The boy under the mistle.., p.1
The Boy Under the Mistletoe, page 1
The Boy under the Mistletoe
The Meet Cute Series
KATEY LOVELL
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers
www.harpercollins.co.uk
HarperImpulse an imprint of
HarperCollinsPublishers
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www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2015
Copyright © Katey Lovell 2015
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Katey Lovell asserts the moral right
to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is
available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are
the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is
entirely coincidental.
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and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
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Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.
Ebook Edition © November 2015 ISBN: 9780008166489
Version 2015-11-26
Praise for Katey Lovell
'Magical and sparkly short stories, highly recommended'
Sky's Book Corner
'I'm so glad I picked this up, it's gorgeous!'
Rather Too Fond of Books
'Swooning all the way through'
Reviewed the Book
'An absolutely wonderful debut'
Little Northern Soul
'Quirky, cute and utterly romantic'
Bestselling author Rebecca Raisin
'Sweet, romantic, perfectly formed coffee break reads. I loved them.’
Bestselling author Carmel Harrington
For my beautiful friend Holly Raistrick, because Holly and Mistletoe are the perfect match.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Praise for Katey Lovell
Dedication
The Meet Cute Series
The Boy under the Mistletoe
Acknowledgements
Also by Katey Lovell …
Katey Lovell
About HarperImpulse
About the Publisher
The Meet Cute Series
The Boy in the Bookshop
The Boy at the Beach
The Boy at the Bakery
The Boy on the Bus
The Boy with the Board
The Boy with the Boxes
The Boy at the BBQ
The Boy under the Mistletoe
The Boy and the Bridesmaid
The Boy under the Mistletoe
Chelsea Lafferty looked at the clock for what felt like the hundredth time that day. Both its black hands were pointing directly northwards – midday. Four hours until she could clock off. Four hours until the doors of the florist closed for the holidays, not to open again until January 3rd.
And it couldn’t come soon enough.
Working at The Rose Bowl, the flower shop on the high street, wasn’t her dream, not by a long stretch. It was a means to an end, a way to make a bit of pocket money when she was home from uni. And because it was her Mum’s shop it was almost expected she’d chip in, helping out in busy periods.
Busy periods like today.
Christmas Eve.
Who’d have thought so many people would buy their loved ones extravagant flowers the day before Christmas? Mum thought they did it to brighten up their homes before the festivities started, to add an extra splash of colour to match the sparkling baubles and twinkling fairy lights. But most of the customers simply said it was because they’d be home more than usual, they’d be able to watch the flowers bloom without the constraints there were during the rest of the year. No alarms rudely interrupting their beauty sleep, no tiring commutes. Ten days without the daily grind. And the flowers were a part of that, symbolic of freedom.
Of course, there were plenty of people coming in for the obligatory Christmas staples too – seasonal wreaths to hang on their doors, potted poinsettias with their crinkled crimson petals, the must-have sprigs of holly and mistletoe.
The old-fashioned brass bell over the shop door hadn’t stopped tinkling all morning and showed no sign of easing up into the afternoon either.
So much for relaxing, Chelsea thought. She’d hoped being home from uni would be one long run of onesie days and film marathons. Not that that was especially different from much of the rest of the year, if she was honest. The bonus of being an undergrad in Film and Visual Arts was watching a film and calling it ‘study’. But since arriving back in Castleford a fortnight ago she’d not watched a single movie, not even Love Actually, the film she watched religiously each Christmas.
They’d been so busy with the shop. After a day of curling ribbons and discussing the merits of lilies over roses, all Chelsea wanted to do was curl up under a blanket and doze the evening away. Focus on a film for a couple of hours? Fat chance.
But she’d have to muster up some energy from somewhere, because tonight it was Gran’s Christmas Eve party, an annual event no Lafferty would dare miss.
As Chelsea wrapped a bouquet of cheery red gerberas in clear cellophane wrapping, she made a mental note to stop off at the supermarket on her way home.
She had a feeling she’d need a few Red Bulls if she was going to last the evening.
*
Chelsea winced as she swallowed the syrupy-sweet liquid. It had better do what it promised on the can because she needed a kick up the bum if she was going to make it through the night. Her Hello Kitty onesie was calling out to her, but as much as she’d love to be able to sink into the comforting, fleecy outfit, she knew that wasn’t an option. Gran would hit the roof if she didn’t make an appearance.
Reluctantly, she reached into the wardrobe, pulling out a Christmas sweater with a huge picture of Rudolph’s face emblazoned across the chest. Wriggling into it, she caught sight of herself in the full length mirror on the back of her bedroom door. Chelsea knew she looked tired, and just a bit too thin after ten weeks of beans on toast teas, but at least her trademark auburn hair wasn’t letting her down. It cascaded down her back, vibrant and glossy; the russet shade more striking than usual against the emerald green of her tasteless jumper.
Even though it was the last thing she felt like doing, Chelsea made her way down the stairs to where her family were waiting.
“We thought Christmas would have been and gone by the time you came down, you took so long,” joked her Dad. He was wearing a Christmas jumper too, but not in an ironic way. Style had never been his forte, bless him. “What time do you call this?” he added jovially, tapping his index finger against an imaginary watch on his left wrist.
“Sorry!” Chelsea replied, holding her hands up in apology. “It’s been a long day for those of us who’ve been working…”
Her voice trailed off and she looked pointedly at her brother, Stevie. He’d been glued to his PlayStation when she left the house at seven that morning, and was in the exact same position when she returned. The only evidence he’d moved at all was the accumulation of crisp wrappers strewn across the living room floor. He’d always been a lazy bugger.
But she painted on a smile as they filed out of the door, determined not to be bitter.
It was so very nearly Christmas, after all.
*
“Please, darling. You know you want to. Just the one to keep your old Gran happy?”
Chelsea gingerly took a twiglet from the plate of savoury snacks her Gran was wafting under her nose. It was the same every year; Gran determined to feed up her guests with nibbles, when all anyone really wanted was get sloshed on the mulled wine. She could smell it now, the familiar rich, fruity aroma filling the air. The scent of Christmases past, warm and comforting.
“You need to keep your strength up at your age,” Gran continued, knowingly. “You youngsters are so busy all the time, go go go. Are you sure I can’t tempt you with a cheesy ball?” She peered judgementally over the top of her glasses and Chelsea knew there was no point arguing. This was a battle she’d never win.
“Thanks, Gran.” She smiled weakly, popping the yellow sphere into her mouth.
“Granny knows best, darling. Granny knows best.”
As Gran slinked off to mingle with the other partygoers, Chelsea let out a sigh of relief.
The guest list never varied at Gran’s annual soiree. The usual aunts and uncles were singing along to Frank Sinatra, her cousin Alfie glued to his iPad in the corner of the room. What was it with the boys in th
There was Winnie, Gran’s next door neighbour, admiring the floral centrepiece Mum had brought with us, one of the few leftover decorations that hadn’t sold throughout the day; her husband Ralf stood by her side, cramming a mince pie into his mouth. The filling was oozing out, sticky droplets clinging to his tufty grey beard. With that and his ample belly he reminded Chelsea of Santa Claus.
Gran’s golden retriever, Jools, was curled up under the enormous Christmas tree, oblivious to the party going on around him. Every so often he’d twitch, causing his tail to stand up on end and graze the lower branches of the tree. It caused the baubles to wobble precariously, and Chelsea held her breath every time, praying none would fall.
She loved those baubles. They were antiques – hand-blown opalescent glass balls, all slightly different. None of the mass-produced plastic decorations that were all over the high street. They constantly appeared to change colour as the fairy lights that hung lazily on the tree reflected off their glassy surfaces. One moment they were pink, then a shimmering baby blue, then a rich, buttercup yellow. They were classically beautiful. Timeless.
Chelsea sank into the window seat, captivated by the enchanted magic of the tree. What with the lights and the prosecco she’d been drinking, all she wanted to do was sleep.
The glistening colours were mesmerising. She was too tired to concentrate. She put down the glass of prosecco she’d been slowly sipping, and soon her heavy eyelids gave up the fight. Chelsea dozed, blind to the festivities carrying on all around her.
*
It hadn’t been long. It couldn’t have been.
Just a moment, two at most.
At first it was just a tickle, the slightest pressure on her cheek. It was only as her hand sleepily rose to brush away what she assumed was a fly that she realised what was happening. Chelsea was on her feet in a flash, but the attractive, dark stranger didn’t even flinch.
“It was a bit forward, I know,” he said, coolly brushing his black hair across his forehead with his fingertips, “but I’m not that bad, am I?” His accent was southern, although Chelsea couldn’t place it any more accurately than that, and he exuded the cocky aura of someone who always got their own way.
Chelsea spluttered, her face flushing red in a way that unfortunately clashed with her hair. She looked like a Refresher chew bar, bright orange and Barbie pink.
“Excuse me!” she exclaimed, indignant. “I don’t know who you are or where you get off kissing people you don’t know, but I didn’t think I’d be…” she paused as she searched for the word, “molested at my own Gran’s party!”
“Calm down,” he smiled, although Chelsea thought it almost qualified as a smirk. “Quite the fiery red-head, aren’t you? I like it.” His steel grey eyes looked suggestively into hers, and her stomach flipped despite herself. There was no denying he was gorgeous, even if he did lack normal social boundaries.
Chelsea took a large swig from the champagne flute she’d placed at her side before her power nap. She needed a drink to get over the shock.
“I closed my eyes for a minute, that’s all. It’s been a hectic day, and I’ve still got presents to wrap when I get home, whatever time that might be. So I decided to rest my eyes.” Her chin jutted out defensively, and the stranger grinned.
“And that’s why I kissed you. You looked so pretty, fast asleep framed by the window. Like Sleeping Beauty in a Christmas jumper.” His tongue flicked out from between his dusky pink lips, giving the corner of his mouth the quickest of licks. Chelsea felt her resolve weakening, but she wasn’t going to let him know that.
Chelsea snorted. “And you’re the handsome prince I suppose?”
There was that smirk again, that cheeky glint in his eye, before he replied confidently, “I can be if you want me to be.”
She couldn’t help but giggle. The whole situation was absurd. Stunning strangers didn’t suddenly drop into Chelsea’s world, and if they did, she was pretty sure they’d be with glamorous girls in skimpy black dresses; the sort that straightened their hair to within an inch of its life and had weekly appointments at the nail bar. No one like that would be at her Gran’s Christmas Eve party. Maybe she was still asleep and this was just a vivid dream.
She shook her head in a bid to wake herself up. “Make a habit of kissing sleeping girls you’ve not met before, do you?” She raised her eyebrow suspiciously.
Chelsea wouldn’t know it, and even if she did she wouldn’t have believed it, but that wayward eyebrow unwittingly caused his heart to race.
She was feisty. He liked that in a girl.
“Not often.” His mouth twitched. “But then I don’t normally find someone as beautiful as you laying beneath the mistletoe. I wasn’t going to let someone else steal that kiss, was I?” He moved in closer, his breath warm against her cheek. The same cheek his lips had already kissed. “If it wasn’t me, it would have been Great Uncle Ralf,” he smiled, nodding at the Father Christmas lookalike. “He had quite a reputation with the ladies back in the day. You could say I did you a favour.”
“Ralf’s your uncle?”
Chelsea wondered why she’d never seen this handsome stranger before. Winnie and Ralf had been Gran’s neighbours since the dawn of time.
“Great Uncle,” he corrected.
“I’ve not seen you before though. I’d have remembered if I had.”
“Same goes. Looks like we’ve got some lost time to make up for, Sleeping Beauty.”
“Well, in that case you’ll have to tell me your name, ’cause if you think I’m calling you Handsome Prince, you can think again.”
He laughed, causing that stray hair to fall back in front of his eye. “And there was I hoping this would be the start of our fairy tale. I was hoping for another kiss before the night was out too, if I’m honest.”
“I don’t kiss strangers,” she replied, but although her words were fierce, her tone was flirty, and as she looked up at him through her eyelashes there was no doubt she liked him more than she was letting on.
“I’d better make sure I’m not a stranger then, hadn’t I, Beauty?”
His words were soft and strong; exactly the sort of thing Han Solo might have said to Princess Leia. And those tension-filled scenes were her favourites in film history.
“Go on then. Tell me your story.”
“I’m Simeon Fox, twenty two. I still live with my Mum in Slough, which is shameful I know, but I can’t afford my own place. I’m training to be a PE teacher. I play cricket all summer and rugby all winter.” That explained the taut physique. “My favourite film’s Rocky and my favourite album is Nevermind. I’ve got a Celtic band tattoo around my thigh even though I’ve never set foot outside England. My cat, Sookie, is sixteen next year and I’m petrified she’s going to die. She’s my best friend.” He paused for a moment, studying her response. “And I’ve drunk far too much of your Gran’s mulled wine. Is that enough for you?”
And although he was infuriating, and self-assured, Chelsea already knew that it was. She took a step closer towards him and looked up at the ceiling. Sure enough, familiar pale green leaves were over her head, the mistletoe’s pearly white berries glistening in the semi-darkness of the room.
“Merry Christmas, Simeon,” she breathed, her heart pounding in her chest.
“Merry Christmas, Beauty,” he replied, wrapping his arms around her waist. As the clock struck midnight signally Christmas Day and their lips locked for the first time, Chelsea realised she still hadn’t watched Love Actually. But maybe this year she didn’t need to, because for once, she was the heroine in her very own romance.
And Simeon was the perfect hero.
Acknowledgements
With enormous thanks to my fantastic editor Charlotte Ledger for encouraging me to write a festive Meet Cute story and coming up with the perfect title. I'll be forever grateful. Merry Christmas! x
Also by Katey Lovell …
The Boy in the Bookshop
The Boy at the Beach
The Boy at the Bakery
Katey Lovell
I grew up in South Wales and now live in Sheffield with my husband David, son Zachary and our friendly moggie Clarence. If I’m not writing, I’ll most likely be found with my nose in a book or reviewing on my blog Books with Bunny.
