Holiday for Two (a duet of Christmas novellas) (11 page)

“Well, what does it say?” Griffin asked with impatience.

“It’s an I.O.U.”

“For what? If anything, I owe
you,
Aunt Rosemary. I’ll never be able to thank you enough for all you’ve done for me.”

Carrie looked up. “Your aunt wants to save Archer Hall and wants your company to do it. She’s promised all the funds it will take, with one caveat.”

Griffin spoke without thinking. “Have you lost your mind, Aunt Rosemary? You can’t even imagine what it will cost. Diana, surely you can talk some sense into your mother. This is your inheritance, and your children’s.” He knew he sounded grim, but he stumbled on. “Pardon me, Aunt Rosemary, but at some point, you won’t be with us anymore.”

“Mummy’s already talked to me,” Diana said. “There will be more than enough for us. She’s giving me the New York apartment and this summer house, and has already put generous funds in trust for us. This is her legacy.”

Griffin was confused. “Legacy?”

Aunt Rosemary nodded. “You know how I feel about unfair inheritance laws. To think that my idiot younger brother inherited Archer Hall just because he was a male and then drove it even deeper into the ground than Papa did—it’s offensive, I tell you. Say whatever you will about all those bra-burners, but you must agree they had a point. Until you, Griffin, I despaired of the Archer men. Even my grandpapa was a bit of a dolt. Thank goodness Parliament finally wised up and ruled no matter which sex, Will and Kate’s first child would inherit the throne. I’m a bit disappointed over Georgie, I must admit.” She took a breath.

“I know the Hall is entailed, but there’s nothing that says it cannot be used for a writers’ retreat part of the year. I want to go home, Griffin. Spend my golden years where I grew up. Run workshops for young writers—old ones, too. The house is big enough. When I die, I want the Rosemary Stephens Writers Institute to continue. You’ll have strangers in your house for the next twenty years for a month, but you’ll cope.

“I also want Diana and her children to have an apartment so they can visit with me when they want to. I think change will be good for my writing—I’ve been in a little rut lately. And Carrie, dear, I hope I can convince you to join me. I should so hate to hire a new PA. There would be even more work for you, getting the Institute off the ground, but I know you won’t mind—you love a challenge, and I’ve been a trial to you lately, I know. I’m sure we could get you the necessary papers.”

Griffin could see the gears whirring behind Carrie’s bespectacled eyes.

“You’d have to give up Boston, though, Griffin,” his aunt continued. “I wouldn’t want the renovations to be supervised by anyone else. Do you think your company will be amenable to you transferring back?”

Griffin had calculated the costs to repair Archer Hall down to the last penny. Any renovation company would be happy to get its share of it. The house could serve as a living conservation laboratory and make the firm’s reputation.

“I think so. But Aunt Rosemary, this is going to be expensive.
Really
expensive.” He quoted his estimate and she didn’t even blink.

“I have quite a lot of money, vulgar as it is to discuss. I may have had poor judgment with the men I chose to marry, but my broker is another matter altogether. Capital fellow. Ha! I’ve made a little financial joke.”

Griffin swallowed. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Say yes, Griffin. I haven’t got all the time in the world, you know. By next Christmas I want to be in front of the fire at Archer Hall, with most of the restoration behind us. The following spring we can host our first retreat. Plenty of time to build up buzz, and build, period.”

Could it work? Probably.

But more important, would Carrie come?

Griffin turned to her. “What do you think of my aunt’s idea, Miss Moore?”

“I—I think it’s extraordinary.”

“Well then. Who can argue with that? Thank you, Aunt Rosemary. I accept and promise to do my utmost to bring the project in on time.”

Aunt Rosemary fluttered one of her scarves. “It may have been precipitous, but I’ve already taken a lease on the Grange in Lower Topsham. That way I’ll be able to watch the progress and still be close to home. It’s a lovely property, Carrie, just outside the village. You probably saw the estate agent’s brochure on the bulletin board.”

“The cottage with the roses? I thought it was for inspiration.” Carrie sounded a bit stunned. Griffin wondered if a border collie might be lying on its doorstep in the photograph.

“And so it will be once I’m in it. It’s just the sort of house Miss Patterson would move to now that the highway has cut through her old village. Just think of the bodies she can find in a new locale! Do say you’ll stay with me. I have a friend in Washington who can arrange for your work visa. I’d give you a relocation bonus, of course, and plane tickets for your parents should they want to visit.”

“Can I, uh, may I think about it?” Carrie asked.

“Of course, my dear. No worries. But I don’t know what I’d do without you—you’ve become just like a niece to me. Ha! Wouldn’t it be something if you and my nephew hit it off? Then all the loose ends would be wrapped up in a bright red ribbon. Oops. I’m forgetting about Alice.”

“You can forget about her,” Griffin said. “I have.”

“Really? Well, she was a very nice girl, but Carrie’s much nicer. You’ll see when you get to know her better. Shall we open our presents now?”

Griffin rather thought he’d received enough presents in the past twenty-four hours to last a lifetime. He caught Carrie’s eye, and she gave the faintest of nods.

Yes.
With any luck, his luck had changed.

“Aunt Rosemary, where’s your mistletoe? Before we start ripping and tearing, I have an urge to kiss someone I’m not related to.”

“Don’t bother Dottie in the kitchen or we’ll never get dinner. You’ll have to make do with Carrie. There’s a kissing ball in the front hallway. Didn’t you notice it when you came in?”

No he hadn’t. He held his hand out. “Miss Moore, I feel like a celebratory kiss is in order. Will you do me the honor and make me the happiest of men?”

“You are a
lunatic
,” Carrie repeated as he tugged her out of the room.

“Yes, but a discriminating one. Kiss me, Carrie. It’s Christmas.”

And she did.

While It Was Snowing

by Elyssa Patrick

To those who love beta heroes. This one is for you.

Felicity Evans and Harry Walsh have been best friends forever, but lately, Felicity has noticed the looks Harry has been giving her. And she’s going to do something about it. Sex solves everything, or so she hopes. But she never knew Harry was a virgin—until now. Being snowbound in a Vermont cabin is the perfect opportunity to take things to the next level . . . and perhaps dare to lay her heart out on the line.

ONE

W
HIPPED CREAM.

Yes.
That
was exactly what she needed. The missing ingredient.

And it was a little uncomfortable standing here, stark naked.

The longer she waited for Harry to arrive at the cabin, the longer she started to have all these not-so-random, worrisome questions pop in her head.

Was this the most ridiculous scheme she’d ever thought of?
Quite possibly, yes. Perhaps some would point to the time when she had participated in a flash mob in New York City with a former one hit wonder.

Was standing here naked too obvious?
Like, hey, Harry, I know we’ve been best friends since forever, but ta-da! I have really big boobs and a vagina! Use them! Please! I beg of you!

Was this considered sexual harassment?
After all, what if Harry had decided to wait for her in the cabin only wearing his glasses, an adorable bowtie, and his cock out in full display?

Okay, that would have garnered no complaints on her end.

But . . . perhaps it wasn’t a good idea to stand about with one’s tits, vagina, ass, and body quite like this. She wasn’t a small woman. She was big. Beautiful. And she was confident in who she was—for the most part. Harry knew that about her. Still, he had never seen her
naked
.

What if he didn’t want her?

That would be horrible.

She was also procrastinating, big time.
Gah, get on with it, already, Felicity Anne.
Yes, she would get on with it. It was always a bad sign when she started talking to herself in the third person, as she would adopt a Queen of England accent in her head.

She strode to the fridge and opened it. She’d come prepared for the weekend getaway—Harry still thought their families were coming along (oops)—so, naturally there was an unopened can of whipped cream along with other practical necessities to get them through a wild weekend of mutual nakedness.

Felicity removed the seal and shook the can in one hand, much like those infamous Shake Weight commercials. She started laughing, because the motion did look like she was jerking something off. And now her long-deceased Nana would be proven right: Felicity Anne Evans was surely going to Hell. Well, at least, she would have a good time beforehand—and probably down in Hell, too. Most likely all the good people were there. Discounting the serial killers and Nazis, of course.

Shake, shake, shake.

Nothing worse than squirting out whipped cream and not even getting one spurt.

Shake, shake, shake.

Yup, it had to be ready now. Definitely.

She eyed the can, then her heavy breasts. What to cover, what to cover? Just the nips? Or make it a bikini thing, like that scene from that teen football movie starring Dawson? She had always been a Pacey girl herself, and a part of her held out a secret hope that Pacey and Joey would get together in real life. Yeah. She was totally procrastinating here.

Perhaps she should start down below. That seemed like the wiser idea. Breasts could wait. She aimed the whipped cream can at her vagina and squirted.

“Holy mother of fuuuuuuuuuuuck!” she screamed. “Cold! Cold! Cold!”

She had never used so many exclamation points in her life, not even when she opened her candy store, Fat Lady Sweets, four years ago, on her twenty-fifth birthday.

She gritted her teeth as the cream slipped down into places where whipped cream should never go. “Gahhhhhhhhhhh!”

Felicity quickly covered the rest of her vagina and ignored the dollop of whipped cream on the hardwood floor. She would clean it later. Surely, her body had gotten used to the shock now; therefore, putting it on her breasts wouldn’t be so bad.

Squirt. Squirt. Squiiiiiirt.

“You’re a filthy liar, Felicity Anne!”

And now the whipped cream was sliding down her nipples. Great. She had to fix it. But how?

Arrows.

Yes. She’d make arrows on her body. Why not state the obvious to Harry? Sure, some men didn’t like directions, but Harry was not the typical man. He listened.

She glanced down when she was done. It actually looked okay. A little smeary, but hopefully she wouldn’t be standing here like this for that much—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Harry was here.

Oh God.

Harry.

Was.

Here.

And she was naked.

Covered in whipped cream.

Dripping it actually.

And her best friend since she was
seven years old
was going to walk in that door and never ever ever speak to her again. Because she had whipped cream harassed him. She had to abort the mission. Now.

“Felicity?” Harry asked. “You there?”

She also needed to cover herself. Bathrobe! No, no, it was upstairs. She would never make it in time. And he would see her through the open window in the main family room area.

The closet! It was right near the front door, but if she was quick, she could yank it open, jam herself in her parka that hit her mid-thighs, and make up some excuse. She was very good at making up excuses.

She ran to the closet, just as the front doorknob started turning.

Shit, shit, shit.

Shiiiiiiiit.

She yanked on the closet door. It was stuck. Noooooooo! Harry started to push the front door inward.

Ack!

She crossed the few inches and slammed her body against the front door.

It didn’t close.

She pressed harder, even as Harry pushed back against it.

“Felicity? I think the door is stuck on something. Could you help me out?”

Not in this lifetime.

And who knew Harry was so strong? It wasn’t like he advertised himself like his older brothers, Truman and Del, did. Granted, Truman and Del co-owned a construction business, but Harry must be hiding those muscles under the plaid shirts and corduroy jackets he sometimes wore.

Maybe when Harry pulled off that bowtie, his square-framed glasses, and undid the buttons on his shirt, his chest would be hard and his arms sinewy. She would have to trace her fingers along his abs and his muscles would leap at her touch. He would utter her name in that deliciously low voice of his, and then—

“Felicity, where are you?”

Right. Fantasy on hold. Perhaps if she stretched her arm, she could reach the closet door. It was only a few feet away . . .

She turned sideways, and Harry was able to open the door a little bit more. She quickly faced forward looking into the cabin—Harry wouldn’t be able to see her this way. Then she leaned forward and stretched. Her fingers just grazed the doorknob. Only one more inch, and she’d be home.

“Felicity.” He shoved. Hard. “It’s cold.”

Almost there.

Almost . . .

There—

She reached too far and stumbled toward the closet door, spinning around, just as the front door flew inward, with Harry tripping in.

And he was headed straight toward her.

His blue-green eyes, almost teal-like in their color, widened behind his glasses, taking in her nakedness. He smacked into her. Arms flailed, noses bumped, legs tangled. They crashed to the ground in a snow and whipped cream piled heap.

Harry was on top of her.

When she had fantasized about Harry being on top of her, she had never, ever once thought
this
is how it would turn out.