The Mistletoe Motive
Chloe Liese
Author’s Note
Includes spoilers
This holiday romance is open door, meaning it portrays on-page, consensual sexual intimacy. It also features characters with human realities that I believe deserve to be seen more prominently in romance through positive, authentic representation—in this case, neurodivergence (specifically, autism, which is my lived experience), the asexual spectrum (specifically, demisexuality, which is also my lived experience), and type 1 diabetes (which has been informed by a friend with this condition). With the guidance of my own experience and authenticity readers for this content, I hope I have given these subjects the care and respect they deserve.
This book also includes mention of an ex who texts repeatedly after being broken up with and who, in one scene, shows up unannounced, surprising the heroine. He is reprimanded, and after that, is off-page, out of her life for good. I know this is a sensitive topic for some, so please take care.
Ultimately, I hope this romance brings you comfort and joy, a story of two people finding their way toward being deeply known and loved for all of who they are, which is, to me—in real life and in fiction—the greatest gift we can receive.
Playlist Note
At the beginning of each chapter, a song and artist is provided as an optional means of emotional connection to the story. It isn’t a necessity—for some it may be a distraction or even inaccessible—nor are the lyrics literally about the chapter. Listen before or while you read for a soundtrack experience. If you enjoy playlists, rather than searching for each song individually as you read, you can directly access these songs on a Spotify Playlist by logging in to your Spotify account and entering “The Mistletoe Motive” into the search browser.
Chapter 1
Playlist: “Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!” Ella Fitzgerald
The world is a snow globe. Thick, icy flakes swirl around me, drifting from a silver tinsel sky. A frigid gust of wind stings my cheeks and whips my clothes. It’s my morning walk to Bailey’s Bookshop, where I am co-manager and resident holiday enthusiast, and I’m kicking off the month of December like I have for years: my mittened hands wrapped around a cup of peppermint hot cocoa—chocolate drizzle, extra whip—while Ella Fitzgerald’s smoky-sweet voice pours through my headphones.
Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow!
Wrangling open the door to the bookshop as the song ends and Ella’s voice fades, I tug off my noise-cancelling headphones, whose plush, winter-white faux fur makes them double as earmuffs. Time to face reality: this wonderful life of holiday tunes, picturesque snowfall, and running Bailey’s Bookshop would be a dream come true, if it weren’t for one small thing…
My gaze lands on the familiar terrain of towering height, broad shoulders, and starched, snowy cotton.
Okay. So he’s not exactly small.
“Miss Di Natale.” The chill of my antagonist’s voice slips down my spine like a waterdrop, fresh off an icicle.
I shut the door with my butt, then use my elbow to slide down the bolt and lock us in, since we don’t open for another hour. Clutching my hot cocoa and a canvas bag of homemade holiday decorations for festive fortitude, I reply with false cheer, “Mr. Frost.”
My aptly named nemesis glances meaningfully at the antique wall-mounted clock, which sets his face in profile. Strong nose, cheekbones that could shave ice, a cut-crystal jaw. One dark eyebrow arches as he turns and his wintergreen eyes pin me in place. “Good of you to join us…three minutes late.”
I hate him. He is the prickly holly leaf in the Fraser fir garland of my life.
For twelve torturous months, I have endured co-managing the city’s longest-standing independent bookstore with Jonathan Frost, a true Scrooge of a man, and frankly I’d call it a miracle that I’ve lasted this long without going off the deep end.
Holding his eyes, I take a long, wet slurp of my hot cocoa’s whipped cream, then lick my lips, because it’ll get under his skin, and after that “three minutes late” reprimand, it’s the least he deserves.
His gaze snaps to my mouth. His jaw twitches. Then he spins away.
“Let me guess.” His voice is gruff, his eyes on an unopened box of new releases as he flicks up the retractable blade of a utility knife and guts the box like a fish belly, with one clean rip down the seam. “They messed up your overpriced chocolate milk.”
My molars grind as I march across the storefront. “It’s hot cocoa. And they forgot the peppermint. I can’t kick off the holiday season without it.”
After I’ve passed him, he guts the next box with the fluid grace of a cold-blooded killer. I watch him slide down the retractable blade, set the knife perpendicular to the edge of the counter, then wrench open the box in a graphic display of flexing muscles beneath his shirt.
It’s a tragedy that such a lump-of-coal personality has a body like that.
“Eyes up, Gabriella.”
“I’m watching that utility knife.”
“Sure you are.”
My cheeks heat. I set the holiday decorations on the counter with the force of my annoyance and hear one crack. “Anyone who knew how many slashers you read, Mr. Frost, would have their eyes on the utility knife.”