One

Of course, it was meant to be. Love was only a kiss away.

—Hailey Fairchild, What the Heart Seeks

Mistletoe is my kryptonite. kiss under it, and I go weak in the head. My last three mistletoe kisses resulted in relationship

disaster. Which is why I, Hailey Fairchild, am swearing off it.

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'm a

believer.

If you ask me, everyone should be. We need more love in the world. I need more love, but 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.

Consider this a public service announcement, a warning. Don't go under the mistletoe. It's hazardous to your heart. Here's

what it did to me.

Mistletoe Disaster Number

Gregory, as in Gregory Peck, a.k.a. Atticus Finch in the classic movie To Kill a Mockingbird . 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, this Gregory was tall and lean with dark hair and brown eyes, and he had an air of brooding mystery. Which was 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 dressed to

kill in body-hugging holiday dresses and heels high enough to give their arches cramps, and I thought, Don't even try. I wasn't dressed to kill. Dressed to maim , I thought, in my black silk pants and red top with a black silk jacket.

I'm not so bad to look at anymore. I've shed some poundage. Lost the zits. And hey, glasses are in style, and I have great

frames. I think they make me look smart and glam. But I knew I couldn't compete with those women. I mean, they were beautiful.

So I tried for aloofness, thinking it might make me look mysterious and unattainable.

I got my Christmas punch and strolled around the room, trying to pretend I belonged. And sort of nudged closer to Mr. Gorgeous

and his fans.

"I think it's so rad 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 never do, and half the ones who do

just write drek."

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

I had to know, so I abandoned my mysterious vibe and inserted myself into the conversation. "And what would you describe as

‘drek'?" I challenged.

He shrugged and looked down his elegant nose at me. "I suppose you want to be a writer?"

I lifted my chin just a little. "I already am."

"Oh, who's your publisher?" he asked, and the other women drifted away.

I couldn't help feeling a little superior since I'd outshone them. (Outshining never happened to me when I was younger.)

"Herald Publishing," I said, and his eyebrows went up in surprise.

"Really?" He motioned to the sofa. "Sit down. Let's talk."

And so we did. He seemed perfect. I gave him my phone number.

Before I left, well, there was the mistletoe, hanging in the doorway. He caught my arm and gave me a little tug. It was so

cute and romantic, I stepped right up and let him kiss me.

It was an impressive kiss, heady stuff for a girl whose first mistletoe kiss at the age of fourteen had about scarred her

for life. This man wanted to be under there with me. Oh yes!

Except... Gregory whispered something creepy after our kiss that tarnished it a bit. Ding, ding, ding! Went a little warning bell, but I was already lost in that heady mistletoe fog, so of course I ignored it and went out with

him.

time. By dessert I knew it wasn't going to work. I wanted sweetness and chivalry. I quickly caught on that Gregory wanted...

well, not that.

Mistletoe Disaster Number Two

That was Edmond, as in Edmond Dantès, the Count of Monte Cristo. Sigh. He worked in the art department at Herald Publishing,

and I'd met him when I visited and got a tour of the offices. Lo and behold, there he was at the publisher's Christmas cocktail

party, dressed in a gray suit and his dark hair flopped over one eye. Ready for a GQ shoot.

My first book, What the Heart Seeks , had done well, and I'd just turned in my second novel, What the Heart Needs . Back then I was beginning to believe everything I wrote; I was sure I was starting to figure out the ways of love. And Edmond, with his soft-spoken voice and sweet smile, fit the bill perfectly. I prefer strong alpha males in my books, but they can be problematic IRL, so it was points for Edmond that he didn't fall into that category. He also got points for being 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 would

want 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've got to respect that.

He did. And I respected him for appreciating what I do for a living... well, almost living. (I've finally been able to cut my barista hours down to half-time. Yay, me! Another few books, and maybe I can finally

write full-time and still afford to eat.)

Edmond lured me under the mistletoe with a shy suggestion that we should get into the spirit of the season.

It was such a sweet kiss, with the promise of happily-ever-after. Oh yes. It erased the memory of him mentioning how you don't

choose a career in publishing to get rich, followed by a 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 novels, men pull their

weight. I want the same thing in life. Edmond wasn't even going near his weight, 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. That's such a strong name, isn't it? I hear it and think of Michelangelo's famous statue. Sigh.

I met him last year, at yet another Christmas party. That had been a promising kiss and a promising relationship. Or so I'd thought. After I've turned in my work mess in progress—if I ever finish this mess in progress—my next book is going to be titled Blind Love . How's that for a great title? It 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, he said I was the most awesome woman there and, well, that's all it took for me to be put on the path to

disaster. And when he got me under the mistletoe, kryptonite hit again. All my brain cells shut down.

I plunged into the relationship, a love diver going headfirst into shallow water, sure we were headed for an engagement by

Christmas. I was ready. I was thirty-three and reaching the point where the snooze alarm on my biological clock refuses to

be silenced.

It turned out his clock had a much later setting, and I wasn't the only one he was watching rom-coms with. We broke up on

Halloween. How's that for scary?

So, there you have it. Now here I am, trying to finish this stupid book, What the Heart Knows , which, in my case, is nothing. Oh, and I'm dreading the holidays. I should have been coming home to Cascade, Washington,

the mountain town in—wait for it—the Cascades, with a ring on my finger and Save the Date announcements in my purse. 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 in my heart since ninth grade and haunted me like one of Scrooge's ghosts. It was terrifying, wonderful, and mortifying. It has kept me both entranced by and vulnerable to that stupid mistletoe ever since. And, to be honest, my heart still longs for the kind of ending I like to write, where the man who was my first love falls for me and becomes my forever love.

I'm not looking forward to coming home a love loser, even though I'll get to see my family and my old BFF Scarlet. There will

be baking binges with Mom and parties. And there is bound to be mistletoe. I must avoid it at all costs.

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

Carwyn is the stuff a girl's dreams are made of. He was a junior 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 older brother Sam shot hoops in his driveway,

he never saw me. He was three years older and too busy dating cheerleaders with perfect skin and flowing blond hair to notice

a pudgy freshman girl with glasses and boring brown hair. Heck, I didn't even notice myself.

THE KISS happened at the neighborhood Christmas party at the Davieses' 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 seen it. I'd simply hesitated, looking around the room, searching for Scarlet and wondering where

I could hide if she wasn't there to talk to. It was such a large gathering, and I felt conspicuous in the bulky red sweater

my mother had knitted for me. I looked like a big, round Christmas ornament with legs.

My dopey brother had teased me about standing there. "Looking for a lip-lock, Hailey?" he'd asked. Then, before I could reply,

he 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 zit to be seen anywhere on that perfect face of his. (I, on the other hand, had one blooming right on my chin.) 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.

I still get hot and bothered 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 he tasted

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 zits. 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 was sizzling so hot you could

have broiled a steak over it.

of the older women said, "Isn't that cute?"

No, it wasn't cute. It was mortifying.

"Hey, what's your hurry?" Carwyn teased as I bolted for the punch bowl.

I'd have liked nothing better than to crawl under the dining room table with its long, red tablecloth and stay there forever,

but you can only pull that off when you're five. So I tried to act cool and put out the fire burning my face with eggnog punch

and pretend that I didn't want to act like a five-year-old.

I kept my back to Carwyn and the party guests while the sizzle on my face died down. The sizzle on my lips subsided, too, and that was sad. Later that night, alone in my room, I put my fingers to my lips, trying to recapture that glorious sensational second. Kissed by Carwyn Davies—holiday magic!

I remained trapped in the throes of unrequited love clear through high school. To feed my sickness I read Jane Austen and

the Bront?s and every book Barbara Cartland and Georgette Heyer ever wrote. I devoured Debbie Macomber and Susan Wiggs and

Susan Elizabeth Phillips. 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 Scarlet and sighing longingly 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 bookworms were not in high demand. Except as a cliché in a novel.

I know about clichés. My first stories were full of them—beautiful, snobby cheerleaders (I know there are nice ones out there,

but I didn't know any, and I wasn't about to give a single one of my fictional cheerleaders a heart); handsome jocks who could

never see when the perfect girl was right under their nose; mean girls who got what was coming to them in the end. And girls

like me, who were always successful and beautiful by the end of the story. And wore contacts. Of course they got contacts.

Except I didn't. I've never been able to master sticking something in my eye. I tried. Heaven knows, I tried. Anyway, like

I said, glasses are in style now. And I'm in better shape these days, thanks to regular visits to that torture chamber known

as the gym. But here I am, still single.

It seems everyone else in Cascade is with someone now. Scarlet is engaged and living in LA. 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. "Gwendolyn Payne?"

Yes, I know Gwendolyn—snobby mean girl. I suddenly felt like someone whacked me in the face with a giant Christmas pickle.

If there's one person I don't want to see ever again, it's her. She was one of my nemeses when I was in high school. And Sam

has fallen for her? Seriously? 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. Revenge of the Nerd Girl. Career success, romance success—I'd have it all. I'm

happy I still have my career (so far), but coming back as a love loser really stinks. And frankly, right now so does writing

romance novels. Which doesn't bode well for my career.

Part of me wants to hide here on the East Coast, but I wiggled out of going home last Christmas, and that got me in scalding-hot

water. If I try it again, my parents will disown me, especially since they insisted on buying my ticket. Anyway, I do want

to see my family. I just don't want to run into any of the women who made me so miserable. I especially don't want to see

Gwendolyn. But there she'll be. And then there's Carwyn.

If I could just stay in the house, I'd be fine, but Mom has plans. She has plans upon plans.

Including 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.) I'm not wild about standing in front of a crowd and reading from my novels. I always find parts I could have written better, and it's sooo embarrassing to read those second-best sentences.

I'll have to smile and sign books and pretend I'm not a romance fraud who writes about love but can't get it right in real

life.

I shouldn't have committed to coming home so early and staying clear through New Year's. That's too much time—too many opportunities

for Christmas gremlins to get into my life and mess it all up even worse than it already is. I can only hope the Davies family

won't host their annual Christmas party. If they do, there's bound to be mistletoe. My kryptonite. Santa, help me!