Page 12 of Mr. Mistletoe
“You look like you could use a pumpkin spice latte.” She looks pointedly at my phone. “I’ll be right back.”
After she leaves, I stare at the number, my heart pounding furiously. My finger hovers over the call button, and before I can change my mind, I go for it.
I hold my breath while it rings. The more it rings, the higher my panic level spikes. The thought of leaving a voicemail makes my throat go dry. What would I say?
I nearly chicken out and hang up when someone answers.
“Hello?” A woman’s voice.
My heart beats double time. “Uh, hello.”
She hesitates. “Who’s this?”
“This is Jess. I’m calling for…” I stumble and stutter. “Um…”
“Are you trying to sell something? Because I’m not interested,” she says. “Hanging up now.”
“No,” I say in a rush. “I’m not selling anything. I’m trying to reach this guy I met at a basketball game.”
“What guy?” Her voice takes on a sharp edge. “It better not be Joey.”
Sweat beads on my brow. This isn’t going as I’d hoped. “Is Joey about six-foot-three with a beard?”
She laughs with relief. “He wishes. Try five-foot-seven and can’t even grow a mustache.”
A male voice protests in the background, and the woman laughs harder.
“I must have the wrong number,” I say before quickly hanging up.
Humiliation stains my cheeks. Mr. Mistletoe gave me a fake number. Guess he isn’t my soul mate after all.
I trek back to my workstation, determined to forget about the entire situation. Picking up my pencil, I sketch furiously. If I’m a failure at love, the least I can do is succeed in my career.
Chapter Six
Clark
“You’re totally cheating,”my cousin Laura says, punching my shoulder so hard that I nearly swerve the truck off the road.
We’ve been playing a game of “Guess the Christmas Song,” just like we had as kids, since we pulled out of her driveway in Starlight Bay an hour ago.
“I’m not cheating, you just aren’t any good at this.”
“I’m the reigning champ since two thousand six, thank you very much.” She turns up the volume and waits for the next song to start with the concentration of a goalie getting ready to pounce on a flying puck.
The song starts, and I hesitate, letting Laura win just so she can keep her title. I’m a softie like that.
She smirks in satisfaction and pumps her fist in the air. “Take that, loser.”
I give her the side-eye. “Competitive much?”
She sighs and takes a sip of her long-cold peppermint latte. “At least I’m not as bad as Mike.”
Her father-in-law, Mike, is the head coach of the kids’ hockey team I volunteer for. “The Mighty Mites have a chance of winning the Gilded Goblet this year.”
“He rides them like it’s The Stanley Cup on the line.”
“Gotta start somewhere. I found my love for hockey with my first win of the Gilded Goblet.”
