📖First Chapter: Mistletoe Season by Sheila Roberts, Kathleen Fuller and Pepper Basham #FirstChapter

Title: Mistletoe Season
Author: Sheila Roberts, Kathleen Fuller and Pepper Basham
Publisher: Thomas Nelson
Publication Date: October 8, 2024
Pages: 320
Genre: Romance/Women’s Fiction/Holiday Romance

This Christmas, three couples find themselves under the mistletoe . . . whether they want to be there or not.

Say No to Mistletoe by Sheila Roberts—Mistletoe is Hailey Fairchild’s kryptonite. Every time she’s kissed someone under the mistletoe it’s led to love disaster. Not a good thing for a romance writer! When she was a gawky high school girl, her hunky neighbor, Carwyn Davies, star of the basketball team (and her dreams) kissed her under the mistletoe on a dare. But the kiss wasn’t a dream come true. It was a mortifying moment she’s never forgotten, and now she’s about to go home for the holidays, unengaged and . . . determined to say no to mistletoe. Especially if Carwyn is anywhere around.

Return to Mistletoe by Kathleen Fuller—Emmy Banks has always loved Christmas. How could she not when she lives in Mistletoe, Missouri? Kieran O’Neill has spent years abroad, renovating an old Irish castle, but returns to Mistletoe for his mother’s seventieth birthday. He reconnects with Emmy, his sister’s close friend, and spends time with her in her charming antique shop. When the weather turns colder, things start to warm up between Emmy and Kieran. But can Emmy risk her heart when she knows he’ll never stay in Mistletoe, and she will never leave?

The Mistletoe Prince by Pepper Basham—Prince Arran St. Clare has lost his freedom and fairytale life in exchange for a three-month “punishment” in the small town of Ransom, North Carolina. To prove he is ready for the royal life for which he was born, Arran must engage in the Christmas charity fundraiser, The Mistletoe Wish. But when kindness, authenticity, and hard work prove more appreciated in Appalachia than a royal pedigree, Arran must face the mirror and find out who he is beyond the crown. Add a beautiful and intelligent woman who doesn’t recognize her own worth, some mistletoe, and a little Christmas magic and it all might be enough to help the rebel-prince understand what truly matters most.

Mistletoe Season is available at Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

 First Chapter:

Mistletoe is my Kryptonite. One kiss under it and I go weak in the head. The last three mistletoe kisses I had resulted in relationship disaster. Which is why I, Hailey Fairchild, am swearing off it. I mean enough is enough. I’m not a love masochist after all. At least not any more.

You’d think after three love fails I’d hate Cupid. I don’t. I’m one of his loyal acolytes. I write romance novels. I am a believer.

If you ask me, everyone should be. We need more love in the world. Heck, I need more love, and so far I’m only finding it on the pages of my computer screen. 

On the screen is better than nothing. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

What? I’m digressing? You want me to get on with it and spill the tea on my love disasters? Well, all right, I will. Consider it a public service announcement, a warning. Don’t go under the mistletoe. It’s hazardous to your heart. 

Mistletoe Disaster Number One:

Gregory, as in Gregory Peck, aka Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mocking Bird. In case you don’t know who Gregory Peck was, he was one of those actors in the golden days of Hollywood. Tall and dark and noble looking. My grandma made me watch the movie with her when I was a kid and I was hypnotized by his deep voice. 

Like the movie star, Gregory Black was tall and lean with dark hair and brown eyes, and he had an air of brooding mystery. Appropriate, since he wrote mysteries. 

I met him at a party thrown by a friend of a friend. I spotted him across the room, surrounded by drooling women all dressed to kill in holiday outfits showing cleavage and boots and heels high enough to give their arches cramps and thought, Don’t even try. I wasn’t dressed to kill. Dressed to maim, though, I thought, in my black silk pants and red top with the black silk jacket. I’m not so bad to look at anymore. I’ve shed some poundage. Lost the zitts. And, hey, glasses are in style and I have great frames. But I knew I couldn’t compete with those women. So, I tried for aloofness. You know, make him think he wants you because you don’t want him. 

I grabbed my Christmas Cosmo with gin and cranberry juice and kind of strolled around the room, trying to pretend like I belonged. And sort of nudged closer to Mr. Gorgeous and the groupies.

“I think it’s so cool that you’re a writer,” one gushed.

A writer! I was a writer. I’d just sold my first romance novel to Heartfelt, my publisher’s romance line.

“It’s not easy,” Gregory said. “Everyone thinks they can write a book but most people just write drek.”

Hmm. A bit of snob. What did he think of romance writers? 

I had to know, so I inserted myself into the conversation. “And what would you describe as drek?”

He shrugged. “Self-published.”

Yep, a snob. “A lot of writers self-publish because they want to write outside the box,” I pointed out.

He looked down his elegant nose at me. “Oh, are you one of them?” 

Hey, I’m all for following your dream and writing outside the box, but to be published with a publisher had always been a dream of mine and I was proud that I’d been able to make it come true. “I’m traditionally published,” I said and lifted my chin just a little to show that I, too, could be a literary snob.

“Oh, who’s your publisher?”

“Herald Publishing,” I said and his eyebrows went up in surprise. “Really?”

“My first book comes out this spring,” I said, then felt the need to add, “but I’ve been working my craft for several years.”

“Dedication is the key,” he said approvingly.

 “What do you write?” I asked.

“Mysteries.”

“Ah, genre.” A kindred soul.

“Mysteries are not easy to write,” he informed me.

“I can imagine,” I said. “It’s like putting together a mental puzzle.”

The other women were tiring of this conversation and began to drift away. He didn’t notice.

“You are interesting,” he informed me. He motioned to the sofa. “Sit down. Let’s talk.” 

And so we did. And it all seemed perfect. But I should have gotten a clue when, after hearing that I write romance novels, he started talking about Fifty Shades of Grey and how interesting he’d found both the books and the movies. I’m more a fifty shades of white kind of girl.

Still, I gave him my phone number, and before I left he kissed me under the mistletoe. Heady stuff for a girl whose first mistletoe kiss had about scarred her for life. This man wanted to be under there with me. Oh, yes! 

Except… he whispered something a little on the creepy side right after that kiss. A little warning bell went off, but I was still lost in that heady mistletoe fog, so, of course, I ignored it and went out with him. 

One time. By dessert I knew that this was not going to work. I wanted sweetness and chivalry. I quickly caught on that Gregory wanted … well, not that.

Mistletoe Disaster Number Two:

Edmond came the next year. Edmond, as in Edmond Dantes, the Count of Monte Cristo. Sigh. He was a junior editor at Herald Publishing and I’d met him when I visited and gotten a tour of the offices. Lo and behold, there he was at the publisher’s Christmas cocktail party, his dark hair flopped over one eye and dressed all metrosexual. I should look so good in a pair of pants! 

My first book, What the Heart Seeks, had done well and I’d turned in my second novel, What the Heart Needs. I was beginning to believe everything I wrote by then, sure that I was starting to figure out the ways of love, and Edmond, with his soft spoken voice and sweet smile just fit the bill. I prefer strong Alpha males in my books, but they can be problematic IRL, so it was points for Edmond. And points for being so interested in my budding career. 

At the time I thought that was hardly surprising. We were both in the business, after all. It was only natural that he wanted to talk about how I was doing. I was happy to brag that I was doing fine and expected to keep on doing fine. The romance genre captures nearly a third of the book market and generates over a billion dollars a year. You gotta respect that. He did. And I respected him for appreciating what I do for a living… well, almost living now. (I have finally been able to cut my barista hours down to half-time. Yay me! Another few books and maybe I’ll be able to finally write full time and still be able to afford to eat.)

Edmond lured me under the mistletoe with a shy suggestion that we should get into the spirit of the season. I’d already indulged in some seasonal spirits so under I went.

It was such a sweet kiss with the promise of happily-ever-after. Oh, yes. It erased the memory of him talking about how you don’t choose a career in publishing to get rich, followed by that little quip about finding the next Nora Roberts and marrying her. Set for life that way. Ha, ha. I thought it was a joke.

It wasn’t. Edmond was a mooch. It’s not cheap living in New York, even when you have roommates and heaven knows my roommate Ramona and I did our share of scrimping, so I understood Edmond’s need to pinch pennies. But in my books men pull their weight. Edmond wasn’t even going near his, let alone pulling it. I wasted a lot of money on that man. Thank you mistletoe for blinding me to what should have been obvious.

Mistletoe Disaster Number Three:

David. Last year, yet another Christmas party. That had been a promising kiss and a promising relationship. Or so I’d thought. The title of the novel I’m finishing up right now is called Blind Love. The title was inspired by David. 

That mistletoe mania night he’d been flirting with women like he was auditioning to play Casanova in a movie, but when he got around to me and got me under the mistletoe, Kryptonite hit again and all my brain cells shut down. 

I plunged into the relationship, a love diver going head first into shallow water, sure we were headed for an engagement. He wasn’t sure … and we weren’t.

We broke up on Halloween. 

So, there you have it. And now, here I am, trying to finish this stupid book and dreading the holidays. I should have been coming home to Pine River, Washington with a ring on my finger and save the date announcements. Instead, I’ll be arriving with a bare finger and a chewed up heart, all thanks to that love piranha. The dirty, rotten, cheating … never mind. I’m not going to think about it.

Or the mistletoe incident that started this sick cycle I’ve been trapped in – the one kiss that’s lived on in my heart since middle school and haunted me like one of Scrooge’s ghosts. It was terrifying, wonderful, and mortifying. And it scarred me for life. And kept me both scared and entranced by that stupid mistletoe ever since. 

Now, coming home feels like returning to the scene of a love crime. Ugh. There will be parties. There will be … mistletoe. I must avoid it at all costs. 

And I must avoid Carwyn Davies, the great unrequited love of my young life.

Ah Carwyn, the stuff a girls’ dreams are made of. He was a sophomore in high school when he gave me my first ever mistletoe kiss, already playing on the varsity basketball team. He looked like a Viking, with that golden hair and those intense eyes that were blue. No green. No, both. 

Of course, even though we lived right next to each other, even though he and my brother shot hoops together in his driveway, he never saw me. He was too busy dating willowy cheerleaders with perfect skin and flowing blond hair to notice a pudgy girl with glasses and boring brown hair. Heck, I didn’t even notice myself.

THE KISS happened at the neighborhood Christmas party at the Davies’ house. Mrs. Davies had hung mistletoe right there in the living room archway. I’d paused under it, not because I wanted to be kissed – I was way too shy to go looking for something so public. I hadn’t even noticed it. I’d simply hesitated, looking around the room, searching for my bff Scarlet and wondering where I could hide if Scarlet wasn’t there to talk to. It was such a big crowd and I felt fat and conspicuous in the bulky red sweater my mother had knitted for me. I looked like a big, round Christmas ornament with legs.

My dopey older brother Sam had teased me about standing there. “Looking for a lip lock, Hailey?” he’d said. Then summoned Carwyn. “Hey Car, come give Hailey a zap.”

My heart went into overdrive and the blood rushed to my head, setting my whole face on fire. I tried to back away but there was Sam right behind me and there came Carwyn. Gorgeous, smiling Carwyn. No glasses, not a zitt to be seen anywhere on that perfect face of his. He strolled up to me and with a chuckle pulled me up against him like we were going to start dirty dancing right there in his living room in front of his family and all our neighbors and God and all the angels on holiday patrol. 

Oh, man, I still get all hot and bothered just thinking about it. He had the kind of hard body like those heroes in the romance novels I devoured. He touched my lips with his perfect masterful ones and my world tilted. I could smell his spicy aftershave and his breath smelled like peppermint.

My breath smelled like garlic and onions thanks to the chips and dip I’d gotten into before we came to the party. 

Of course, he wasn’t into it. I knew that. Who would be into kissing an onion infested Christmas ornament? With zitts. It was a joke and it was all so humiliating. 

I pulled away as fast as I could, pushing my glasses up my suddenly sweaty nose, my whole face flaming, and he teased “Hey, what’s your hurry?”

I said nothing, just bolted for the punch bowl where I tried to put out the fire burning my face and other body parts. I kept my back to him, trying to act cool, like I didn’t care, but when I thought no one was looking I put my fingers to my lips, trying to recapture that glorious sensational second. Kissed by Carwyn Davies – holiday magic!

Of course, I remained trapped in the cesspool of unrequited love clear through high school. And to feed my sickness I read Jane Austen and the Brontë’s and every book Barbara Cartland and Georgette Heyer ever wrote. I read Debbie Macomber and Susan Wiggs and Susan Elisabeth Phillips, Susan Mallory and Nora Roberts. And sighed at the end of each book, envisioning myself and Carwyn as the hero and heroine of those stories. I went to every basketball game he played in, sitting in the bleachers with my friend Scarlet and sighing lustfully as I watched him in action, all muscled and gorgeous. I dreamed about him at night but hid in my room whenever he came over to game with Sam. I couldn’t think of another guy, let alone date one.

Not that boys were banging on the door. Shy, pudgy bookworms were not in high demand. Except as a cliché in a novel.

I know about cliches. My first stories were full of them – beautiful, snobby cheerleaders (I wasn’t about to give a single one a heart), handsome jocks who could never see when the perfect girl was right under their nose, mean girls, who always got what was coming to them in the end. And girls like me, who always got thin and beautiful by the end of the story. And got contacts. Of course they got contacts. 

Except not me. I’ve never been able to bring myself to embrace the idea of sticking something in my eye. Anyway, like I said, glasses are style now. As for the pudgy part – yep, most of that is gone thanks to regular visits to that torture chamber known as the gym. I hate that stupid elliptical machine. And the rowing machine. Rowing, rowing, going nowhere. Rather like my love life.

Scarlet is engaged now and living in L.A. Her younger sister Billie, who never left town, is married and working on baby number two and Mom tells me that even Sam has found a serious girlfriend. 

I just learned this yesterday when we were talking on the phone. “Maybe you know her,” Mom said. “Bristol Banning?”

Yes, I know Bristol Bitch Banning, snobby mean girl. One of my nemeses when I was in high school. Seriously? Sam has fallen for her? Ugh. Did she hypnotize him?

Of course, she’ll be on the scene, all smooth and slick. And there I’ll be all … alone.

Earlier in the year, when I thought I’d finally found true love, I’d been looking forward to coming home for Christmas with bling on my finger and a perfect man in tow. Career success, romance success – I’d have it all. Now I’m dreading going home. Coming back as a love loser really stinks. 

But my parents are paying for my plane ticket and I can’t disappoint them. I wiggled out of coming home last Christmas and that got me in scalding hot water. If I try it again my parents will disown me. Anyway, I do want to see my family. 

That would be enough for me, but Mom has plans. And plans up on plans. 

Starting with an appearance at the local bookstore. Mom is my number one fan and has bought copies of my books and passed them out to all her friends. In honor of my return she’s talked Eloise Matthews, the owner of Mountain Books, into having me in for a book signing party. (That probably wasn’t hard to do. After all, Mom’s bought so many of my books there that I think she’s single-handedly kept Mountain Books in business. Eloise owes her big time.) And, while I’m not wild about standing in front of a crowd and reading from my books – I always find parts I could have written better and it’s sooo embarrassing – I do like the idea of coming back looking like a success. At least as a writer. 

Still, I have a bad feeling about this upcoming holiday homecoming because I’m going to be more like a … trophy. Look at our successful girl.

Yeah, the romance fraud who writes about love but is a total love loser. I shouldn’t have committed to coming home so early and staying clear through New Year’s. That’s too much time – too much opportunity for Christmas gremlins to get into my life and muck it all up. I can only hope the Davies won’t host their annual Christmas party. If they do there’s bound to be mistletoe. My Kryptonite. I must avoid it at all costs.

About the Authors:

Sheila Roberts has written over fifty books under different names and in different genres. She’s seen three of her novels made into movies for the Lifetime, Hallmark and Great American Family channels and has over 3 million copies of her books in print. The story in this anthology makes her eighteenth Christmas story.

Website ➜ https://sheilasplace.com

Facebook ➜ https://www.facebook.com/funwithsheila/

Instagram ➜ https://www.instagram.com/sheilarobertswriter/

With over two million books sold, USA Today best-selling author Kathleen Fuller writes amusing stories with quirky characters and happy endings. Her novel, Written in Love, won the 2018 Romantic Times Inspirational Romance of the Year. Many of her books have also hit the CBA and ECPA best-seller lists. A retired Special Education teacher, she and her husband James live in Arkansas and are the parents of four adult children. When she’s not writing you can find her reading and crocheting—usually at the same time. She also enjoys traveling, football, and collecting recipes she’ll never use. 

Website ➜ https://kathleenfuller.com 

Facebook ➜ https://www.facebook.com/WriterKathleenFuller/ 

Instagram ➜  https://www.instagram.com/kf_booksandhooks/ 

Pepper Basham is an award-winning author who writes romance “peppered” with grace and humor. Writing both historical and contemporary novels, she loves to incorporate her native Appalachian culture and/or her unabashed adoration of the UK into her stories. She currently resides in the lovely mountains of Asheville, NC where she is a wife, mom to five great kids, a speech-language pathologist, and a lover of chocolate, jazz, hats, and Jesus. Her dual timeline novel, Hope Between the Pages, was a 2022 finalist for the prestigious Christy awards. Pepper’s newest book, Loyally, Luke, made it on the ECPA bestseller list for May. She loves connecting with readers and other authors through social media outlets like Facebook & Instagram.

Website ➜ https://pepperdbasham.com 

Facebook ➜ https://www.facebook.com/pepperdbasham/

Instagram ➜  https://www.instagram.com/pepperbasham/

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