Page 3 of A Perfect Christmas Romance (Kringle, Texas #8)

Nick stumbled into his apartment late Sunday night, feeling like he’d just gone ten rounds with the ghost of failed interviews past.

His weekend in Kringle, Texas, a cute little town that sounded like Santa’s drunk cousin named it, had been about as productive as trying to catch smoke with a tennis racquet.

Two whole days, and what did he have to show for it? A sunburn in December (because Texas weather laughed in the face of logic) and precisely zero interviews with Matilda Merris, daughter of the most infamous baseball player this side of the Black Sox scandal.

But it didn’t deter Nick.

Oh no. The fact that a couple of other sports reporters had tried and failed only made him hungrier for the story. He was the new kid at the Dallas affiliate, the newbie with something to prove.

And nothing said “I’m a serious journalist” quite like chasing down a decades-old scandal that most people under 50 had never heard of.

Matilda Merris, the Fort Knox of interviewees, was the key to unlocking the story of her father, Marty Merris.

Good ol’ Marty, who’d gone from baseball hero to villain faster than you could say “strike three” when the guy rocked the Texas Rangers with a bribery scandal in the 1970s.

Nick’s mind raced with questions. Had mobsters strong-armed Marty? Were there politicians involved, trading base hits for votes as many suggested? What could possess a man to throw away his career faster than a 100-mph fastball?

It wasn’t Nick’s usual beat. He was more “Who scored the winning touchdown?” than “Who scored illegal payoffs half a century ago?”

But Merris was special.

He was the Babe Ruth of screw-ups, the Mickey Mantle of missed opportunities. And now, sports-crazed Dallas was about to open a shiny new museum, determined to keep Merris’s name out of it like he was Voldemort in cleats.

Nick’s producer at CBS, Jack Gallagher, a man who collected sports memorabilia like dust bunnies, itched to donate his extensive Merris collection to the museum, but the powers-that-be were having none of it.

In the cutthroat world of sportscasting, where job security was about as stable as potato chips in a hurricane, Nick knew uncovering the story could be his golden ticket.

If he could crack snag the interview and drill down to the truth, Jack promised him a lead spot. It was the journalistic equivalent of being called up to the majors.

Nick’s research file was thick enough to stop a bullet or at least a firmly thrown baseball, but without Matilda’s insights, it was all speculation.

Exhausted but wired, Nick checked his voicemails. First up, his mother in Florida. She wanted him to visit for Christmas to spend quality time with her and her new husband, Terry in The Villages.

Ah yes, Terry, the stepdad who called Nick “son” with all the warmth of a principal calling a troublemaker to his office, while only being seven years older than Nick.

Nick filed that invite under “Thanks, but I’d rather get a root canal.” Maybe he’d visit his dad in Houston instead. Or perhaps he’d just stay in Dallas and marry his job since that seemed to be the only committed relationship he was capable of maintaining.

And then, like a bolt from the blue, a recorded voice on his phone, cut through his thoughts.

“Don’t bother coming to the party.”

Nick blinked, wondering if he’d accidentally stumbled into an alternate universe where former girlfriends left curt voicemails instead of passive-aggressive social media posts. He replayed the message, and yep, there it was again.

Liv Kearns, telling him not to come to her parents’ anniversary party with all the warmth of an ice sculpture.

No “Hi, Nick.” No “How’ve you been?” Not even a “Please don’t come” to soften the blow. Just a verbal door slam that left him wondering if he’d stepped into a time machine and gotten dumped all over again.

He played the message a third time, dissecting it like game tape.

Why had her sister Amy even invited him if Liv didn’t want him there?

Then again, maybe Liv initially didn’t know he’d been invited and then called to cancel when she found out.

Maybe Amy tried to play matchmaker and Liv killed the whole thing with an aburpt voicemail.

He hadn’t decided whether to go on not, but the idea had been tempting. Especially when he thought Liv was behind the invitation. His social life in Dallas so far consisted of high-fiving the delivery guy and having significant conversations with his houseplants.

The last time he’d seen Liv flashed through his mind like a highlight reel of regret. He’d tried to explain why he wasn’t ready for a long-distance relationship after landing his first job at the Chicago Sun. That had gone over as well as suggesting the Cubs move to New York.

If there was a Hall of Fame for life regrets, breaking up with Liv would be his MVP. He’d been more in love with her than any woman before or after, but she’d been ready to go all-in, and he’d still been playing in the minor leagues of commitment.

He loved sports, loved the thrill of the story, the adrenaline rush of a live broadcast. It was a lifestyle that left about as much room for domestic bliss as a New York studio apartment.

Liv had tempted him to reconsider once, which was precisely why he should’ve turned down the party invitation faster than a batter ducking a wild pitch.

Maybe part of him had wanted to see her again, to test if the old spark was still there, but now she’d decided for him, slamming that door shut with the finality of a walk-off home run.

He played her message a fourth time.

There was something in her voice—a breathy, seductive undertone that contradicted her icy words. Classic Liv. On the surface, she was all business, cool as a cucumber in a snowstorm. But underneath? Pure fire. The most passionate woman he’d ever known.

She was genuine, natural, and sexy as hell without even trying. She’d rocked his world like a 9.0 on the Richter scale. He knew what he wanted in a woman, and he couldn’t help wondering if Liv still checked all the boxes.

Nick shook his head, trying to clear it. He wasn’t one for wallowing in the past or second-guessing decisions. That was more Liv’s department. If she was uncomfortable with him coming to her parents’ party, so be it.

His situation hadn’t changed. He still worked crazy hours. Still covered more night and weekend events than a vampire DJ. He didn’t have time for anything more than casual flings if he wanted to make it to the big leagues of broadcasting.

And boy, did he want that. More than anything. Or at least, that’s what he kept telling himself as he replayed Liv’s message for the fifth time.

Shaking off thoughts of Liv, Nick refocused on his Merris mission. After a weekend of staking out Matilda’s house in Kringle, during which he’d nearly frozen solid waiting for her to emerge, he was ready to try a new approach.

Matilda, it turned out, was something of an artiste. A minor talent, but still on the client list of a Dallas PR firm, William Lawrence Associates. If Nick played his cards right, maybe he could schmooze his way into Matilda’s good graces through her publicist.

Later, when he had time, he might call Liv back. He wondered if she still wore that vanilla perfume that turned him on, but it looked as if he would never get close enough to know.

Mostly, he wondered if she still hated him. Because he couldn’t blame her if she did.

* * *

“I love my life,” Liv muttered.

She hung her mid-calf black length coat on the hall tree in the corner of her cubicle, a space so small it made Harry Potter’s cupboard look like a penthouse suite.

Mostly, it was true.

She usually enjoyed the three-block walk from her rental to the quaint red brick building on Main Street where William Lawrence Associates had opened their second branch last year.

She didn’t even mind the cramped space where she worked, although the florescent lightening was about as soothing as a disco ball in a library.

Once immersed in the business of the day, she rarely noticed the blandness of her surroundings.

Mondays were always busy, but today started off bumpier than a camel ride through the Sahara. For one thing, a college intern was there ahead of her, working at one of the two computers in the room.

Liv didn’t dislike Brandi Jo Willis but sharing the cubicle with her was like having sand stuck in her swimsuit—irritating, uncomfortable, and impossible to ignore.

This morning, the too-perky, twenty-one-year-old blonde was dressed for success in a black jersey suit with a skirt so short it could double as a handkerchief. The jacket was buttoned tighter than Liv’s budget, hugging Brandi Jo’s waist and featured a plunging neckline.

“Good morning, Miss Kearns,” Brandi Jo chirped, refusing to call Liv by her first name. “Mr. Bosworth asked me to finish some work for him. You don’t mind, do you?”

“No, that’s fine,” Liv said. “How long will it take? I planned on having you do some research for me.”

In fact, she really needed help today. She felt drained after canceling her parents’ party. Everyone had asked for details about the divorce, turning her into a reluctant town crier for her family’s tragedy.

Liv pulled her white cardigan more tightly around her, still shivering from the walk to work in bone-chilling blasts coming off Kringle Lake. Winters in North Central Texas could be as unpredictable as a cat’s mood—pleasant one day, frigid the next.

This December was shaping up to be colder than usual.

Unlike Brandi Jo, who dressed as if she was going clubbing in August, Liv bundled up in black trousers and a turtleneck sweater underneath her cardigan.

Still, she couldn’t seem to warm up. Maybe it was the cold, or perhaps it was the icy feeling of impending doom creeping up her spine.

“Boz, I mean, Mr. Bosworth said to take as long as I need,” Brandi Jo said, her focus never leaving the computer screen.