Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 25822 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 129(@200wpm)___ 103(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25822 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 129(@200wpm)___ 103(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
But, I never expected to run into my one-night stand the next morning as I pitched my proposal.
And I never expected his counter proposal…a fake engagement.
The holidays are not jolly this year. After losing my job, they’re downright depressing. It’s all good, I take that big lump of coal, and turn it into an opportunity to get my homemade soaps into Mountain Goat Resort. I just need to convince Graham Steele, the owner.
If I can nail this deal, everything will be merry and bright.
Things veer out of control when I end up nailing a sexy stranger at the resort the night before my big meeting. Before I know it, I’ve got a fake fiancé and twelve days to spend pretending with his family.
I’m definitely going on the naughty list this year, and Graham Steele put me there.
* This is a short, fun holiday romance filled with so much love, heart, and tons of heat.
** This book was previously published as GRAHAM: A Billionaire Fake Romance
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Chapter 1
Zoe
Hell on earth is the twelve days before Christmas. It’s a hodgepodge of demonic last-minute shoppers on a quest to find the must have special something that sold out months ago, tired and cranky workers, and Satan’s own special lair smack dab in the center of Pineview Mall—Santa’s Winter Wonderland.
It’s sad I feel this way. Christmas is my thing. Rudolph is my spirit animal. I’m that person. The one whose tree goes up at midnight on Thanksgiving. The one who has a gingerbread man counting down the days until I can give perfectly wrapped gifts with exquisite bows. Christmas music all day, check. Holiday movies, hot chocolate with homemade whipped cream, and Christmas pjs, check, check, and check in green and gold glitter. I last minute shop just to be a part of the excitement. It’s a holidaygasm. Or was, rather, until I got fired from my marketing job a month ago. You’d think they’d have the decency to downsize after the holidays, but apparently, decency doesn’t fit into the new business model. And neither did I.
Instead of moping, I took that big lump of coal I’d been given, and applied for a position with the most powerful man on the planet—Santa.
Not until I started working as head elf and picture taker for the bearded man himself, did I realize that Satan and Santa are synonymous, just change the letters around.
Ornery people have sucked away my Christmas spirit, but I’ve got one last chance to hold onto it. In a few minutes, I’ll escape this sea of snarled faces and drive to the mountains where my future awaits. Marketing is all about hashtags, so I’ll hashtag this moment #seeya.
“Zoe, you tell them,” Jenna, one of my fellow elves, urges.
Impatient parental eyes in the mile-long line filtering past the twinkling ten-foot Christmas tree throw daggers at me. There will be no crying and screaming in Santa’s lap today, because, thanks to an unexpected bout of stomach flu, Santa has left the building.
A jingle wafts from the bells on my green felt shoes as I walk to the red velvet rope holding the rambunctious crowd at bay and latch the lock into place.
“Santa had a sleigh malfunction,” I tell the mob of people. “Unfortunately, he won’t be here today.”
A groan rumbles like a wave down the crowd, before they disperse in a murmur of disapproval.
“Can you let Santa know I want an Xbox?” the towheaded boy, who was first in line, asks.
“I sure will,” I tell him with a smile. “The elves are in short supply this year, though,” I add as a disclaimer, just in case he doesn’t get one. I’m not sure how I feel any more about this almost satanic ritual of lying to little kids. He gives me a thumb up before darting away with his mom.
“Where is Santa?” a deep voice demands. I turn and am accosted by frosty chocolate eyes set in a face so ruggedly beautiful the tips of my shoes would curl, if they weren’t already. He runs a hand through his jet-black hair, leaving it in perfect disarray. Broad shoulders square off with me and my lies.
“He’s not here,” I answer, glancing down at the dark-haired girl, whose hand he holds.
“Yes, you mentioned his sleigh troubles.” His eyes glide over the red hat covering my brown hair. “But I’m sure he could Uber to fulfill his obligations. So, where is he?”
Does he really think I’m going to tell the truth in front of little ears? Tall, dark, and handsome arches a brow, waiting for my answer.
“How old are you?” I ask, losing my last bit of Christmas spirit.
“He’s thirty-two,” the little girl answers.
“So you’re old enough to know how this works.” I place my hands on my hips. “There is no Uber at the North Pole. There’s a giant sleigh with reindeer, that’s how it works. If your daughter—“