Blame It on the Mistletoe
Read Blame It on the Mistletoe Online
Authors: Nicole Michaels
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Contemporary, #Holidays, #General
Blame It on the Mistletoe
Nicole Michaels
St. Martin’s Press 
New York
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Special Low-Price Holiday Stories and Novellas
Snowflakes whirled around Brooke Abbott’s head in blustery waves as she started down the sidewalk and back to her shop from the Stop & Go convenience store. Knowing it was the only place open on Thanksgiving evening, she’d just popped in to purchase dinner—a king-size Kit Kat and a grape soda. Sadly, a typical meal these days.
The entire length of Main Street was quilted in a soft white, and she was grateful she’d worn her snowboots. Brooke passed the darkened storefronts of antique shops, a knitting store, even an adorable little bakery. Preston, Missouri—her hometown—was as idyllic as a small town could be, and on a peaceful night like this it was easy to imagine you were traipsing through a magical snow globe.
She shoved her mitten-clad hands further into her coat pockets and sidestepped a hideous orange “Road Closed” sign—managing not to kick the stupid thing over in annoyance—and a muddy ditch before the sidewalk resumed. Brooke headed toward the lone building, 100 Main, at the end of the street before the commercial area turned into the industrial back side of town, running alongside the railroad tracks. Tilting her head up, she stopped to admire the Christmas display she’d put up the day before: a storybook gingerbread house complete with white Christmas lights, giant gumdrops, and swirls of frosting over the windows and doors.
Brooke pulled out her key and rattled it around in the old lock. Shifting it slightly to the left, she shook it again until it gave way and turned. The front door creaked open, and she rushed in and spun to close it before the snow could roll in and dampen the wooden plank floors. As always, she had to shove the door hard with her shoulder to be able to lock it back up. The quirks of old buildings took some getting used to, but she wouldn’t have it any other way.
Once inside and away from the cold, she breathed in the satisfying smell of her life’s work—and savings—as she leaned against the old door. A heady mix of handmade soy fig candles, soldering flux from her jewelry table, and a slightly earthy undertone of old stuff—because there was plenty of
that
cluttering the tables and refinished furniture. She’d opened Sweet Opal Studio only five months earlier despite her parents’ extreme protests, yet the little shop already looked like it had been there for years—just the way she loved it.
Before her grand opening, the building had spent some time vacant, but she remembered it being the office of John Coleman, Attorney at Law, and also the town’s mayor through most of her childhood. About eight months ago he’d passed of a heart attack. Shortly after, his widow had decided to put the storefront up for rent, and Brooke had gone straight to Beverly and begged to be the tenant. Beverly had happily agreed—probably because Brooke’s mother had spent plenty of time on the Addison County Junior League with her. For once, Brooke was happy to use her mother’s social connections in her favor.
The store was Brooke’s dream come true. Even in the dim light, just looking around it made her smile. The Christmas tree she’d put up this morning before she went to her parents for Thanksgiving lunch filled a good hunk of the retail space and held hundreds of beautiful vintage, handmade, and new ornaments she hoped would sell like mad. In addition to the crafting supplies, the store was a good mix of unique wholesale items and local independent art pieces sold on consignment alongside her own creations.
Brooke stepped over to the wall and tapped on the power strip, making the tree come to life with the soft sparkle of white lights. The decorations flickered, and she felt immense pride at how lovely the store looked all decked out for the holiday season. With a heavy sigh she removed her coat and scarf and tossed them on the counter, along with her shopping bag.
The day had been emotionally exhausting. As always, her parents had doted on her brother, asked if he was dating anyone “special,” which he wasn’t. Then they proceeded to remind him—gently of course—that they weren’t getting any younger and did in fact want grandchildren. After Ryan sheepishly assured them that he’d settle down someday (
sure!
), they turned their attentions toward Brooke. The difference was that her third degree always had a slightly more accusatory tone, as if a twenty-eight-year-old single woman must have something wrong with her, or was obviously going about things all wrong. Her mother had even asked how Chad, Brooke’s ex, was, causing Ryan to nearly explode, although no one noticed his silent anger but Brooke. Her parents didn’t really know the reason she’d broken off her nearly four-year relationship, and she planned to keep it that way. Along with the love-life drilling, they also gave her a hard time about the state of her business, which was not only infuriating but depressing.
Alone at last, she was grateful the official holiday festivities were over so she could get back to her real passion, her shop. Making things beautiful, helping others, and being self-sufficient meant more to Brooke than finding some nice-enough guy and settling down. Something her mother had trouble understanding. While Brooke had nothing against love in general, she knew that a man could potentially be the cause of so much pain. She wasn’t sure if she would ever be ready to try again.
Brooke kneeled down by some boxes she’d left beside the tree and began to sort through the various items inside. There were several odds and ends to finish up before she would open up tomorrow at ten. That was the time that she would start praying that customers would actually cross the closed road to visit her shop for Black Friday deals. If not, then for sure on Saturday, which was lovingly named Silver Saturday ten years ago by the local business owners of Preston. Knowing they couldn’t compete with the megastores on Friday, they started the tradition in an effort to draw folks to the scenic downtown area to Christmas shop. It had become an expected and necessary economic boost each year, since after the holidays tourist traffic dwindled until spring. Every year things got better and better, but unfortunately, Brooke required the holiday boost or Sweet Opal Studio wouldn’t make it until March.
Six weeks after she’d opened, a water main below the street that ran alongside her building had broken, and the town had decided that was as good a time as any for road repairs. That was three months ago, and Brooke was losing patience. It was killing her chances at making it, and failure was not an option because she’d die if her parents were proven right. She could only hope that her colorful new storefront made it obvious that she was in fact open for business and that they should cross the closed road to take a look.
Preston was a destination town, drawing girlfriend-group weekenders and day-tripping families to visit the surrounding fruit farms and small wineries—and, of course, their adorable little Main Street filled with unique shops. She knew the clientele was perfect for selling her jewelry designs to. But for Brooke, it was more than that. Preston was home, the perfect place to find success and happiness.
Stepping behind the counter, she pulled her soda from the yellow convenience-store bag. She unscrewed the cap and took a sip, sighing as the tart beverage crashed over her taste buds. Her love of grape soda ran deep, since childhood, and that first swallow was always the best. She let her eyes flutter closed, savoring the fizzy artificial flavoring. It was glorious.
Suddenly a muffled thud sounded above her head, and she froze, drink halfway to her mouth. Utterly still, Brooke waited to hear if it happened again, but as the seconds passed, she heard nothing but her own shallow breathing and the whine of the winter wind outside.
One Hundred Main was an old building, at least a hundred years. It had a radiator that ran with the grace of a freight train, floors that were squeakier than a mouse, and pipes that moaned and clanked. Sometimes Brooke swore the old building was alive, but this noise hadn’t sounded structural. It sounded like something heavy had fallen upstairs. Her cat Diva was up there, but surely she wasn’t
that
overweight, and Brooke couldn’t imagine her doing anything to make a sound that loud, she was too lazy. Maybe she’d knocked something over, but Brooke didn’t feel certain enough to go investigate.
From the corner of her eye, Brooke saw headlights go slowly down empty Main Street. The streetlamp caught a reflection of a police light on the top of the vehicle. Only one cop would bother crossing the roadwork to check on her end of the street.
Ryan
. Her brother was on the Preston police force, which made him not only perfect, but also a hero and a saint, according to her parents. The last part was debatable, but right now she needed him to be a hero.
She slowly pulled her phone from her back pocket with one eye on the closed curtain that led to the storage room at the back of the shop. She texted Ryan:
Please come to the shop. Scared.
She knew that would work like a charm, but realizing he might panic, she sent another one:
It’s not Chad.
Or at least she didn’t think it was. She hadn’t seen Chad in over eight months, since the last time he’d shown up in Preston begging her to come back—around Valentine’s Day. Brooke shivered, telling herself that Chad didn’t know where she lived now, that it couldn’t be him. But what if he’d been spying on her? She shouldn’t put anything past him; she knew better. Edging closer to the door, she said a silent prayer for Ryan to hurry.
Creak.
Brooke gasped and clutched the edge of the wooden counter. Somebody was definitely upstairs in the apartment; she’d heard that same creak many times as
she
walked across the floor. It was dark out, on Thanksgiving. She considered her options. Duck and hide behind the counter, then wait for Ryan to come busting in to save her? Or run screaming toward the front door so the murderer could catch her from behind? Brooke had always been fairly brave as a young person. She’d been a little shy, but she had made friends, had loved scary movies, and had had no reservations about speaking her mind. All of that had changed while she dated Chad.
Now she was insecure and jumpy about so many things, and she hated it. This was
her
shop,
her
chance at happiness, and here she was afraid. Hearing feet shuffling on the stairs, Brooke swallowed hard and tried to speak. No words came out. She pulled herself together, sweat beading on her hairline. The urge to run was overwhelming, yet she was bolted to the floor. She tried to speak again.
“Who’s there? I’ve already called the police!” Her panic was unmistakable.
“Shit. Why’d you do that?” a deep voice called out.
Her gut flung out from beneath her, knees buckling. It was definitely a man, and his voice was close, in the back room. Her head darted from side to side looking for a weapon. Her fingers found and gripped a ceramic owl, and she held it over her head, her heart hammering like a machine gun in her chest. All the things she’d learned in her self-defense classes began playing out in a jumbled mess in her brain.
“Stay, stay right where you are. The police will be here any second.”
