A massive tree dominates one corner, dripping with ornaments, a showpiece in her usually minimalist, Scandinavian-style space. Garlands frame every doorway, and—oh no.
“Is that mistletoe?” I point accusingly at the sprig hanging from the entryway.
Nina reminds me of Cara Badaszek and Pierre Arsenault’s holiday happily ever after, which was the talk of the town last year. “I’m embracing themerry kiss meseason. Unlike some people.” My bestie gives me a not-so-subtle side-eye.
“I’m not anti-Christmas. I’m just romantically realistic.”
“Says the woman who writes love stories for a living.”
“Writing about love is different from believing in it.”
The truth is, I write about love because I want it to exist, to be real. I’m just afraid that it’ll never happen for me.
Nina studies me over her cocoa. “You know what would help your book proposal? Actual experience. When was the last time you were kissed, Bree?”
My cheeks instantly burn. “I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
“That long, huh?” Nina’s gaze lights up with that look I’ve known since third grade—the one that precedes terrible ideas.
“Whatever it is, no,” I say.
She rubs her hands together like she’s brewed up a diabolical plan. “I have a proposition. A bet, actually … a dare,” she adds, doubling down.
“No,” I repeat reflexively.
She mock pouts. “You haven’t even heard it!”
“The last time you had that look, we ended up with matching tattoos.”
“And the little stars on my hip and the mini book on yours are adorable.”
I roll my eyes at the ill-conceived idea that getting tattoos would make our dreams come true—Nina to be an astronaut (yes, really) and me to be a writer. She runs the bakery andseems happy enough. I reached my goal and am slightly miserable. I blame that on a stupid, stubborn case of writer’s block.
She sing-songs, “You need a muse.”
“I definitely don’t.”
She claps her hands together. “Here’s the deal. The next person who knocks on that door, you have to kiss under the mistletoe.”
I snort. “Absolutely not.”
She leans forward. “What happened to the Bree who never backed down from a challenge? Besides, it might help with that mail-order bride story you’re stuck on. Think of it as research!”
“That’s ridiculous. No one’s even going to?—”
The doorbell rings.
Nina’s eyebrows shoot up as we both freeze.
“No,” I whisper.
“Yes,” she whispers back, a grin spreading across her face.
Eyes bulging with panic, I shake my head.
“How about we sweeten the pot? I just got a Christmas bonus from my online orders and it’ll be enough to cover what you spent on those new tires, so you can still buy Christmas gifts.”
“You’re your own boss.”
