Booked for Christmas: A Mistletoe Mountain Novel

Book 2: Mistletoe Mountain

by Melissa F. Miller

Genres: Holiday Romance; Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

Return to Mistletoe Mountain with USA Today bestselling author Melissa F. Miller in a new holiday rom-com mystery about a holiday-hating attorney and a big-hearted, book-loving client intent on bringing her some holiday cheer!

Excuse Holly Jolly, Esquire, for not feeling very, well, jolly. She’s been down on Christmas for months—ever since she found her fiancé (make that ex-fiancé) making out with his boss in the closet at the District Attorney’s Office Christmas in July party.

While she’s not interested in love or Christmas magic, it’s hard to avoid the season when you live in Mistletoe Mountain. She plans to spend the holidays with her TBR pile, despite what her best friend and her family have to say about it.

Her plans derail like a Christmas train careering off the track when she’s appointed to defend a bearded blue-eyed stranger whose dangerous crime is … placing banned books in little free libraries? The case should be dismissed outright. But of course her politically ambitious ex is the prosecutor, and he digs in his heels.

The judge gives Holly a choice: take responsibility for the defendant or let him spend the holidays in the county lockup. Now, she’s stuck in the one-bedroom guest house at her family’s inn with a kind-hearted criminal who loves Christmas. And books. And who brings her hot chocolate in bed and rubs her tired feet with peppermint oil. Bah, humbug.

Jack Bell embraces everything life throws at him. But he’s not sure what to make of Mistletoe Mountain—or the cranky but adorable spitfire appointed to represent him in a criminal case that has to be a joke. His motto is roll with it. So he’s determined to make the best of his guest house arrest.

When the case goes viral, the prosecutor doubles down on getting a conviction, and Jack worries his past will be exposed. Holly works feverishly to defend him in the middle of a media storm, and he sets out to remind her of the true meaning of Christmas by dragging her to the town tree lighting, the gingerbread house-building contest, and every festive event in between. It’ll take a Christmas miracle to win Jack’s case and melt Holly’s icy heart.

This heartwarming holiday rom-com mystery features a closed-door, sunshine-grump romance where he falls first and is loaded with crackling chemistry, gripping suspense, and small-town shenanigans. The second book in the Mistletoe Mountain series, Booked for Christmas can be read as a standalone.

 

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Release date: December 3, 2024

Publisher: Brown Street Books

Reader says this book is...: emotionally riveting (1) entertaining story (2) happily ever after (1) heartwarming (2) satisfying ending (1) strong chemistry (1) strong heroine (1) tearjerker (1) terrific writing (1) unputdownable (1) escapist/easy read (1) realistic characters (1)

Sample

Chapter 1
A Sugar Bomb Spit Take

Holly

I join the line of caffeine seekers snaking through the Snowflake Cafe and pull out my
phone to check the time. I started my morning early and set the tone for the day with a long run,
some yoga, and a short meditation. As a result, I am centered, I am calm, I am ... absolutely,
positively going to freaking scream if this line doesn’t start moving faster.
Breathe.
I breathe. My irritation continues to rise as the line inches forward in slow motion. How can
I be this irritated at seven in the morning? The day hasn’t even really begun yet. This doesn’t
bode well for me. I tap through my emails on my phone—more to distract me from the
Christmas music blaring from the cafe’s speakers than out of any need to get work done.
It’s going to be a slow work day, as the day after Thanksgiving should be. I have no court
appearances, and most of my coworkers plan to work from home or take the entire day off. The
office will be quiet. It’s the perfect opportunity to dig out from under the mountain of paperwork

on my desk and ease into the weekend feeling accomplished and organized. Assuming I don’t
snap from the music and lack of coffee first.
I’m not surprised Delphina’s playing holiday music. When you live in a town named
Mistletoe Mountain, it’s a given that Christmas is a big deal. The festivities are out of control all
year round, to be fair. But Mistletoe Mountain really ramps it up the moment folks prepare to flip
their calendars from November to December. It’s as if someone has let a racehorse out of a pen
—or released the contestants in a timed grocery store cart-filling game show. Wild abandon.
I remind myself of the dhamma talk I recently heard about sitting with your pain.
Acknowledge it, don’t resist it—that was the gist. Would the same principle work with extreme,
bordering on murderous, aggravation? No time like the present to give it a try.
I close my eyes and acknowledge Mariah Carey’s incredible vocal range and undisputed
lyrical economy while pretending my skin doesn’t itch. Or am I supposed to be one with the
itching? Maybe I’m doing this all wrong.
I open my eyes as the song switches over. While George Michael is giving me his heart, I
finally reach the front of the line.
“Holly!” Delphina smiles broadly, bouncing along to the music, which makes her metallic
Christmas ornament earrings jangle.
“Hi, Delph. Nice earrings,” I say gamely.
Either my barely hidden disdain sails over my best friend’s head or, more likely, she
chooses to ignore it.
“Thanks. What can I get you?”
I raise an eyebrow. “The same as always. A large black coffee to go, two suspended
coffees, and two suspended meals.”
I hand over my reusable Snowflake Cafe stainless steel tumbler, which I use to help the
environment (and get my fifty-cent discount) despite the cutesy pastel snowflake design that
graces the thing. Humming a Christmas song—not the one streaming through the speakers,
mind you— she takes an inordinately long time to pour coffee into a travel mug.
At last, she returns and slides it across the counter. “Busy day?”
“Yeah, I guess. I don’t know,” I mumble as I tap my card against the reader.
She rests her elbows on the counter and peers at me. I know what’s coming, and I should
have planned for it, should have had a ready excuse to deflect it. But I didn’t, so I’m going to
have to wing it. Think on my feet, as my new boss likes to say.
“Are you going to the Christmas tree lighting tonight?”
“I can’t. I have to work.”
“On Black Friday?”
“You’re working,” I point out.
She purses her lips.
“What?” I demand, even though I know better.
“Your dad sponsors the lighting.”
“Right, so the family is well represented. Besides, my sisters and Noelle will be there. They
wouldn’t dream of missing it.” I flash her my brightest, fakest smile.

“Yeesh, don’t grimace like that,” she orders. “You look like you’re about to go on a killing
spree. Don’t you want to see the tree light up? It’s so pretty.”
“It is pretty, and I’ll get to see it all lit up when I’m on my way home from work.”
“Well, I’m going to save you a spot under the gazebo, just in case you change your mind.”
In response to this promise (or is it a threat?), I give my best friend since second grade a
genuinely warm smile—hopefully one that doesn’t make me look homicidal. “Don’t hold your
breath.”
She sighs, shakes her head, and starts wiping down the counter with more vigor than is
strictly necessary.
As I head for the door, two things happen. One, I take a sip of my black coffee, and my
taste buds are assaulted as a sugar bomb explodes in my mouth. Two, the doors of the coffee
shop open with a loud jingle of bells and someone steps inside. I react instinctively to the taste
in my mouth and spew the offending liquid. The alleged ‘coffee’ splashes all over an argyle
sweater stretched across an impressively broad male chest.
“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry!” I yelp.
The man just inside the doorway laughs huskily and futilely tries to brush away the coffee
with his hands.
Delphina rushes around from behind the counter with a damp rag and starts dabbing at
him.
“What’s in here?” I shake the tumbler accusatorially. “This is not my coffee order.”
She’s still fussing over the guy when she eyes me cautiously from under her elf hat and
confesses, “It’s a gingerbread latte with candy cane foam. I thought you could use a little holiday
spirit.”
“You thought I could use a little tooth decay? Black coffee, Delph. Black. Coffee. You know
that’s my order.”
She waves a dismissive hand at me and returns to blotting the liquid dessert out of the
sweater.
I turn back to the stranger, who stands there with a bemused expression, watching this
play out. “I’m so sorry. Let me buy you a coffee.”
He smiles a crooked smile. “No need. I’ll just go to the men’s room and take care of this.”
“It’s that way.” Delphina points down the hall to the bathrooms, and he heads off.
He can’t possibly be out of earshot, when she grabs my arm and squeals, “He’s hot!”
I scrunch up my forehead. “I guess.”
“You guess?”
“Yeah, I guess. I was distracted by the insulin shock. I didn’t really check him out,” I lie.
She starts listing his attributes. “Shaggy sandy blond hair. Big, soulful blue eyes. Broad
shoulders. Sexy scruff. A toe-tingling smile.”
“He does have a good smile,” I agree. “You should ask him out.”
She gives me a blank look. “No, dummy. You should ask him out.”
“Me? You’re the one salivating over him.”
“First of all, he’s not my type.”

I’ll give her that. Delphina likes bad boys—tattoos, motorcycles, piercings. Argyle sweater
man is not her jam. He’s also not my type. From the glimpse I caught, he struck me as
outdoorsy. I’ll bet he tent camps and works for a nonprofit, not that any of that’s bad, mind you.
But I’m drawn to clean-cut men in well-cut suits.
She’s still talking, “Second of all, you’re the one who had the meet cute.”
“The meet cute?” I echo, bewildered.
“The amusing first meeting that you can tell your grandchildren about someday.”
“I spat on him,” I remind her.
“Exactly!”
“Third, you haven’t dated since you called off your engagement with—”
I hold up my hand to stave her off. “Don’t say his name. You already tried to poison me. I
don’t think I can take a dagger to the heart, too.”
For a moment, she’s silent, and I think I have her.
But she knows me too well. She shakes her head. “You’re not pining for Anderson. You’re
just wallowing. What I can’t figure out is why.”
I ignore this and sigh. “I have to go to work. Don’t let that guy pay for his coffee, okay? Just
let me know how much he spends, and I’ll transfer it to you.”
“Or you could just give it to me at the tree lighting,” she calls after me.
I pretend not to hear her as I hurry out of the cafe. Once I round the corner and am sure
I’m out of eyesight from the cafe, I take the lid off my mug and pour the sugary concoction down
the sewer grate. Just as the last drops of the vile liquid vanish into the opening, one of the
county sheriff’s cruisers comes into view. I freeze, holding my breath. Is it illegal dumping to pour
coffee—or whatever this stuff is—into the sewer system?
As I search my memory for an applicable law or regulation—and more importantly, a
defense thereto—the black and white hits its lights and siren and speeds past me. I exhale and
return the lid to my mug. Then I pick up my pace as I head for my car because now I need to
make another stop to find a cup of actual coffee before I start my workday.

Chapter 2
I Want an Attorney

Jack

I grab an unbleached paper towel from the pile on the sink vanity and wet it. I spend about
a minute making a halfhearted attempt to blot at the brown stain spreading across the front of
my sweater, then shrug, wad up the compostable towel, and pitch it into the basket. The stain’ll
come out or it won’t. At least it blends with the forest green and brown pattern. I think.
I push the door open and walk out into the little coffee shop’s front area. During my brief
attempt at repairs, the line at the counter has somehow grown exponentially.

As I weave through the crowd, making my way to the end of the queue, the elf behind the
counter leans across it, waving her arms. “Yo! Yo, beardy guy!”
“Me?” I jab a thumb toward my chest.
“Yes, you. Don’t get in that line. Come to the front.”
“No, no, that’s okay. I don’t need—”
“Make way, people. Bearded stranger coming through!” Her clear voice cuts through the
overlapping conversations and the holiday music.
I cast a cautious glance toward the line but no one seems ready to mutiny. Instead, the
crowd parts to create room for me to pass through. As they comply with the elf’s commands,
they keep up a steady stream of loud chatter about a Christmas tree lighting. The majority of the
patrons seem to be wearing holiday sweaters, and I spy several Santa hats.
I sidle past a tall, austere woman wearing a warm-up jacket with Maple Twist Fitness
embroidered across the back and present myself at the counter.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
“Oh no. Go right ahead,” she says with an encouraging nod that sets the reindeer antlers
on her headband bobbing.
The woman behind the counter flashes a grateful smile. “Thanks for understanding,
Griselda. Our friend here was the victim of a splash and run.”
“No damage done,” I assure her, gesturing toward my chest.
“So what’ll it be?” she chirps.
I study the board behind her. “You know, I planned to get a cup of tea but whatever that
Grinch spilled on me smells really good. I’ll have that instead.”
“One gingerbread latte with candy cane foam coming right up. If you buy a reusable
tumbler, you get a discount on refills.”
I start to shake my head, about to explain that I’m just passing through town, when the tall
woman behind me leans forward. “You should get one. I swear they’re magic. They keep drinks
hot all day.”
I still have a long road trip ahead of me. A reliable insulated mug would be better than
continuing to collect disposable cups as I rack up miles.
“Sure, why not.”
The woman clamps a strong hand on my shoulder. “Good choice.”
“Any particular color?” The elf asks, sweeping a hand over a neat row of shiny stainless
steel travel mugs.
“Surprise me.”
She plucks a mug from the middle of the line then turns away to prepare the drink. She
returns a moment later and places the snowflake-festooned tumbler on the counter in front of
me.
I pull out my worn wallet. “What do I owe you?”
“Oh no, Holly took care of it.”
“Holly?”
“The Grinch,” she says with a twinkle in her eye.
“Oh, no. That’s not necessary.”

She waves her hand. “It’s fine. Honestly, she said she’d cover whatever you get. So if you
want a cookie or croissant, you might as well live it up.”
I frown. “I don’t want to take advantage. At least charge me for the tumbler.”
“Nope.” She folds her arms over her chest. The woman behind me snorts.
I know better than to battle with a woman whose mind is made up, so I pluck a ten from the
dwindling stack of cash in my billfold and start to shove it into the tip jar. The elf stops me with a
hand on my arm.
“I appreciate the tip, but if you’re so inclined you could pay for a suspended coffee or
sandwich instead.”
I throw her a blank look, and she points to a large cork board hanging on the wall to my
right. I turn my head and scan a colorful calendar of community events—there are a lot of them.
Then my eyes slide to the dozens of red and green slips of paper pinned to the board alongside
the calendar. The row of red slips list beverages—I see ‘large coffee,’ ‘hot chocolate,’ ‘tea or
chai,’ and ‘latte’ at a glance. The green slips are all foods—things like sandwiches, salads, and
cookies.
Understanding sets in before she begins her explanation. “If you buy a suspended food or
a drink, it goes up on the board until someone who needs one pulls the slip down. No questions
asked.”
“That’s a great idea,” I tell her as I stuff the ten into the tip jar.
Disappointment flashes in her brown eyes and her smile falters.
Then I remove a twenty from my wallet and pass it over the counter to her. “Put this toward
whatever people are most likely to need.”
The smile returns. “Thank you.”
I raise my new travel mug and tip it toward her. Then I take my first sip of the hot, sweet
drink. It tastes exactly like a gingerbread cookie topped with peppermint frosting. “This is great.
The Grinch doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
“That one’s my fault,” she tells me. “I know Holly doesn’t like frou-frou coffee drinks.”
The woman in line behind me cracks, “She always says she takes it black and strong, like
her heart.”
Both women chuckle.
“Still,” I say, shaking my head, “I can’t imagine why a person who hates Christmas would
live in a town called Mistletoe Mountain.”
The chuckles turn into full-bodied chortles.
“She doesn’t hate Christmas,” the elf tells me. “Her family owns the inn. The Jollys love the
holidays more than anyone—and in this town, that’s saying something. Holly just hates this
Christmas.”
The woman behind me mutters something I don’t catch under her breath.
It feels as if an apology is in order. “I shouldn’t judge. Sometimes the holidays are hard.”
“Sometimes they are.”
“Well, tell Holly I said thanks for the drink.”
“I will.” She flicks her eyes toward the cork board. I follow her gaze to a flyer announcing a
Christmas tree lighting in the town square. When I turn back to her, she’s grinning. “If you’re still

in town tonight, you should come to the Christmas tree lighting. And you can thank Holly
yourself. You know, the suspended meals and drinks were her idea,” she adds this last sentence
out of nowhere.
Before I can respond, the jingle bells over the door jangle loudly as the door opens and
two police officers plow through the crowd of caffeine seekers.
“Is the owner of the red station wagon with Florida plates in here?” the male officer booms
in a commanding voice.
The room falls silent, save for the rendition of ‘Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas’
piping through the cafe’s speakers.
I step forward. “That’s me.”
“Sir, we’re going to need you to come with us,” the female officer says, her hand resting on
the handcuffs dangling from her hip.
“Did I park illegally?” I’m sure I didn’t.
The elf leans over the counter and addresses the male officer. “What’s going on, Ned?”
“Nothing to worry about, Delphina. Sir,” he jerks his chin toward me.
“Come on, Liza,” the Maple Twist lady presses the female officer, who shakes her head.
“Stay out of it, Gris.”
I follow them outside. As soon as my feet hit the pavement, I’m up against the wall. Officer
Ned takes my tumbler as Officer Liza snaps the handcuffs around my wrists.
“I don’t understand—” I begin.
She cuts me off and reads off a laminated card. “You have the right to remain silent.
Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an
attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand these
rights?”
I swallow hard. “I do. And I want an attorney.”

Chapter 3
Screaming in the Car

Holly

Thanks to Delphina’s sugar bomb assault, I’m forced to drive to the diner in Stonebridge
for my coffee on my way to the office. The public defender’s office where I work is in the valley,
not in Mistletoe Mountain proper, so at least the Christmas contagion is diluted here. The only
concessions to the holiday in the diner are a ceramic tabletop Christmas tree with multicolored
old-fashioned mini-lightbulbs aglow next to the cash register and the container of my sister
Merry’s peppermint candies beside it.
I’m patiently waiting for my to-go cup of blessedly bitter, dark coffee when my phone
chimes. I glance at the notification bar. It’s a text from Delphina. I swipe it open, expecting to see

either an apology for the abomination she tried to pass off as my coffee order or more nagging
about attending the Christmas tree lighting. To my surprise, it’s neither. Instead, she’s written:

OMG! You missed the excitement right after you left. Call
me when you get a chance.

Call her? She’s usually way too busy to talk on the phone when she’s at her shop.
Especially in the mornings. Not to mention, who talks on the phone anymore? So whatever she
has to tell me must be juicy. I’m just about to hit the icon to call her when I hear my name.
I lift my head to see Roslyn Porter waving and grinning broadly at me. She clatters across
the linoleum floor on her high-heeled shoes. “Am I glad to see you, Holly.”
“Morning, Roz,” I say cautiously.
Roz is always working, even when she isn’t working. So her unbridled joy at seeing me
isn’t as flattering as it might seem. She takes exactly one breath before revealing why she’s so
happy to run into me.
“The judge was assigned a criminal case this morning. It just came in.”
I steel myself to tell her I can’t help her, but she plows ahead.
“The defendant is an out-of-towner. The district attorney’s office wants to hold him without
bail because they think he’s a flight risk.”
We both roll our eyes. There aren’t many crimes committed in Mistletoe Mountain and the
surrounding towns, and almost none that require holding the defendant without bail.
“Roz—,” I begin.
“You know he’s going to end up being assigned to your office anyway. Let’s chalk one up
for efficiency.”
Roz is a force of nature, and, while, sure I can argue with her, she’s right—I’ll just be
delaying the inevitable. So I save my breath and sigh instead. “What time’s the hearing?”
“Well, since you’re already here, we can push it up. As a courtesy.” She grins.
Stonebridge is the county seat, and the courthouse is located right on the town square,
less than a mile from where we stand.
“I haven’t even been into the office yet, Roz.”
“Perfect, don’t go in. That way you won’t get waylaid with other cases and people needing
things from you. Just grab your coffee and come straight to the courthouse.”
As she says this, Betty appears at the counter with two takeout coffees. I take one while
Roz snags the other.
“I’ll see you in a few,” I say.
“I just need Betty to box up my donuts,” she says loud enough for Betty to hear and put a
little hustle in her step. “I take them in every Friday for the courthouse staff. You know,
everybody likes to end the work week on a sweet note.”
I’m beginning to suspect that this entire county is controlled by a cartel of dentists. I just
nod, eager to get outside and call Delphina to find out what’s so important before I plunge into
my new case.
“By the way—,” Roz begins just as I reach the door. Her overly casual tone makes my
chest tighten. I turn around and eye her. “I might not have mentioned that Anderson Carson is

the assistant district attorney handling this case. See you at the courthouse!”
I gape at her as my face heats. I can’t face Anderson. Not now. The primary reason I plan
to hibernate during the month-long holiday celebration that takes over the entire town is to avoid
Anderson. It’s literally written on my goal list for the month under self-care: A. A., Avoid
Anderson.
Having a case against him will ensure I don’t meet this crucial goal. I open my mouth and
she tilts her head. It’s not a head tilt that says, ‘I understand if you need to reconsider.’ It’s more
of a ‘Are you really going to tell a judge you can’t take a representation because your love life
fell apart?’ head tilt.
She’s right. I nod, clamp my mouth closed to swallow the string of swear words rising in my
throat, then wheel back around and push the door open with more force than necessary. I
speed-walk to my car, launch myself into the driver’s seat, and rest my head against the steering
wheel, letting out a strangled scream as I do so.
That feels good, so I scream louder. Then I lift my head, throw it back, and shriek. It’s a
raw, wordless expression of rage and frustration. But it feels powerful and freeing, unlike all the
sobbing I indulged in over the summer.
I pull down the visor mirror and address my reflection aloud in a voice made raspy by all
the screaming, “I am a warrior. I can do this. I will do this.”
Pep talk completed, I start the car and call Delphina through my Bluetooth connection. Not
surprisingly, my call rolls to voicemail. I leave a brief message:
“Hey, I got your text but couldn’t call you until now. I’ve been corralled into doing a bail
hearing, so I’ll be in court for the rest of the morning. Oh, and Anderson is representing the
county.” I pause for the shriek of indignation I know this news will elicit from my best friend. “Of
course, this is all your fault because I ran into the judge’s secretary at the diner—where I was
getting a cup of real coffee. Talk to you later.”
I don’t really blame Delph. If Roz hadn’t collared me at the diner, she’d have called the
public defender’s office. And as the newest lawyer, odds are I’d have been asked to take the
case even if I weren’t the only person in the office today. But, still, I can’t believe I’m about to go
toe-to-toe in court with the one person I desperately want to avoid during the month-long
Christmas extravaganza that takes over Mistletoe Mountain. Anderson Wilson Carson, Esquire,
hotshot assistant district attorney on the rise, permanent entry on the Naughty List, and my
adulterous ex-fiancé.