Pine and Mistletoe Mischief: Timberheart Grove, #1

By Jilli Waters

The trees and ribbon aren't the only thing getting tangled this holiday season.

When my ex and I broke up, we split up our small town into pieces, like my heart. The last thing I want to see is him at my childhood favorite place: Timberheart Grove Christmas Tree Farm. So when he shows up at Timberheart Grove on opening day with his new girl, I'm livid that he's taken another thing away from me. Lashing out, I take a rake to his pickup truck.

Now, I'm paying back my dirty deed by doing farm work in the frigid snow. And who is ensuring I wrap the ribbons, wrangle the wreaths, and trim every tree properly? My brother's heartthrob best friend—Hudson Timberlake, and though he is completely off-limits to me, things are heating up fast.

His crooked smile, skillful axe throws, and flirtatious attempts can't crack my humbug attitude. The sizzle between us might melt the snow, but it won't melt my heart. 

Pine and Mistletoe Mischief is a spicy, small-town, holiday, best friend's sister romance with a cinnamon roll hero who falls first, she's the grump, stand alone novella in the Timberheart Grove world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jilli Waters
• Release date: Dec 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223495437

Jilli Waters

Jilli Waters is a furiously optimistic Pisces who believes that strong, independent woman deserve a happily ever after. When not reading and writing, she can be found gazing at the stars, soaking her feet in the water, and planning adventures with her family.

Book preview

Pine and Mistletoe Mischief

A Timberheart Grove Novella

Jilli Waters

Hutia LLC

Copyright © 2023 Jilli Waters

All rights reserved

This is a work of make-believe. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher. Don't be a pirate.

V1.2

Published by Hutia LLC

Cover design by: @germancreative

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Books By This Author

About The Author

Chapter 1

HUDSON

G et a move on, Hudson! This cocoa isn’t going to make itself! Gavin is completely serious as he eggs me on.

Dude. It’s been a long week. And I just spent the past two hours snow-blowing. You’re welcome.

Gavin doesn’t thank me. He rolls his eyes and flips me the bird. He sets out the giant can of cocoa powder mix on the counter and shoves it toward me.

You know, honey attracts more bees than bird flipping, I say as I hold the can in one hand to read the instructions. This takes five minutes, and it’s only nine AM. I think you need to chill. We don’t open until eleven.

Look at my to-do list! Jude and Aiden are still setting up lights and snacks and ribbons and wreaths. The goat farm people aren’t here yet. The bakery vendor texted that she’s running late. I just want something to be done so I can mark it off! Gavin waves his overly creased notebook paper at me frantically. His eyes look slightly unhinged.

Sighing, I pop open the can and pour the whole thing in the cauldron pot, then put it under the sink to fill with water. So, I won’t turn the heat on yet because it will just burn. I’ll set up the games and goat pens. But listen to me, I hold Gavin with my stare, you gotta calm the fuck down. It’s opening day yes, but it’s just one day. Breathe. Grabbing my thermos, I pour him a cup of coffee. Slow down and drink this.

Thanks, he mumbles, but he does as he’s told. After a few minutes of quiet, he says, I just want it to go over well. I want to prove to Dad that we can do this. We can handle the farm end and the business end, ya know? They deserve a break.

Hand on his shoulder, it’s the closest we are going to get to hugging today or maybe this year unless Mom makes us. I get it. I feel the same way. But pissin’ everyone off before we even get started isn’t going to help. Gav, Mom and Dad are proud of us. They trust us. Let’s go sell trees, but let’s have fun doing it.

Gav has that look that says he just smashed his thumb with the hammer, and he might cry or shit his pants. I shake my head at him. I’m not hugging you.

Exhaling hard, he sets the coffee cup in the sink and walks out the door. We’ve got two hours. Let’s hustle! he shouts on his way out.

By four o’clock, the sky is gray and promising more snow. As slow and tedious as snow-plowing is, I’m praying to the snow gods that those clouds shit a ton of snow on us. Christmas trees always sell better when it’s snowy.

The gravel parking lot is full of cars. The fields are full of kids and adults pulling tree sleds, searching for their perfect, magical Christmas tree. The barn is full of laughter as folks drink hot cocoa (made by yours truly), eat pastries and peppermint fudge, and watch baby goat acrobatics. Woodstove ablaze, Aidan has set up a playlist of Christmas favorites on the speakers.

Everything looks and feels like a sparkly success.

People slap my brothers and me on the back, ask about our parents, and wish us a Merry Christmas. Dad and Mom are enjoying a well-earned Caribbean cruise. I’m sweating in my Carhartt overalls as I make the rounds. This must be how the elves feel, slaving away in the workshop all year.

After I check on Jude and the tree wrapping machine—the twine keeps getting jammed. I walk toward the parking lot looking for Gavin to give him a Bailey’s coffee for celebration.

That’s when I hear glass breaking and yelling. Gavin yelling. I set the mug on a fence post and take off at a sprint.

The sight before me is like nothing I’ve ever seen before. The curviest woman, in skin-tight jeans and a fluffy red coat, dark curly hair bouncing with her every move, is swinging a stick at a truck.

Oh no, it’s a rake. Our rake. She’s keyed, or raked, down the side