Page 6 of Tangled in Mistletoe

“You need to scrap it.” I explain that June didn’t tell me the whole truth, and that Andreas isn’t really the villain. I mention my predicament and how I’d have nowhere to go if Andreas didn’t offer me a room. I told my editor everything except about my attraction for Andreas or the steamy, sensuous kiss we shared.

“Well, how I see it is, June is still out of a job and this Andreas fellow gave her the booth.”

“Yes but–”

“No lies detected.”

“But he has good reason to fire her,” I protest.

“Sure, but that changes nothing. June thinks she is in the right and deserves to be heard.”

I want to yank my hair from my scalp. The more my boss speaks, the more I’m convinced he has no intention of deleting the story. “I still have time to write something better,” I promise.

“No can do,” he says. “In fact, it’s going out on Saturday’s paper.”

I gape. That’s tomorrow. “I thought you needed a piece for next week?” I thought I had more time to come up with a new piece.

“I bumped Steve’s piece and replaced it with your.”

I swallow. My palms turn clammy. What am I to do now?

“I’ll tell you what. Write a second article with his side of the story. We’ll publish it just after Christmas.”

“But that’s ten days away.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, sounding pleased with himself again. “That’ll give the readers time to stew in outrage throughout their Christmas dinner.”

I glare at my phone as the line goes dead. Daniel isn’t just a scrooge. He’s scrooge’s mean uncle.

CHAPTER FOUR

ZEVA

The next call I make is to the bed-and-breakfast. I take a steadying breath as Francis answers the phone on the third ring. “Hi, Miss Francis,” I say after she gets through her greeting.

“Why, good morning,” she says cheerfully. “I hope my nephew is showing off his southern hospitality.”

“He is,” I assure her. “I don’t suppose a room opened up yet?”

“Sorry dear. I’m afraid not.”

I sigh. All hope for a room vanishes.

“Is everything alright, dear? Do you want me to have a word with Andreas?”

“Oh no,” I say quickly, biting my tongue. Perhaps Magnolia didn’t get my newspaper. Instead, I ask, “I was wondering if you get the South Carolina Harrold in Magnolia?”

“Don’t tell me you’re a fan of the columns, too.” Francis chuckles. “I have an entire scab book of recipes. I’ll never get around to trying all of them, but my friend Mavis has a soft spot for the little critters.”

Tears stung my eyes. I didn’t imagine anyone outside of the baking club reading, much less clipping the recipes. Somewere my own creations and others were from the kind ladies of Clemson. My column features recipes; each comes with a heartwarming tale, the aroma of home cooking, and a touch of nostalgia.

“I like the columns,” I say, my throat tightening with emotion.

“I can’t wait to see what recipe Cinnamon gives us for Christmas.”

I whisper a soft thank you to the heavens. Cinnamon is the pseudonym that takes credit for my stories. Not that I know Francis reads the Harrold and like my pieces, I didn’t want her thinking badly of me.

“Is there anything else, dear?”

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