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Chapter One
Morgan
I’m kissing the next man who walks through the door. I even put mistletoe there just to make it happen.
What’s the point of a Happy New Year when I’ll be spending it alone again? Just like I did at the holiday party last night where all my friends showed off how disgustingly coupled up they are. Look, I’m happy when people find love. I am. But last night the smooches, inside jokes, pet names, and feeding each other petit fours off tiny forks was just too much. Don’t get me started on the matching ugly sweaters. Ugh. I want that too, you know?
I just can’t seem to find it.
It’s unseasonably warm for December twenty-first in Montana and I’ve cracked the front door to my soap shop just a bit. There’s a theater troupe performingA Christmas Carolon the stage in the courtyard across the street. They do it every year, no matter the weather. The actors’ voices filter through the open door, along with the scent of cinnamon and sugar donuts from the bakery right next to me, reminding me why I love this time of year.
A few people pass by on the sidewalk but no one comes in. It’s not looking promising that some random hot guy is going to come in and sweep me off my feet, but it doesn’t stop me from daydreaming about it a little.
Okay, a lot.
I’m at that point in my life where I’m going to have to take charge to find love and stop waiting for it to fall into my lap. While I’m fairly outgoing, I don’t really know how to chase after a man, but I’m going to learn. And it’s all going to start with one little kiss.
Today, I, Morgan Nichols, am going to take charge of my love life.
When I opened my soap shop, I had this cute little fantasy of a gorgeous man waltzing in and sweeping me off my feet in a wonderful meet-cute like in all the Hallmark movies. But my clientele is ninety-nine percent female, and one percent that guy who buys purple marshmallow soap for his dog. He’s missing all but one of his top teeth, and I have the hardest time not staring at that single yellow stump as he smiles gape-mouthed at me while he pays.
Not kissable. Definitely not kissable.
But who knows? Maybe I’ll get lucky today.
Things really have been going my way this year, and I shouldn’t complain. My shop is successful and profitable. I have great friends. Zero student loans and hardly any personal debt. Life is good. I should appreciate it much more than I do. Yet I can’t help but feel that I’m missing out on some good romantic fun while I’m young.
Taking advantage of the lack of customers, I go into the storage room to grab some more products to put on the shelves. The jingle bells above the door will alert me if anyone comes in, so I take my time organizing and noting down what I need to order for next week.
Out of nowhere, a strange feeling comes over me.
Pausing while reaching for a box, I startle a little as a prickly shiver starts at the base of my skull and creeps down the entire length of my spine. My breath stalls, freezing my lungs and making my chest ache. My body feels weighed down, heavy—as if something very, very bad is about to happen.
Sucking in a breath, I nearly fall backward with the force of it hitting my lungs. And then, just like that, the feeling is gone.
What the hell was that?I look at my hands before patting them along my torso, positive something happened. But I’m fine. Everything is fine.
The bells jingle.
I forget the strange sensations, throwing them into the back of my mind as I wipe my palms on my blue canvas apron, walk out front, and do a double-take.
A man stands by the counter dressed in a fashionable long black robe. There’s a hood over his face and something is strapped to his back, but I can’t tell what it is. A sword maybe. Wait… is that a scythe?
My heart flips in a beat of fear, but then I remember the drama troupe across the street. They must be taking a break.
And he must be… the ghost of Christmas yet to come?
He turns to fully face me as I approach, and I stop mid-stride as the bluest pair of eyes I’ve ever seen watch me with an intensity that ties my stomach into knots.
Oh.Oh, my.
His hands are pale and strong, the kind you find on a man who works indoors for a living. I’ve always loved a smart, blue-collar man. A thatch of tar-black hair falls from beneath his hood, accentuating the paleness of his skin, and I’m immediately—and I meanimmediately—smitten.
“H-hi.” Clearing my throat, I mentally kick myself. “Can I help you?”
He’s standing directly beneath the mistletoe. I scan his hands again. No ring.
“Morgan Nichols?”
