Snowbound With Santa: Unwrapping Mr. Right: Holiday Heartstrings

Chapter 1

A romance writer without a love life is like a typewriter without keys. That’s me, Lila Bennet, romance novelist extraordinaire—or so my publisher claims; maybe not after I miss my next deadline, but who’s counting the days?

Not I. Unless it’s the twelve days of Christmas Hideaway where I’ve been sentenced to complete my manuscript or face the wrath of my editor, who’s about as merry as the Grinch with a toothache. Twelve days to conjure up a heartwarming holiday romance when my own heart feels as cold and empty as a discount bin on December 26th. No pressure, right?

Which is why I find myself bundled up in a winter coat, exiting a taxi in front of the Snowfall Inn, touted on its website as the ultimate winter hideaway. It rises from the wintry landscape like a gingerbread house adorned with gaily painted gumdrops and curlicues of colored icing. Garlands of fragrant pine and twinkling fairy lights frame every window and doorway, while a wooden sign shaped like a smiling snowman cheerfully announces, Snow place like home!

I roll my eyes so hard I nearly go blind.

Dragging my suitcase, I push through the door. A wave of cinnamon and pine-scented air surrounds me, emanating from a gaudy, overly-ornamented Christmas tree. A fire crackles and spits in a stone fireplace big enough to roast a reindeer, and a group of rosy-cheeked children race around a miniature train set.

Welcome to Snowfall Inn. You must be Miss Lila Bennet, the romance author extraordinaire according to your website, a cheerful voice chimes as I approach the reception desk crafted from a repurposed sleigh. I’m Maggie Johnson, one of the owners, and I’ve read all your books.

I wonder if she finds love as easy as flipping pages or if she’s secretly penning her own tales of heartbreak behind that cheery façade. Aloud, I say, That’s me, hot off my website.

Ah, I see you’re as funny as your characters. Maggie presses a reindeer-shaped key into my hand. You’re in room 10, with a view of the reindeer stables—the real ones, not the inflatable ones Nick installed out in the yard.

She acts like I should know this Nick—but then again, every Tom, Dick, and Harry is a Nick when it comes to Christmas romances.

Reindeer stables are … charming. I hope we’re upwind from them?

Don’t worry, dearie. They’re potty-trained—Nick mucks their bedding twice a day.

Whoever this Nick is seems to be the inn’s very own Santa of all trades. He probably runs a secret toy workshop in the basement, cleans chimneys, and breeds a herd of flying reindeer. I wouldn’t be surprised if he moonlights as the Easter Bunny, too.

Speaking of big, white creatures, a large white dog bounds toward me just as a masculine figure in a red Santa suit rounds the corner, wrestling with an overflowing punch bowl. The huge animal collides with Santa’s legs like a fluffy cannonball.

I watch in slow-motion horror as a wave of creamy liquid arcs through the air, heading straight for me.

Splat!

Eggnog douses me from head to toe. A pair of paws straddle my shoulders, and a big red tongue slathers over my face. If this were a meet-cute in one of my romance novels, I’d be getting swept off my feet by a rugged lumberjack with eyes like melted chocolate and abs you could grate cheese on. Instead, I’m being slobbered on by Cujo’s jolly cousin while smelling like a walking advertisement for a discount liquor store.

Blizzard, you bad dog, Maggie’s reedy voice is ineffective at controlling her giant canine.

It takes Santaman to haul off the fluffy white monster. And no, I’m not writing monster romance, so don’t get any ideas. Though, at this point, maybe a were-reindeer love story isn’t entirely out of the question. After all, stranger things could happen in this Christmas fever dream of an inn.

I’m so sorry. The Santa impersonator’s voice is a caricature of a superhero, and even with eggnog dripping from my eyelids, I can tell his Santa suit is stretched in all the wrong places—tight on the shoulders and loose on the belly. He’s also quite handsy, grabbing napkins and dipping and dabbing and swishing and swabbing with a surprisingly gentle touch.

Coat’s ruined, but hey, it’s only the first day of Christmas, I quip. And the partridge is yet to poop on me.

Anyway, I’m Nick, by the way. Nick Clausen. I’m usually much better at spreading Christmas cheer than … well, dripping eggnog over a fair damsel.

I can’t help it—an image of Nick licking every trace of eggnog from every inch of my skin infuses me with a warm, gushy sensation. Oh, oh, oh, I have to write this down. The stickiness, the scent of nutmeg and …

Nick, Maggie, and the children surrounding me gape at me like I’m a crazy woman as I grab the ostrich feathered pen from the inkwell and scribble on a napkin.

Folks, we’re proud to have romance author extraordinaire Miss Lila Bennet here at the Snowfall Inn, Maggie announces in the tone of a sportscaster. What we have here is a classic meet-cute arising from an explosion of eggnog.

My face flushes redder than Rudolph’s nose. Oh no, please, I stammer, waving my hands in protest. I’m not … meeting cute, no way. I just need to … um, change.

Yes, let’s get you to your room, Maggie says. Nick, be a dear and bring up Ms. Bennet’s luggage, won’t you?

At your service, romance author extraordinaire. Nick salutes me before hefting my suitcase with his pinky finger. Even though he has a saucy grin, his eyes have that faraway look of a man who’s either lived through War and Peace or suffered through the movie. I wonder if he’s just playing a part, too, putting on a show for the guests to keep up the inn’s cheerful facade. But then again, aren’t we all pretending a little?

As we make our way to the elevator, Nick looks at me as if I’m sprouting reindeer antlers. I can’t believe you were writing that scene. Only a true romantic could find being drenched in a holiday beverage remotely romantic.

It’s definitely more exciting than the scene I was stuck on before this little eggnog encounter.

Stuck? Writer’s block got you down? His tone is laced with sympathy and something else I can’t quite name.

Let’s just say my own love life could use some of that Christmas magic, I admit with a wry smile. Hence, the escape to this winter wonderland. Maybe some reindeer whispering will inspire my next bestseller.

Nick’s laugh is rich and warm despite the dark shadows that linger in his gaze. Well, Lila Bennet, on behalf of Santas and romance everywhere, allow me to welcome you properly to Snowfall Inn. Minus the eggnog shower next time, I promise.

And that’s how I meet Nick, aka Broody Claus, a sad sack of a Santa straight from central casting. If this were one of my novels, he’d be the mysterious, tortured hero with a heart of gold waiting to be thawed by love.

But are you kidding me? I’m not here for a real romance. And no Santa-playing, eggnog-spilling hunkazoid is going to change that—despite that killer meet-cute scene—the first words written after weeks of drought.

Perhaps this typewriter has a few keys left yet.

Chapter 2

Well, at least you’re taking this eggnog bath in stride, Nick says, guiding me away from the lobby. Behind us, Blizzard eagerly laps up the milky trail I’m leaving, like some sort of deranged Hansel and Gretel remake.

So, he continues, which of Maggie’s gingerbread nightmares did you get assigned to? The Candy Cane Castle or the Fruitcake Fort?

I hold up the reindeer-shaped key fob. The economy box downwind of the reindeer pen. Room ten.

Nick’s brow furrows, creating a little wrinkle between his eyes that’s annoyingly adorable. That’s odd. I’m also in room⁠—

Blizzard, heel. Maggie’s voice carries down the corridor as a large white furry missile barrels in our direction. What’s that? He has my Gucci scarf flapping from his jaws like a white flag.

Great. Now I’m going to smell like wet dog and eggnog. Merry Christmas to me.

Oh, Miss Bennet, Blizzard has something to return to you, don’t you dearie? Maggie says with the voice of a parent returning to a store with a toddler and a half-eaten candy bar.

Blizzard skids to a halt in front of us, tail wagging so hard his entire back end is a blur. He drops the scarf at my feet and looks up expectantly as if waiting for a round of applause for his retrieval skills.

Good boy, I mutter, gingerly picking up the now slobber-soaked accessory. I’ve always wanted to accessorize with Eau de Canine.

Nick chuckles, but his expression quickly turns serious. Maggie, there seems to be a problem. Room ten is my room. I moved in this morning.

I turn to Maggie, arching an eyebrow. Unless you have two different room tens here?

The innkeeper claps her hands together in dismay. Oh, dear me. I completely forgot with all the excitement. There seems to be a slight … hiccup with the booking system. The Reindeer Rendezvous is our only available room, and with the blizzard rolling in …

She gestures vaguely towards the window where snowflakes are now swirling with a vengeance.

As if on cue, Blizzard decides this is the perfect moment to shake himself vigorously, spraying us all with a fine mist of melted snow and dog smell.

But don’t you fret, my dearies. Maggie takes the key from me and opens the door. See? It’s a two-room suite.

I close my eyes, taking a deep breath. My mind races with thoughts of my looming deadline and the relentless pressure from my fans and critics.

When I open them, I fix Maggie with what I hope is a calm, totally-not-freaking-out smile. So, just to clarify. I’m sharing a suite with Santa Claus here while smelling like a reindeer’s bad night out?

A twinkle flashes in Nick’s eyes. "Look on the bright side—it’s great material for your next book. The Santa Claustrophobic Christmas: A Tale of Mistletoe and Misunderstandings."

That was terrible.

I try, he says with a wink as we file into the suite.

My jaw drops at the horrendously Christmas-spiked interior decorating. The clash of the reds and greens on the upholstery is enough to bring on vertigo for anyone other than the colorblind, and a profusion of antique-shop finds is scattered everywhere else.

And here is our premium sleeping area. Maggie gestures to a king-sized bed draped in a quilt that looks like it was stitched together from ugly Christmas sweaters. Plenty of space to roam underneath the mistletoe mirror.

Sure enough, mistletoe dangles from a huge mirror mounted directly above the mountain of holiday-themed pillows threatening to avalanche off the bed.

Nick makes a choking sound as I pick up a particularly garish cushion embroidered with ‘Naughty or Nice?’ and Blizzard rises on his haunches, preparing to test the bed’s bounce factor.

No, Blizzard, down! Maggie commands ineffectively as Nick, in a surprisingly fast move for a guy in a Santa suit, tackles the overgrown furball mid-leap.

As they tumble to the floor in a tangle of limbs and fur,