Christmas in Dixie: A Sweet Southern Romantic Comedy, E-Book

I really want a ring before subjecting Collins to my redneck relatives. So I'm relieved when he has to work over the holidays.

All I want is a low-key Christmas in Alabama with my family. Well, that and the snow I believe is coming. My perfect holiday is ruined the moment Collins shows up in my mama's kitchen ... escorted by my county sheriff ex-boyfriend.

I can honestly say I haven't been this surprised since my cousin went to jail.

Chapter One

Lacie

“With a cold front moving in Christmas Eve, it looks like
Atlanta might just get a white Christmas. So keep an eye on the roads. I’m Lacie Sanderson, on location in downtown Atlanta, wishing you all a safe
holiday.”

I put on the smile that helped me win Apple Sauce Queen my junior year of high school and wait for Dustin’s signal. After an awkward minute, he nods, and the camera light stops blinking.

“That’s a wrap, Lacie.”

I immediately slump my shoulders and relax my quivering cheeks. “Thank God, it’s freezing out here.” That came out a little too southern, as does most everything I say when the camera isn’t rolling.

“Well, you’re headed west. Mark said the precipitation should fizzle out before it reaches Alabama.”

I arch my eyebrow at Dustin. “No, it’s going to move faster than Mark thinks. Alabama will have snow by Christmas morning, if not sooner.”

Dustin shakes his head and chuckles. “Whatever you say, Lacie Bug.”

I frown. He’ll never let me live down the day my parents visited The Weather Channel and spilled the beans on my childhood nickname.

Dustin continues packing up his camera as I remove my earpiece. Once everything is put away in the news van, he wishes me a Merry Christmas and heads back toward the station.

I blow into my chapped hands and hop in my Honda CR-V. I turn on the heater and choose
my favorite Christmas music station. It’s only a few miles to my apartment, but it takes a half hour thanks to all the rush-hour traffic running both ways. I assume half the people are headed to work and the other half out of town. Over the past few years, I’ve met very few people in Atlanta who are actually from Atlanta.

After witnessing an exchange of horn honks and obscene gestures among my fellow commuters, I make it home. I’ve got to finish packing and make sure everything is in order so I can leave after seeing Collins. My insides warm, and I smile.
Not the fake Apple Sauce Queen smile I reserve for on-camera, but my natural, not-so-over-the-top smile. Collins and I met on New Year’s Eve last year and have dated ever since.

He checks off all my boxes. He’s handsome, successful, smart, and compassionate, and he’s been going to church with me. I can totally see us getting married one day. Which is why I’ve made every excuse under the sun to keep him away from my family.

As my G-Maw would say, they’d have him running like a chicken with his head cut off.

In high school, my daddy strategically cleaned his guns at the dining room table whenever a new guy would pick me up for a date. And he still says he can’t understand why I broke up with Bradley. Ugh. From leading our high school football team to win state to serving as the Apple Cart County sheriff, Bradley
Manning has made the whole town of Wisteria, Alabama, practically worship him.

I roll my eyes as I hop out of my crossover and lock the door behind me. Daddy is the least of my worries. My extended family is the real reason I want to keep Collins under wraps until I lock him down.

I go inside my apartment and take a whiff of the air. I should probably wash my egg skillet soiling in the sink before I leave. When you have to get to work before six a.m., you learn to let a few things slide.

I drop my purse on the tiny kitchen counter and roll up my coat sleeves. As I scrub the yellow scales on my not-so-nonstick skillet, my mind wanders. I imagine walking down the aisle toward Collins in a beautiful gown, with my arm looped through Daddy’s. Then my perfect day is ruined by my crazy Aunt Misty whistling loudly and bringing everyone’s attention to her improper choice of wedding attire.

I wince as I rinse the pan. Yeah, we’re definitely eloping. With any luck, I can keep Collins away from the full Mayberry clan at least until the ink on our marriage license dries. Then it will be too late for him to cut and run, as G-Maw would say.

I reach for my hand towel that reads, “Christmas Cookies and Hallmark Movies.” I dry my hands, then spread the towel across the counter and set the pan on top to dry. The hand towel takes up half my counter space.

When I moved to Atlanta, my choices were get a teeny tiny apartment or a roommate. And
since I knew absolutely nobody and I’m not claustrophobic, I chose Option A. I’m not a huge fan of the city, but working for The Weather Channel has been my dream since fourth grade, when Jim Vann visited our school.

In Alabama, we have a weird hierarchy of celebrities. There’s Nick Saban, the Alabama football coach, followed by two heavyset guys who have a radio show about little more than food and corny impersonations. Then there’s Jim Vann. He’s the king of weather in the southeast.

I’ve watched him navigate us through every storm throughout my life. I’ve always had a fascination with weather, but when he visited my elementary school and showed
us weather graphs and polygons in real time, I made up my mind then and there to become a weather girl. But not just any weather girl. I wanted to anchor the news for The Weather Channel. And with an on-camera position in the field, I’m well on my way to fulfilling that dream.

I remove my coat and lay it across my purse, then head to my bedroom. My suitcase is already open on the bed, with most of my clothing folded beside it. I walk to my closet and stand on my toes to rummage through the top shelf. Or more like the only shelf. If I don’t take my own coveralls, I’ll end up wearing my brother’s skanky hunting clothes to the family hog killing.

As soon as I smoosh my coveralls in the corner of my suitcase, I change out of my work clothes. The last thing I want to do is wear slacks, heels, and a blouse on a four-hour drive to the middle of nowhere, so I exchange that outfit for my thickest sweatshirt and some yoga pants.

I check my appearance in the full-length mirror hanging from my closet door. There. A bulky Mississippi State sweatshirt to make my brother mad, along with slightly faded elastic-waist pants. The perfect attire for Wisteria.