Page 3 of One-Click Christmas
“Is it his work you’re admiring?” Holly laughs. “Just be yourself, or a slightly less obsessive version of yourself.”
“Ha. Ha. Ha. You know that’s impossible. I mean, do I talk about his books or—”
“If this goes well,” Marley interjects as though she’s second-guessing her choice, “we could have him here every year, which could mean big things for the bookstore. Think of all the people we’ll draw in. He’s already a mountain guy, so it wouldn’t be a stretch to think he’d want to come backifwe treat him right.”
Hunter Black, here in our store… every year. We’d be friends. He might even write about me in a book.
Oh God!I need to calm down and get a grip. I can’t be the reason he’s freaked out and never wants to come back again.
“For sure,” I manage. “I’ll be very professional.”
Holly raises an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Professional with a side of crazy, or just professional?”
“You don’t know me.” I bite back a giddy laugh. “I’m great at multi-tasking. Plus, it’s a positive that I know so much about him. I mean, who else has read every article, listened to every podcast, and studied every obscure blog post?”
She laughs. “You’re going to freak him out.”
“I’m going to charm him,” I correct her dramatically, “with my literary insight and hosting skills.”
Marley smirks. “I know you will. Just remember he’s a quiet guy who isn’t into a lot of drama. So, keep it low-key. We’ll save the shrines for next year.”
Low-key… right. I’ll totally keep it low-key.
Chapter Two
Hunter Black
I scrub one hand down over my face as I stare out the large picture windows before me. There are few things that I love more than the woods. There’s something about the scent of pine and the natural rhythm of the forest that feels like coming home.
Somewhere, a bird calls out a long, haunting note as snow begins to fall. The writer in me prays it’s an omen. A precursor to a heavy snowstorm that’ll trap me up here alone for the foreseeable future. I have honey roasted nuts, water, whiskey, plenty of backup battery power for my laptop, and a deadline quickly approaching. The isolation would be welcomed.
I’ve barely sunken into the fantasy when the alarm on my phone goes off in my pocket. I’m supposed to be down the mountain and at the bookstore in thirty minutes.
I don’t want to do this. It’s not that I don’t appreciate my readers, I do. They’re the reason I’m living my dream. I’ve just never been a fan of crowds, people, small talk, or the spotlight.
That said, I don’t get a choice in the matter. Readings and signings are a part of my job, and I’ve been lucky that the publishing company allows me to stick to small venues. For the most part, these shops are quiet, dim, and the people don’t ask for much. I can handle that… barely.
I take another sip of coffee, settle the mug onto the kitchen counter, grab the keys to the rental truck, my favorite Sharpie,and head out into the snow. It’s falling harder now, though I don’t think it’s going to cause any road trouble. That’s too bad. I should’ve booked a cabin at a higher elevation, maybe something on a dirt road with no plow access.
Next time.
The truck starts with a growl, and I shift into drive, listening to the sound of the tires crushing snow as I roll through the pines and down the mountain. Driving has always been a prime brainstorm time for me, so my mind starts rambling with possible plot shifts for my new work in progress. This is the third book in a row I’ve struggled with. The third story I can’t seem to get my fingers to write. If I believed in curses, I’d think I had one. Maybe what I need is a spell or some kind of cleansing ceremony. I hear there’s a psychic tucked into the woods somewhere here. Thing is, I think you have to believe in that shit for it to work.
At this point, I’m torturing myself with the outline. It’s been written at least seven times and I still can’t figure the protagonist out. I know she’s a young woman with a shadowed past and a hunger she doesn’t quite understand yet… but what the hell does she want?
Redemption? Revenge? A sandwich?Who the fuck knows?
Maybe she doesn’t know what she wants. Maybe the hunger inside of her isn’t for redemption or something trivial. Maybe it’s for identity. Maybe she’s spent so long surviving she doesn’t know who she is anymore.
I keep my eyes on the road while scribbling something onto my notebook beside me. I probably won’t be able to comprehend what I wrote when I get back to the cabin tonight, but at least I’ll have something more than a blank page.
By the time I hit the edge of town, the snow’s turned to slush, and the forest is a memory in the rearview. Civilizationhas crept back to the tune of red and green wreaths on light posts, shoppers already busy carrying bags, and the town Santa ringing a bell on the corner. For some reason, reality doesn’t hit me as hard as it usually does. In fact, the whole scene reminds me of that movie,It’s a Wonderful Life.Smiling faces, folks bundled in coats, everyone pretending they weren’t thinking about jumping off a bridge last night. A little dark, but classically real.
I’ve always appreciated the stories that are told with grit. The ones with bruises beneath the beauty. The ones that don’t pretend everything is perfect. That’s the same theme I’m leaning toward in my newest novel, the one I’m still figuring out how to write.
When the road is clear, I turn left onto Chestnut Lane and follow the reindeer signs to a cozy little bookstore with large picture windows and a Christmas tree lit bright by the front door. From here, I can see straight through the shop. Old pine shelves with matching floors, a little bakery stand in the back, a front counter dead-center, and a girl.
A pretty girl with long blonde hair wearing tights and a short black dress with a red cardigan. She leans against the horseshoe counter in the center of the store, scribbling something down as she bites into a croissant. The flaky crumbs fall and rest on top of her full breasts.
