Page 12 of Mistletoe Bargain with the Billionaire

She laughs and we sit there in harmony until someone goes over to the classic jukebox in the corner and selects that Christmas tune all the stores love to play over and over - ‘Mistletoe Muse.’

Carol’s grimacing and her shoulders curl inward. She really doesn’t like this song, huh? Even Grinchy Me thinks it’s catchy but to each their own.

“‘Santa Baby’ is the one that always drives me up a wall,” I say, figuring we can discuss our most loathed Christmas tunes now that we’ve plotted our first date.

A weak smile is all I get in reply. Maybe she’s tired. Or maybe she’s had her fill of me for the day. The song keeps playing, the lover’s refrain talking about Mistletoe Magic and the first lips they ever kissed and Carol looks like she can’t breathe.

“Carol?” I say, growing increasingly worried by her expression.

She fumbles through her bag, pulling out that bedazzled journal of hers and I’m wondering if she’s about to make an addendum to our contract. Instead, she opens it up to one of the pages of sheet music with notes filled in and lyrics scrawled underneath. She spins it towards me and turns away, sipping her coffee.

I don’t know how to read music but I can read lyrics. It’s the song currently playing on the jukebox, written in pencil. There’s places where she's clearly erased and rewritten words or notes. In the corner of the page in Carol’s familiar handwriting, she’s even dated it – August 2018.

“You wrote this song? In 2018?” A shaky nod. “And it became a hit the next year, right?” Another nod. “I had no idea you were a co-writer or-”

“I wasn’t the co-writer,” she snaps. “Iwroteit.” She looks defeated just as quick as she showed me her fire, shoulders slumping again.

“But… this is a very popular holiday song.”

I’m making an understatement. The damn thing went platinum the year it came out. It’s probably been burning up the downloads the past two months. It would’ve made her a fortune in royalties by now. Certainly enough that she wouldn’t be sofa-surfing in some friend’s tiny Vegas apartment and getting heckled by assholes during a lounge act.

I reach for her hand a second time tonight but this is no act. “What happened?”

She tells me. I don’t know much about the music industry but I’ve heard of the big-name producer, Travis Della-Fontaine. Never knew he was a thief, a bully and an utter cretin until today though. “I was so stupid.”

No, that’s one thing I won’t allow Carol to say. She’s creative and gifted, taken advantage of but not stupid. “You are not. You were ripped off. He threatened to bury you in the industry if you spoke against him, right?”

A pitiful nod. A powerful producer taking advantage of young talent with no connections to back her up. A man taking advantage of a woman he was sleeping with, stealing her music and lyrics after telling her it wasn’t marketable and making all the cash. It’s not right. It is the complete opposite of what’s right. And I’m not going to just let that go.

But at the moment, Carol needs me to be her friend more than she wants to see me blow my top. “Come on. Let’s go pick another song to play.”

I lead her over the jukebox with its selection of oldies and a handful of newer songs. I tell her to take her pick. We flip through the choices and I know what she’ll choose the second I see it. Yikes, this might’ve been a bad idea.

“Carol, no,” I beg.

“Carol, yes,” she cackles.

The familiar horn fanfare intro to House of Pain’sJump Aroundblares through the diner seconds later. “Remember when we broke your grandmother’s vase dancing to this as kids?”

Yes, I remember. I remember that I was having too much fun with Carol to care about the consequences of breaking Grams’ favorite collectable vase at the time, too. It was not a pleasant conversation with my grandmother which had followed but, damn, if I wouldn’t do it again to feel that carefree once more.

“Come on, Nicky! Dance with me!” Carol says, like we’re still those carefree children. That’s something I loved about Carol. She lives life in the moment and enjoys things, big or small. She always knew how to get me outside my structured mindset to enjoy them, too.

She takes my hand and starts bopping around, trying to convince me to move with her. The fact that she doesn’t have to do too much convincing tells me I’ve been up for nearly twenty hours and am full of too much caffeine. Twenty-nine year old me is mortified by this display. Nine year old me is pumping his fist in celebration as we dance.

“Hilda!” the cook shouts from the kitchen pass-through while we bust a move. “Take those kids their check before they break something in here!”

8-Nick

Road Trip Rule #3: A good night’s sleep is paramount.

An hour later, we’ve checked into the hotel. No freak snow storms or unexpectedly popular conventions have taken all the rooms but one like in the romance novels. There’s plenty of rooms and I paid for two. (I am inexplicably very disappointed in this hotel at the moment.)

I carry Carol’s suitcase inside past the front desk along with mine and then help her in a side door with Mr. Jinglebell. She hums theMission Impossibletheme song as we decide to opt for the stairs over the elevator. No, pets aren’t technically allowed here. I’ll tip housekeeping very well, okay?

His Highness, the Most Supremely Vexed Himalayan, gives a little huff when Carol removes his harness. Giving his food dish a disdainful sniff, he promptly jumps up on the bed, kneads his paws on the comforter and nestles down to sleep. As if he’s not already been sleeping the bulk of the day.Cats.

“So…” I say, not having anything left to help her with or reason to stay.

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