Mistletoe in Minnesota

Sample from “Mistletoe in Minnesota” by Jess Allyn in Christmas is for Bad Girls from Elm Books: http://elm-books.com

“Keep the change.  Thanks.”

“Thank you, miss.  Have a good Christmas!”

Emily flashed a smile and nodded as she took her luggage from the cab driver.  As he drove away, she stood in the snow and stared at the large house in front of her, tears welling up to sting her eyes in the crisp, frigid air.  Aunt Marjorie, I wish you were still here.

Sniffling and wrapping her scarf tighter around her throat, she set her shoulders and stepped forward, digging the unfamiliar keys out of her purse even as she dragged her suitcase along the long driveway to the front porch. 

At the front door, she paused, turning to survey her surroundings.  To one side of the house, the grounds extended into a wooded area along a creek, rising up on the far side to more wooded cliffs.  The property line ended in the middle of the creek, but since the other side was virtually impossible to develop, the grounds afforded privacy and quiet—both qualities that her Aunt Marjorie had enjoyed. 

Not far beyond the hedge along the perimeter on the other side, she saw a smaller, cozy house with smoke billowing merrily from the chimney.  She shivered in the cold and wished for a fire to warm her.  To her surprise, she saw someone exiting the house and jogging a beeline toward her.  Although she was in a small town, and remembering the stories her Aunt Marjorie had told her of the friendliness in the tight-knit community, Emily was still aware that she was a stranger, alone, and she transferred the keys to her other hand while she dug in her purse to clutch her pepper spray, ready to strike if she felt threatened.  There were some lessons that being a young woman at a large, urban university taught well.

The bundled-up figure approaching resolved into a man who looked to be in his early 30s, hazel eyes, auburn Van Dyke beard, and silver hoop earrings peeking out below the black knit cap covering his head and ears.  His smile revealed dimples in his cheeks as he stopped on the porch steps.  He tugged his fleece-lined glove off his right hand and extended it to her, saying, “Hello and welcome.  My name is Lars.  Lars Andersen.  I live next door—obviously.”  His smile quirked into an abashed, lopsided grin.  “Marjorie Nichols was a great friend of mine.  I’m assuming you knew her, too.”