“God, Evie,” I tell her, running my hands through her hair, wanting her closer, wanting her forever. “Let’s do this life together. In whatever crazy way we want.”

  Her arms wrap around my neck, planting kisses on my face. I pull her into a hug, not knowing how I got so goddamn lucky.

  “Marry me, baby. Make this the merriest Christmas.”

  “Really?” She shakes her head, laughing between tears.

  “Marry me,” I tell her again. This time more firmly, this time with conviction. Meaning the words with every ounce of myself.

  “Yes. Yes, Everett, of course, I’ll marry you.”

  I kiss her again, this time knowing I’ll never let go.

  This time I kiss her, knowing I am hers and she is mine.

  Epilogue

  One year later …

  A year ago I was a girl lost in the woods, lost in life. But then, the magic of Mistletoe Mountain took over and my life changed.

  The front door opens, my man steps inside the cabin. Snowflakes are on his shoulders. He stomps his feet and pulls off his coat before hanging it up, and walks across the room towards me.

  He leans down, kissing me on my lips, and then coming down further and kissing the crown of our little girl’s head.

  “She looks so sweet when she nurses,” Everett tells me. Lorelei’s eyes are closed and milk drool escapes her mouth.

  “She’ll sleep for a few hours, I bet,” I say, tucking my breast back into my bra, and bringing Lorelei to my shoulder. “Now, show me the tree. You didn't go for very long.”

  “I wanted to get back to my girls.”

  Everett goes to the door and begins dragging in our Christmas tree. I carry Lorelei to her bassinet and swaddle her tightly.

  Everett’s once minimalist cabin has been overrun in the past year. First, it was all my stuff, then we found out we were expecting and Lorelei’s pink gear arrived.

  But Everett swears he doesn’t’ mind. He says life together is better than life alone.

  Everett props up the tree and asks what I think.

  “It’s perfect.” It’s a Charlie Brown tree for sure, but with enough branches that we can string at least several hundred lights on it. “Thank you.”

  “Of course. Anything for my wife and daughter.”

  A week after Everett proposed the two of us eloped. Of course, my sister and my friends thought we were crazy.

  But this life wasn’t theirs. This life is ours. And we were ready to start it.

  Everett tells me he’s going to put the tree in the stand, and I turn toward the record player. As I put on the Bing Crosby album we listened to a year ago, warmth spreads through my belly.

  And I know the time is right.

  “Remember last year, Everett, when we were put on the naughty list?”

  It’s been two months since Lorelei was born and longer than that since Everett and I have properly been together.

  It’s time.

  “Oh, I remember.” He blushes when he says it, and I know I am going to make him a very happy man tonight.

  “Well,” I tell him, coyly. “You haven’t been naughty this year, Everett. You’ve been anything but. You’ve been the best man, the best husband, the best father.” I sidle up to him, wrapping my arms around his waist.

  “So I’m not on the naughty list? That’s what you’re telling me?” he asks.

  “Nope. You are on the nice list. Which means you get a special treat.”

  “And what do you get when you’re on the nice list?”

  I take his hand and press it to my full breasts. And I press my hands to his growing cock, the cock that is already twitching, ready for me.

  I smile, whispering, “You get milk and cookies.” I take his hand and drag him to the bedroom. I face my mountain man, letting my shirt fall to the floor. “Well, we might just get back on the naughty list after all.”

  About

  When I arrive in Linesworth with my daughter to celebrate the holidays, I’m not looking for love.

  I already have more than enough.

  The last thing I expect to find at the bakery is the cutest Christmas cookie I’ve ever seen.

  Noelle is kind and generous —the sort of woman men move snow-capped mountains for.

  One taste of Noelle’s frosting and she’s all I crave.

  But she has other things on her mind—and finding her own happily ever after seems like someone else’s Christmas wish.

  I didn’t come to Linesworth to find a bride, but I’m not leaving this mountain until I make Noelle my wife.

  Dear Reader,

  This Christmas romance is nice and sweet, but once you read this you’ll be on Santa’s naughty list. You can thank me later. *wink, wink.

  Xo, Frankie

  Brooks

  This sugary town is over-the-top. I’ve visited once before, when my parents moved to Linesworth, helping them settle in - but that was in the summer. Now, it’s a few weeks before Christmas and everything about this place makes my cold-heart melt.

  Well, the fact that my four-year-old daughter, Scout, thinks we set foot in a snow globe is the catalyst for the temporary, literal, change of heart. How can I not smile when she sits on Santa’s lap and asks for a pony?

  I may be a jaded mountain man but I’m a father first. Wasn't the life I expected, but hell, it’s sweeter than the candy cane my little girl is licking right now.

  “Papa, can we get hot cocoa? Please?”

  Maybe it’s the golden ringlets bouncing on her shoulders. Maybe it’s her rosy cheeks. Maybe it’s the fact that she has me wrapped around her little finger. I don’t say no because I don’t want to say no.

  I want Scout to be happy. More than happy — I want her to know that miracles can come true.

  God knows she is mine.

  I run a hand over my beard, wondering just when I became such a sap, but before I can get any more sentimental, she has her tiny hand placed in mine and we’re walking down Main Street toward The Three Sisters Bakery.

  “Granny said this was the best place ever. She got her cimmon rolls here.”

  “Cinnamon,” I say gently as we walk into the shop. It’s as Bavarian-themed as the rest of the town — only on overload. Gingerbread houses are perfectly iced and are on practically every surface, Christmas carols ring through the rafters, and red and green-aproned employees smile brightly as they place frosted gingerbread men and powdered sugar concoctions in boxes for customers.

  In line, I’m so distracted by the jingling bells at the doorway, the long line of anxious shoppers, the rows and rows of sugary delights — that it takes me a moment to realize a woman is asking about my order.

  I do a double take, remembering where I am and with whom. If I were at a bar, I wouldn’t be able to resist asking her out. Buying her a drink. Running my hand over the curve of her waist and cupping her heart-shaped face with my hand. Pulling her in for—

  “Papa, can I have a cookie?”

  I look down at Scout, remembering where I am. At a bakery with my little girl.

  “So, what will it be?” the woman asks again, her voice so sweet — sugary, but not fake. And she looks more delicious than a Christmas cookie. Waiting for my answer, she’s frosted to perfection. Glossy red lips. Dark hair. A Santa’s hat on her head. A candy-striped apron over her hourglass figure.

  “These ones here are my special ones. I decorated them all myself. I have a thing for sugar cookies. You have to when you live on Sugar Mountain.”

  I cough into my hand, collecting myself. There is a time and place for everything and damn, I know what place I’d like to be with her.

  “We’ll take two hot chocolates and two sugar cookies,” I say to Scout’s delight. She is clapping her hands and saying thank you. Adorable and polite. I somehow won the single-father lottery.

  “Which ones?” the woman asks. “We have lots of choices.”

  You. I think it, but don’t say it. Instead, I ask Scout which ones she likes best.

  “I want the snowflake and…” she looks up at me. “Which one do you want, Papa?”

  “The snow-capped mountain,” I say.

  The woman behind the counter beams. “That design was my idea. I mean, we are here at the base of a beautiful mountain range, so it seemed right.”

  I nod. “It does feel like Christmas.”

  She hands my daughter a bag with the cookies, then holds a paper cup and a marker. “What’s your name, sweetie?”

  “Scout.”

  The woman’s eyes widen, and she looks up at me. “Like in To Kill a Mockingbird?”

  I shrug. “It’s my favorite.”

  She smiles softly, writing Scout’s name. “Mine too. Growing up, our family dog was named Atticus.”

  If that isn’t going to give me a hard-on, I don’t know what is.

  She’s cuter than any Santa’s helper I’ve ever seen, appreciates the mountains, and likes to read.

  God, I wish I were at a place in life to take this woman out for more than a sleigh ride.

  “And your name?” she asks me.

  “Brooks.” Running a hand over my beard I realize there is some legit Christmas magic in this mountain town. I haven’t felt inclined to ask a woman out in years. None set a spark in me, and it would take that in order for my focus to be on anything but Scout. “And uh, what’s your name?”

  “Noelle.” She scrunches up her nose. “Christmas is my mom’s favorite holiday.”

  Just then a woman with a clipboard swings into the bakery from a backroom. “Oh, good, Noelle. I need your help.”

  “What is it, Greta?”

  “I have to get the kids from school and Ansel isn’t home. Anyways, can you go in the back and finish the gingerbread?”

  “Of course,” Noelle says, handing off the paper cups to a barista.

  “I know you have the wedding venue to deal with, so I won’t be too long.”

  “No worries, I don’t need to meet with the park director at the reception lodge until later this afternoon.”

  I swallow. Planning her wedding? Of course. All the good ones are always taken. Of course, that would be my luck.

  Noelle turns to me before she leaves, “Nice to meet you, Scout and Brooks. But it looks like duty is calling. Merry Christmas.”

  “Merry Christmas,” Scout says with a wave as Noelle moves to the backroom. It looks like my little girl was equally enthralled.

  We leave the bakery a little later after finishing our hot cocoa and treats. It may sound lame, but I kept hoping Noelle would come back into the shop, that I would get another look at her adorable face.

  It’s been a long time since I felt so goddamn good — in part because Linesworth seems to have caught me in its Christmas spell — but also because Noelle made me feel like a man in my own right — not just a father. Not that it matters. She has her wedding to plan and it sure as hell isn’t ours.

  When we get to my parents’ place, I help Scout out of her snow boots and parka and follow her into the cozy home my parents have retired in. It’s a small two-bedroom place, but I’m their only child, Scout their only grandchild, and so it fits us just fine for the few weeks of the year we spend here visiting.

  “Papa bought me hot cocoa,” Scout announces as we enter the living room. There is a glowing fire in the fireplace, and the Christmas stockings hung on the mantel — but I immediately know something is wrong.

  “What happened?” I ask, setting down my coat and gloves and moving toward my father. His foot is propped on a pillow. And he is wearing a cast.

  When we left two hours ago, there wasn’t a thing wrong with him.

  Mom is busting in from the kitchen, a cup of coffee in Dad’s favorite mug. “Oh, Brooks, you just wouldn’t believe it,” she says with a sigh. “One second he was in the driveway about to go to his job site, the next, he was on the pavement hollering about a broken foot.”

  “Oh, man,” I say, sitting down on the couch as Mom hands Dad the coffee. “I’m so sorry. You should have called. We could have come to help.”

  “Oh, there was nothing to do about that, Henderson next door heard your father wailing and helped him into his truck before I could even think to call.”

  “Oh, Granddad!” Scout presses her hand to her mouth in shock. “I’m so sorry. Now you can’t go sledding with me.”

  “It’s okay,” I tell her, not wanting my daughter to make it about herself right now. “I’ll go with you, of course.”

  “I just feel terrible about the wedding arbor. Was on my way over to the site right now to build it.”

  “I’m sure they understand,” I say. “It’s just a wedding.”

  Mom rolls her eyes. “If you are that obtuse when it comes to women, then you’ll never get married.”

  “That’s the plan,” I joke. “I don’t need a wife, I already have all the family I could ever need.”

  Scout smiles up at me, crawling into my lap and she pats my beard. “But a mommy would be nice. She could make me cookies. Like the lady at the bakery.”

  I swallow hard, not liking the idea of my daughter feeling like she was missing something in her life.

  Mom must sense the shift in the air. She changes the topic, turning to my father. “So, Dean, ask Brooks.”

  “Ask me what?”

  “I was wondering if you might be able to do the arbor for me? The wedding is next week and it’s a whole to-do. The entire town is invited, and I don’t want to let the bridezilla down.”

  I frown. Is this Noelle’s wedding? I cough uncomfortably, not wanting to ask anything that might draw attention to the fact that I have a hard-on for a practically married woman. “She’s a bridezilla?” I can’t quite picture that cute as pie woman getting crazed over nuptials.

  “Oh, not the bride,” Mom corrects. “It’s her best friend that’s a little intense.”

  “I see. In that case, of course, I can build it. Just show me what they want.”

  “Oh, it’s pretty specific,” Dad jokes, reaching for a stack of papers on the side table. “This woman has her friend’s wedding planned to a T.”

  I take the plans from my father and settle into the easy chair. Knowing Noelle’s off-limits can keep my focus on where it belongs. My daughter.

  Not on the woman at the bakery who looks like she would know exactly how to frost my cookies.

  No.

  I don’t need any extra sugar in my life.

  As I look at the plans for the arbor though, I can’t help but feel more than a little jealous of the man who is going to be marrying her in a few weeks’ time.

  Noelle

  “This is all wrong,” I tell Martin, the city parks director. “The parking lot needs to be reserved entirely for the wedding.”

  “You can’t reserve every single parking spot on a mountain, Noelle,” he says, cocking an eye at me like I’m missing something.

  “Then where will the guests park?”

  “Not sure, but it’s not my problem. You’re the one who wanted an outside wedding on a snow-covered mountain at Christmas.”

  “Just the ceremony,” I say, irritated. “The reception will be down at the lodge.”

  “You’ll have the parking issue here, no matter how you dice it. It would be easier if the entire thing was just down the mountain at the lodge. That’s what everyone else does.”

  “I’m not everyone else,” I say indignantly.

  “You mean Sophia isn’t everyone else?” he corrects with a smirk.

  “Right,” I stammer. “Sophia isn’t everyone else.” Flustered, I exhale. I keep trying to tell myself this isn’t my wedding — because it isn’t. I’m just the maid of honor. But my BFF is MIA and I’m the one running the show.

  And it’s sort of turned into my show, not hers.

  Martin runs a hand over his graying hair. “How many guests did you say were coming?”

  Cringing I answer, “Three hundred have RSVP’d.”

  Martin chuckles. “Sweetheart, you’re gonna need a plan B when it comes to getting those guests up here in the snow in twenty-degree weather.”

  I know what he’s saying — it is ambitious. But it would be so beautiful. The place we are standing is the most beautiful location in all of Linesworth. The most romantic too. The vista from here is breathtaking. The photographs would be wedding magazine worthy.

  “I’ll figure it out,” I tell Martin. “Thanks for meeting me here to look everything over.”

  “Of course, Noelle. I’ll do what I can for you. But you know, if you weren’t everyone’s favorite, I don’t think so many people would be showing up for the big day. Sophia hasn’t lived in Linesworth since she graduated high school. People are only coming for the wedding to support you.”

  I swallow. “Sophia is more of a town sweetheart than I could ever be. And her family has always been so good to me, I want this day to feel special for her.”

  Martin squeezes my shoulder. “You’ve always been special, Noelle. Maybe one day you’ll find your someone special too.”

  “Maybe,” I say, doubting it. I made a list of my ideal man when I was twelve years old and the list just gets longer the older I become. Now, at twenty-six I’m pretty sure there will never be a man who makes my list, no matter how naughty or nice they are. My list is more curated than Santa’s.

  “Do you know who that is?” Martin asks as we walk back to our cars in the currently empty parking lot.

  I recognize it as the contractor’s truck. He was supposed to be here hours ago though, and to say I'm irritated at his lack of punctuality, is an understatement. He seemed like such a nice old man too, not a flake who arrives three hours late. I expected the arbor to be half done by the time I got off my shift at Three Sisters.

  I tell Martin goodbye, then turn my attention to this lazy carpenter. But when the man walks around his truck and comes into view, I realize it isn’t Dean Nicholas at all.