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The hour flies by and soon my booth is besieged by enthusiastic attendees eager to complete their holiday shopping in between meeting their favorite celebrities. Pictures with Calder Mayfield, Macy Adams, and Thatcher North are proudly shoved in my face as everyone gushes over their interactions.
“Ms. Heights? We’re ready for you on Stage B for the ornament contest,” a volunteer says after waiting patiently for me to finish wrapping a customer’s gift.
“Oh, thanks for letting me know. It’s easy to lose track of time in the middle of all this.” I wave a hand toward the crowd of people flitting around the vendor section. We’re cordoned off from the celebrities by a tapestry of silver and gold curtains, though the roar of chatter rising above the makeshift wall makes it obvious that things are more chaotic on the other side of the building.
The volunteer nods, a bit frazzled based on the wisps of hair escaping her ponytail and the strained smile stretching her lips. “We have double the number of attendees after Thatcher North’s whirlwind romance last year. Everyone wants to witness a Christmas miracle or land an actor for themselves. You can’t imagine the vetting volunteers had to go through this year.”
Placing a Be Right Back placard on the table, I ask Nancy to keep an eye on my booth while I’m gone before following Elyse, according to her nametag, into the fray. “I hadn’t considered that. I remember reading about Thatcher falling for his volunteer, but it didn’t occur to me that more people would show up to MerryCon looking for love.”
“It’s kind of ridiculous.” Elyse sighs. “I mean I love these movies and actors as much as the next person, but they’re actors. They could be completely different than the characters they portray. Besides, who wants to live in Hollywood or whatever?”
“You’ve got a point.” Because Los Angeles is definitely not for me. I love my four seasons, including white Christmases, too much to move across the country for sunny weather, crazy traffic, and a man.
CHAPTER TWO
ELI
Me and glitter don’t go together. Nor do holly jolly Santas or prancing reindeer. Yet that’s what I’ve got to work with for this damn contest.
Make the most festive ornament you can, and fans will vote on the winner!
That had been the annoyingly cheerful announcement before the six of us participating began stuffing our clear plastic ornaments with holiday fripperies. I already lost the gingerbread house contest earlier after my roof caved in from one too many gumdrops. I’d prefer not to completely embarrass myself again, but this is ridiculous.
Macy Adams sits across from me and her miniature elves are neatly standing in a row constructing toys. How’d she get them to stay upright in this round ball of torture? My fingers barely fit through the top opening to shove items inside, let alone arrange them perfectly.
“Five more minutes until judging!”
My fellow contestants add a burst of speed to their movements but not me. This is as good as it’s going to get—a toppled Santa squished by Rudolph atop a mountain of fake snowflakes. Nothing says Christmas like that, right?
Screwing the cap onto the ornament, I set it down before leaning back in my chair and crossing my arms, ready to get the fuck out of here. Only a couple more hours. Then I can chill in my hotel room until tomorrow—when the holiday craziness starts all over again.
A woman waits on the side of the stage for us to finish. Shelby Heights. She’s the owner of the local shop that’s sponsoring this event. With her cart of art supplies and denim overalls, she fits the image of a hands-on artisan—even has a cute handkerchief tied around her neck as if at any moment she might need to whip it off and wipe away a stray drop of sweat or unscrew a difficult paint lid.
In short, Shelby looks like the typical small-town heroine in every Hallmark and HAC film I’ve been in. Except for one minor difference… I’d like to explore those lush curves minus the overalls, handkerchief, and everything else hiding her gorgeous body.
Okay, so a major difference.
Because I’ve never wanted to fuck any of my co-stars. No matter the tabloid rumors saying otherwise.
Not that the tabloids care much about me these days. They’re more concerned with current big screen stars than former People’s Sexiest Man Alive winners whose bread and butter are cheesy Christmas movies.
I’m not bitter.
Not at all.
Paparazzi sucks, but at least their constant hounding means you’re still relevant to the mainstream entertainment world—not just the niche Hallmark fanatics. Like my mom. She’s the reason I accepted the lead role in my first holiday film, Snow On the Square, three years ago.
There’d been a lull between jobs when my agent approached me with the offer. Two weeks of shooting in Vancouver, and I’d earned a little money while making my mom extremely happy. Of course, I never envisioned saying yes to one movie would snowball into a slew of seasonal films and becoming a rom-com regular.
The only positives are it’s easy with quick shooting turnarounds and steady paychecks.
“Congratulations, Macy! You’re the winner! MerryCon will be donating $1000 to the charity of your choice. Let’s give all of our contestants a final round of applause. Didn’t they do a great job?” The emcee flashes a broad grin as everyone claps, and I’m thankful this is over, wiping my hands of excess snowflake confetti and returning to my booth with one last curious glance toward Shelby.
Day one of MerryCon comes to a close a few hours later. Instead of booking it out the door like originally planned, though, I head toward the vendors section in search of Shelby. I may not believe in love at first sight or Christmas magic, but lust at first sight? That’s something my body wholeheartedly accepts.
Thoughts of her pretty smile have kept me sane during the hundreds of photo ops today. The fans were kind, and I don’t take their support for granted, even if I can’t relate to their holiday enthusiasm. But now, I’m finally free to do what I want, which is test the softness of Shelby’s lips with my own.
Damn, what’s going on with me? The woman’s a stranger, yet I’m already halfway toward obsession.
