Page 2 of That Time We Kissed Under the Mistletoe
So long, New York City penthouse.
Hello, small-town Abieville.
My family started coming here the summer I was fourteen. That’s when a client of my father’s offered up his vacation house as a thank-you for some long-shot settlement outside of court. The location was perfect: far enough from the city that it felt like a getaway for my mom and me, but close enough for my dad to visit us on weekends.
We all stopped coming to the lake after I went off to college, but when the owner passed away last spring, my parents bought the place, hoping to get it listed on Platinum Stays.
For the record, Platinum Stays is an exclusive vacation rental site that requires an evaluation of potential listings before they’ll give their seal of approval. Unfortunately, the scheduled home visit fell just days before our family’s annual fundraising gala on Christmas Eve.
A.K.A. my birthday.
The Hathaway Gala raises tons of money each year, which we always donate to Children’s Village. The cause is almost as important to my parents as I am, so we all agreed my mom couldn’t possibly leave the city in the final days of planning. That’s why I volunteered to come to Abieville to handle the home evaluation myself. What can I say? I’m a team player who also thrives on pleasing my parents. And all I had to do was meet with an evaluator from Platinum Stays.
And oh, yeah,notburn down the house.
So far, I’m doing a less-than-stellar job on my first goal. Which makes me a little worried about my second goal: avoiding Three.
Not the number three.
I’m talking about Three Fuller.
The man.
Three’s actual name is Bradford Fuller, in case you’re wondering why any parent would saddle their offspring with a digit for a first name. Mrs. Fuller didn’t. What shediddo is join all her sisters in using their maiden name—Bradford—for their sons. And since all the male cousins are also named Bradford, each baby got a nickname handed to him at birth.
Mac. Ford. Three. Brady. You get the picture.
Threethe manbroke my heart ten years ago, right here in Abieville. On Main Street, to be specific. And I already have a hard enough time not thinking about Three now, which is awfully annoying after a decade.
My best friend, Bristol, warned me being in this town again might rev the engine of my Three-thinking. So I promised her I’d keep away from him at all costs. But I can’t focus on keeping away from anyone while this kitchen’s full of smoke.
Maybe I should try the extinguisher one more time just to be absolutely positive the fire’s out. With a bit more effort and a lot of luck, my mom and dad might never have to hear about this. Which would be good for me, not to mention good for whoever temporarily stored my mom’s rustic reindeer in the oven.
My hands are still a little shaky,but I pick up the fire extinguisher again. No dice. This thing is definitely busted. After taking a couple of deep breaths to calm my nerves, I peer through the dark haze at the stainless steel oven that betrayed me. And that’s when the side door into the kitchen flies open with a bang behind my back.
For the record, this door leads out to a lakefront surrounded by acres and acres of tall, snow-heaped pine trees. I’ve stayed here enough summers to know this property has plenty of space for murder.
If I screamed no one would hear me.
A gust of icy winter air raises goose bumps on my neck, and I spin around to face my intruder. I can barely see through the smoke, just enough to make out a pair of broad shoulders filling the doorway. The intruder appears to be dressed all in black. The hoodie over his head is drawn tight like a robber’s mask. Without thinking, I rush forward and heave the fire extinguisher at his head.
“Get out!” I howl as the metal thunks off of the robber’s skull, and he goes down hard. “I’m calling the police!” Yanking my phone from my pocket, I’m about to call 911, when I hear the front door slam open across the house.
Seriously?
When did Abieville become a village of people busting down doors?
From the entryway a deep voice calls out, “Hey! Everyone all right in here?”
“Help!” I shriek. “I’m probably being robbed.” Then I realize whoever’s in the doorway could be a robber too. “I’ve got a fire extinguisher,” I shout, “and I’m not afraid to use it!”
Sure the extinguisher is broken, but the front-door robber doesn’t know that. So I sneak along the wall, tip-toeing toward the dining room, prepared to make my escape into the backyard. And that’s when two men dressed in sweats and beanies burst around the corner from the entryway.
“Don’t come any closer!” I chuck my phone at the taller one in front, but it bounces off his big body, clattering to the floor.
“Whoa, lady. Are you nuts?” asks the smaller of the two men. As both their gazes follow the trajectory of my phone from the ground upward, I catch my first glimpse of the taller one’s face. Then I have to gulp to keep from throwing up.
Because the tall stranger is none other than Three’s cousin, Ford Lansing.
