Spotlight & Giveaway: Last Christmas Crush by Mia Heintzelman

Today, HJ is pleased to share with you Mia Heintzelman’s new release: Last Christmas Crush

A beautiful hopeless romantic and her ex’s guarded best friend return home for the holidays and back into each other’s lives in this festive, bighearted, forbidden romance about letting go and letting fate.

Chiara Fortemani is home for the holidays—technically, her family’s tiny villa—where she’ll explore post-breakup digs and grow their vineyard’s brand during Napa’s annual Christmas food and wine festival. But as she interviews local wood craftsmen to curate custom gifts, she’s shocked to run into Jameson West… her ex’s best friend.

Jameson has loved Chiara since he carved her a birdhouse in woodshop. She’s everything he ever wanted: beautiful, funny, loyal… but thanks to the bro code, off-limits. Now a rising investment banking star, Jameson’s in town temporarily to help the family business tackle seasonal contracts. West Woodworks has been making Fortemani casks for ages, so the job will be easy. It’s the unexpected reunion with newly single Chiara that has him on shaky ground.

As they design together, days in the lumberyard and nights on steamy calls create magic. When Jameson confesses his feelings, Chiara is amazed by this sweet, attentive man who always should’ve been her first choice. But Jameson is still her ex’s best friend. Is uprooting her life for a man again a huge mistake…or a Christmas miracle?

Enjoy an exclusive excerpt from Last Christmas Crush 

CHAPTER ONE
Chiara

Every time I look around Lamar’s living room, I feel like I crashed a party. A boring years-long kid’s party, at that. It’s like this house. This place where we were supposed to be making a home together. It’s a giant colorless piñata that I’d been wildly swinging at—and clearly missing—because now that it’s broken open and the blindfold’s off, I’m disappointed.

Where’s all the pretty, glittery candy scattered over the floor? The sweet souvenirs I was promised?

I feel my face twisting.

The Sharpie, poised over the empty box on which I’ve written the words LIVING ROOM, trembles in my hand.

Look good, Chiara.

I tip out my tongue between my clamped lips as I set the Sharpie down and push to my feet, completely flummoxed as I scan the room.

“Nuh-uh.” I halfway laugh. “Seriously, not one thing?”

No.

My heart shoves against my ribs, the sound whooshing loud and determined in my ears as I spin around. My focus darts this way and that. I’m searching every inch of this papier-mâché dream house. Hunting, more like it, for a book or a blanket, even a tiny decorative figurine. Seriously, anything. Any teensy thing at all that represents me in this space.

Good God.

“There must be something…”

I feel how Alice must’ve felt returning from Wonderland.

The inside of this home—if we can call it that and not a four-star hotel (I’m rating down for the service)—is small. It brims with glass at every turn. It mutes the senses with overpriced, monochromatic leather furnishings, and bookshelves meticulously staged with white books and their gold-leaf spines. The gray barstools neatly stowed under the island. The gold-accented appliances. Which of course means, we must also have the matching charcoal-hued armchairs. All of it’s my boyfriend’s—make that, as of three days ago, my ex-boyfriend’s—idea of understated elegance. All curated to elevate “our” style.

Okay, sure.

“Our style?” I snicker, my fingers wiggling restlessly. I’m on the edge of shaking because… “Where? Please, tell me, where are the traces of me, Lamar, because I’m looking?”

Resounding silence mocks me.

I halfway expect God’s deep, bass-filled voice to bellow from the heavens with a profound answer on my behalf. One that’ll make these flimsy walls shake with divine intervention.

Sadly, The Almighty seems to be at a loss, too. How in, er…His name, should he know?

Based off the facade of a life I’ve lived thus far?

I don’t know who I am, only who I’m supposed to be: the thick-skinned but amiable Fortemani girl—correction: woman—who’d never ever gamble on the things that matter because all of Napa’s watching.

Always watching.

They want to see how the most prominent family will live up to our “strong hands” name. Or, how we’ll continue making reserve wine out of life’s rotten grapes.

It’s our MO.

Mom did it when we lost Dad and Nono. Against the odds, single-handed, she built Fortemani Enterprises into a thriving vineyard and winery brand at the helm of a conglomerate of restaurants, delis, and businesses. And she made it look easy. My older brothers, Stefano and Dante, rose to the occasion, too, respectively stepping in as her right hand business-wise and marketing us as a must-visit getaway experience. On the back of a clickbait ad copy of a “Grab Your Girl Squad” wine country getaway, no less. Even Marcello, the baby, he’s self-assured and has a crap-load of innovative ideas, waiting for his shot to prove himself.

Plain and simple, this family is known to set examples…NOT turn ourselves into cautionary tales.

Yet, somehow, here I am, decidedly still playing the part of the tough-as-nails sister, cracking under the pressure of a post-breakup move-out. I’m thirty-two with niente to show for it.

I twist the silver band on my right ring finger, the cool metal taunting me, challenging me to take it off.

“Got to hand it to you, Chiara. At least you’re committed to being the screw-up…”

Never mind wasting two years living together plus four years breaking up and getting back together since college—not including sophomore and junior years of high school. I was going to be his goddamned fiancée. But I guess, we never graduated from promises.

I wanted marriage; he didn’t.

The thing is, I know I need to figure out who I am aside from boyfriends, family, and all of Napa, filling in the blanks for me.

Trust, I’m fully aware.

But even as my heart wrenches at all the blaring almosts… Even as I stand in the middle of this pre-filled decorative container that Lamar strung up and pulled out of my reach, annoyance flares in my gut—

“Ooh, child, I’m finally here…” My sister-in-law, Morgan, bursts through the front door, winded and bogged down with a gang of flattened moving boxes tucked under her arms as she plants herself beside me. “Do not ask what I had to do to get my hands on these.”

I quirk a lazy smile. “Girrrl, the way life is lifing today… You could’ve done something strange for a little piece of change, and I wouldn’t even have the energy to question you.”

She giggles in solidarity.

We’re both in jeans, loose T-shirts, and comfy sneakers. Our bales of textured ebony curls are pulled back in floral and dotted scarves. Dressed and ready to load up my compact world.

“Uh, th-this definitely shouldn’t take all day…” I stammer, grossly understating the truth. Especially, when I consider the only piece of furniture I purchased is a mattress that now holds overrated and expired memories. “Thanks for coming, though.”

Morgan squints.

Not that she’ll ever acknowledge my appreciation. To her, it’s wholly unnecessary. She married my brother, Dante, last Saturday. Wednesday afternoon, I asked Lamar where things were going with us, and by that night we were over…for good this time. Now, a week into Morgan’s newlywed bliss, here she is with armfuls of boxes because that’s what sisters do. We show up for each other. Come move out, move in, and any other day of the week. Even Turn-Up Tuesdays and Wine-Down Wednesdays with our Sister Circle—

Shit! Shoot.

The moving party…

Panic surges inside me as I strain to see the time on the microwave, but it’s too late to stop this train from pulling out the station.

With a coach-like gleam in her sparkly brown eyes, Morgan claps her hands together, signaling go time.

“Okay, it’s after two. We need all our ducks in a row if we’re going to finish the move before he gets off work.”

She means Lamar, but she refuses to utter his name.

“Mm-hmm.”

“I figure, we designate a central area for packing supplies, assign rooms to each person, double-teaming if we must.” She hammers on logistics, scanning the room. “I say, we let the guys get the furniture out of the way first, then—”

She breaks off mid-sentence, straightening.

Oh, no.

Disapproval etches the pursed set of Morgan’s full red lips. Slowly, she darts a chastising glance from the untouched living room to me.

“Wait, before you say anything, I know this looks bad. But there’s a great reason this box is still empty…” I pull in a deep breath, unenthused to tell on myself.

I open my mouth to speak then close it.

My guess is, hey, I know I asked everyone to help me, but I’ve made a gross miscalculation—packing, self-purpose, moving here in the first place for a man who thinks six years of our lives is moving too fast, probably won’t go over well.

Morgan blinks a good dozen times like she’s carefully weighing her next words.

“Um, ma’am…the entire Sister Circle is on the way. Your ex-hole gets off in four hours.” Her tone takes on a false sweetness. “And I don’t know if you remember but my road-raging husband is outside with Marcello, circling the block in a sixteen-foot moving truck…”

“Shoot—”

“Is exactly right!” She nods slowly, watching as that terrifying picture sinks in.

By itself, San Francisco parking is a nightmare. But my knucklehead brothers baiting each other while maneuvering a ginormous moving vehicle… Dangerous on so many levels. Plus, our best friends, who I promised a “fun” moving party—i.e. wine and relaxing while my three brothers lift heavy boxes—are almost here.

We need to make this snappy, indeed.

“Okay, so, I’ve already got one box…” I trail off, weakly fanning my hand out to the sad little collection of my PlayStation, toiletries, the last of my clothes and shoes, and an old keepsake birdhouse I’ve had since high school. “Then I labeled another, and I was fully prepared to fill it.”

Morgan nods in impatient anticipation.

Rightly, she’s waiting for any credible reason why none of the bulky, heavy, or fragile items are ready to be hauled in an orderly fashion to the truck bound for Napa.

Ringing the moving alarm was my brilliant epiphany. Could I have waited to call in my troops to cart me off into hiding? Absolutely. Lamar said I could stay in the guest room until I found my own place, to which I immediately thought, the freaking hell I will! When hell freezes over.

Uh, self-preservation.

“I um…” I’m stalling.

Naturally, with the holidays coming up, the only viable solution—one that allows me to look myself in the mirror daily, and bonus, be with family during the happiest time of year—is holing up on the vineyard. What’s a few months? Mom’s asked me to fix up the villa during my last three visits. I figure, remotely managing the restaurants and delis, and focusing on our brand’s community relations will leave plenty of time for breaking out the paintbrushes, rewiring my life, and scouring the interwebs for a decent apartment so I can slink back to the city come the new year.

Reset, focus on work, search for a sardine can to live in.

Simple.

“You were saying…” Morgan shifts on her feet, still waiting.

I quirk a shaky smile.

Half of me considers a long, drawn-out speech about my apparent third-life crisis. The self-preserving part spares her, though.

Instead, I blurt out, “None of it’s mine.”

Morgan must detect the solemn edge in my voice. Immediately, she drops her boxes, and fixes me with a stare that’s evidently meant to peer into the darkest depths of my soul.

“None of what is yours?” She enunciates, giving the room a quick scan. “The appliances, the furniture… I already know those tacky, fake-ass books aren’t yours.”

Words clog in my throat as I look again at the staged gold-leaf spines, punctuating a truth I’ve ignored for too long.

“I moved into his world,” I say.

A spark of clarity ignites at the hopeful tidbits of what I do know about myself.

The thing is, I’m drawn to bright, vibrant splashes of reds and yellows. Maybe, a bold Kelly green with a crisp navy. Pinks and oranges on a good day. I need colorful blankets, throw pillows, and rugs to add texture. Interesting, incandescent lighting.

I’ve always loved hotels, but I never wanted to live in one.

Morgan surveys me like she’s turning over this information in her head, reassessing possible solutions.

“None of it’s mine,” I repeat when she still says nothing.

But then she does.

“So, this is all his shit.” Notably, a statement, not a question.

She looks around, disgust curving her upper lip, and I’ve got to smile at her word choice. The distinction is telling. It’s not my stuff, but his shit.

Loyalty in its finest form.

“What about the bedroom?” she asks, circling back to her trademark logistics and organization skillset.

“Yup, and I did the bathroom and laundry room, too.”

Morgan searches my eyes. “I sure as hell hope you stocked up on toilet paper and detergent, too. On principle.”

A giggle rises in my throat.

She’s heated.

“Look, I know you all have a ton of history, what with him being your first then reconnecting years later, making you feel at home in college, or whatever.” She sweetly downplays the things that ingratiated me to Lamar. “But can we agree that you owe him nothing? From what you told me, it’s not hard to see that man knew damn well, he was wasting your time.” She smacks her teeth, barely containing her fury for the way Lamar ended things before she forces a perfunctory smile.

I nod, letting Morgan have her moment.

She’s secondhand pissed for me, and I appreciate it more than she’ll ever know. It’s a reminder that no matter how much I cared about him, or what we meant to each other in the past, if he’d moved on, he should’ve considered my best interests. Even if they didn’t include him.

Morgan flutters her lashes and scoffs.

“Back to household cleaning products.” Tunnel-visioned, she refocuses. “My point is, the least he can do is clean your clothes for a few weeks and wipe your—”

“Aspirin?” I save her from herself, outright cackling now. “I did take that brand-new year-supply bottle we got from Costco.”

“Apt, considering he’s the headache.”

I’m shaking my head, smiling but the sadness, anger, and disappointment continue stirring in my head and heart.

Like she’s reading my mind, Morgan nods incessantly, wordlessly giving me permission to spew bile for a co-conspiring audience of one.

“He duped me,” I scoff.

“Damn right he did,” Morgan eggs me on. “It’s okay to not be okay. Speak your truth!”

I pinch my thumbs and fingers together, finding my center for the sermon I’m about to give.

“Oof, Lord! Let me say it louder for the people in the back.”

“All right, now. Talk to me, sis!” Morgan nods.

Her brown eyes mirror all the conflicting emotions brewing inside me.

“When you walked up to this house, what did you see, hmm?” I don’t give her time to answer, but she knows I’m on my venting soapbox. “This will never be Billionaire’s Row, but it might as well be Postcard Row the way he practically sold it to me along with a rusted pipe dream.”

“Come on, tell everyone what he said.”

“‘A mere two blocks down from the famous San Francisco Painted Ladies houses slanted over the hillside like a pastel rainbow.’” I flick my gaze upward. “Here I thought we’d found ourselves a bucket of gold. Turns out it was gold-plated all along.”

Morgan snaps her fingers, an anointed member of the congregation of Risen from the Ashes of Janky Men Church.

“Amen! Amen!”

The rest of the Sister Circle—Seneca, Monica, Valerie, and my pregnant soon-to-be sister-in-law Avery—files into the living room like four gorgeous Fates, willfully joining Morgan in supporting my vent.

Avery nudges Morgan’s shoulder, and whispers loudly, “Which sermon is this?”

“We’re leaving everything behind with the man who shall not be named.”

“Right, okay.” Avery nods, then turns to me, rubbing her adorable, barely detectable bump that she thinks is so huge. “The old has gone, the new has come! Corinthians!”

A collective amen rumbles over the room.

“And another thing,” I blurt out because biblical solidarity is too good to waste. “I hate that couch!”

The entire Sister Circle turn distasteful side-eyes on the L-shaped leather monstrosity.

“Girl, tell us something we don’t already know.” Seneca’s tone dips with her gaze.

“That thing is the picture of amnesia,” Monica adds. “No identity, no clue what time period it’s supposed to be in. Straight out the Millennial gray era. Zero point of view.”

We are a cackling mess.

Until we realize Valerie hasn’t chimed in with her two cents.

We all turn to her.

“Look, you won’t get an argument from me. I never liked him or his ugly-ass, uncomfortable couch. Leave it!” she reasons. “One less shitty, heavy thing we’ve got to lug to the truck.”

Satisfaction skates over my spine.

“Tell me those paintings aren’t the sorriest excuse for art.” I pull in a long breath, emboldened. “No color. No kind of emotion…”

They snap their fingers, punctuating every point.

“And that glass table with his ‘clean lines’…” I roll my eyes. “This is a living room!” I sweep out my arms, yelling. “We were supposed to build a life together. Key word, live together in this room, put up our Christmas tree, bake M&M cookies, and wear those stupid matching pajamas that everyone on Instagram has!”

An exhausted laugh deflates on my tongue.

The thing is, I loathe those picture-perfect people. I know it’s a “Black Mirror” lie. No one who wears matching Christmas pajamas is as happy as they seem. No one’s house is spotless when they’ve got five adorable, cherub-cheeked kids, who they bribed to sit still for a post. Before and after they press RECORD, they argue, scream, and spill all over themselves the same as I do. The reason I know is because they’re human. We’re fallible.

Some of us more than others.

It hasn’t stopped me from wanting post-worthy moments with the love of my life though…

But that’s it, isn’t it?

Lamar wasn’t the love of my life, was he?

Just a long, drawn-out chapter of my life with a man who’s been on the page during some of the hardest parts.

I shove the thought aside, regrouping for my rant.

“It’s the first week of October, and we’ve got no Halloween decorations…” I add, swallowing back coppery hurt.

Seneca tsks. “The shame.”

“The horror,” Monica adds.

“Christmas is no different. In November, there won’t be an ornament or wreath in sight, let alone a tree. It’ll be as stark and cold as a hospital because he waits until December.”

“Now, wait a minute,” Avery says, personally affronted. “What in the Grinchmas? Everybody knows when Mariah Carey proclaims it the day after Halloween, it’s time.”

“Period.” Morgan blinks slowly.

Like a lightbulb, my eyes widen with realization.

“I should’ve known that first Christmas here…” It comes out on a whisper of a revelation.

Long before six years together on Beyoncé’s green earth apparently constituted moving at lightning speed, I think I knew. Lamar picked out every thread and piece of furniture in this place, while I overlaid my dreams about marriage and kids onto a man who never prioritized romance, love, or growing together. I was so busy holding on to all the years we put into this relationship, I somehow missed the fact that all we had was all those years.

“Chiara, don’t go tight-lipped on us,” Valerie says.

I smile, nodding solemnly.

“No, I’m not.” I shake my head, trying to dislodge the thought of being tethered to the past, but I can’t stop thinking that I need to finally cut the cord. Or the rope. I’ve let other people pull the string my whole adult life. First my parents and brothers, then boyfriends. They’ve been controlling the piñata, lifting and pulling it out of my reach. Which college, music, dates. Where I live and what decorations and furniture. Friendships, relationships, love…

I went along with every decision about my life like I wasn’t an active participant.

And I was about to willingly hand that power to my fiancé.

Almost fiancé.

“Girl, but you’ve got that far away, deep thought stare going on.” Morgan’s grin softens.

Seneca tugs me into a side hug. “You know we’re here for you, right?”

“Yes, and I’m so grateful for you all.” I smile at each of these beautiful women, who’ve graciously welcomed me into their circle. They’re my reminder that I’m not lost, just recalculating.

If anything, searching Lamar’s house for traces of me has been strangely, if humbly, eye-opening.

This move, this pause must be about taking stock and ownership of my life. Sure, while I’m in Napa I’ll run a background check on myself. With luck, I’ll pitch my community relations project proposal, and take my first solo lead. I’ll play video games and ride my bike through the hills down to Main Street. Hopefully, I’ll find tiny, familiar pieces of me. Mostly, though, I’ll be searching.

I want something that’s just mine.

Even if it’s my address—not an apartment, but a condo with my name on the deed—I need to own it.

A genuine smile curves my lips.

“All I want are the boxes I packed,” I say. “Everything else can stay.”

“You’re sure?” Morgan asks.

It feels like a silent warning.

When we walk out of here today, no takebacks.

I nod, meeting their stares head-on.

For the first time, this move, the end of this relationship, they feel less like setbacks and more like I’m being rerouted.

“I may not know what I want, but I know it’s not here,” I say as I remove Lamar’s promise ring from my finger and set it on the coffee table. My next house, the next ring I wear for a man, if there’s a next, they’ll be my last.

Excerpt. ©Mia Heintzelman. Posted by arrangement with the publisher. All rights reserved.
 
 

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Meet the Author:

Mia Heintzelman is a polka-dot-wearing, horror movie lover, who always has a book and a to-do list in her purse. When she isn’t busy writing fictional happily-ever-afters, she is likely reading, or playing board games and eating sweets with her husband and two children. She writes fun, unforgettable, more than just laughs romcoms about strong women and men with enough heart to fall for them.

Buy Links: https://tulepublishing.com/books/last-christmas-crush/#order