The story really focuses on June and the setbacks losing her job will cause. I only mention the owner’s name at the end to show my failed attempt to get a comment.

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