The Mistletoe Inn by Richard Paul Evans Page A

felt top hat walked up to me. “Would you like help with your bag?”
    â€œNo, thank you. I just have the one. It’s not heavy.”
    â€œNo problem; let me get the door for you.”
    He opened the tall wooden doors and as I walked past him I was embraced by the warmth and ambience of the inn’s extravagant lobby. “Greensleeves,” played on a harpsichord, faintly reverberated throughout the room. All around the lobby were flickering red candles, and the room was filled with a pleasant scent of cinnamon, clove, and pine.
    There was a large Christmas tree next to the check-in counter hung with red baubles and silver icicles and tiny white flickering lights. The lobby walls were paneled with dark wood planks, and black metal carriage lamps hung from the high ceiling.
    In the center of the room was a large fireplace with a roaring fire inside. The fireplace’s mantel was made of polished dark pine with a garland draped over it, tied with red velveteen ribbons.
    In front of the fire were two leather sofas and two red-velvet armchairs, arranged beneath a massive light fixture made of deer antlers. The sofas were occupied by an older couple and two young women, all holding wineglasses.
    A few yards in from the door, on a gold easel, was a sign that read:
    Romance Writers
    Conference
    Registration

    An arrow, which looked like the nib of a fountain pen, pointed to a table to the right of the check-in counter. The table was occupied by a lone fortyish woman with short auburn hair and thick-rimmed glasses. There was a small line at the hotel’s check-in counter so I walked to the registration table. The woman smiled as I approached.
    â€œHello,” she said warmly. “Are you here for the conference?”
    â€œYes,” I said, setting down my bag. “I’m Kim Rossi.”
    â€œRossi, let me look that up.” She lifted a two-page roster and slid her index finger down the list, stopping about halfway on the second page. “Rossi,” she said. “Kimberly.”
    â€œThat’s me.”
    â€œYou came clear from Colorado. How was your flight in?”
    â€œIt was good,” I said.
    â€œGood, good. Let’s get you checked in.” She handed me a manila envelope with my name handwritten in purple marker on the outside. “This is your conference packet; it has your credentials along with a list of panels and lectures and some other information.” Then she lifted a white canvas bag from the floor behind her. “And this is a little welcome gift from the Vermont Tourist Association. It has a brochure with some coupons and a list of things to do in the area. There’s also some locally produced maple syrup and maple candies in there. I should warn you, the maple walnut fudge is addicting.”
    â€œThank you,” I said, taking my things. “I’ll be careful with the fudge.”
    â€œAnd don’t forget, our conference opening reception is tonight at 7 p.m. in the grand ballroom. You won’t want to miss it.”
    â€œHow many are registered for the conference?”
    â€œWe have just over a hundred,” she said.
    A voice behind me asked, “What’s the male-to-female ratio?”
    I turned around. Standing behind me was a beautiful woman about my height and maybe a year or two younger. She had long red hair that fell past her shoulders, freckled cheeks, and green eyes that were unusually brilliant.
    â€œUnfortunately, the odds are in favor of the men,” the woman said. “There are only seven men enrolled.”
    â€œMay the odds be ever in your favor,” I said to the woman.
    She looked at me. “That’s from . . . wait, I know this.”
    â€œ Hunger Games ,” I said.
    She clapped. “Yes! Are you Suzanne Collins?”
    I looked at her blankly, wondering if she was serious. “I’m sorry, I’m not.”
    â€œI’m sorry I’m not her either.”