Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 122216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 611(@200wpm)___ 489(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 611(@200wpm)___ 489(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Holiday Treats includes:
Snow Angel
She wants to beat him in the holiday lights competition; he just wants her.
Christmas Crush
Christmas in Reindeer Valley has never been hotter. Will their second chance lead to happily ever after?
Santa Material
A big bear of a Santa and the handy woman he loves. He’s more than ready to fill her up with Christmas cheer.
Knocking up his Bride
She’s stranded. He’s interested. A fierce mountain man meets his match in this snowy love story.
AND a special holiday short starring Nick and Sophia from His Virgin Queen entitled His Missing Queen.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
SNOW ANGEL
SNOW ANGEL
My house may be small, but its Christmas lights are the best on the street. Perfectly coordinated each year, my holiday display can’t be beat. I reign supreme. At least I did. Until he moved in across the street. Brendan. Who does he think he is? Just because he’s handsome and makes my parts tingly doesn’t mean I’ll let him beat me. This Christmas, he’s going down.
Ariadne waits for the clock to tick over to December 1. She’s poised over there, ready to spring into action with her curvy body and Christmas spirit. She goes all out for the holidays. This Christmas, I intend to go all out for her.
1
BRENDAN
I sip my coffee slowly. It’s freshly brewed and just short of scalding. The clock ticks to my right as I sit in my worn but comfortable side chair and stare across the street. My wooden blinds are slatted just enough for me to look out but not be seen, and my house is dark. By all appearances, I’m sound asleep, perhaps knocked out from too many Thanksgiving leftovers and a hit of eggnog. That’s what she’ll think, anyway.
Charlie jumps onto my lap and curls up, his fluffy orange tail serving as a pillow for his chin. He doesn’t seem perturbed even though I’m not in bed where I’m supposed to be.
“How you doing, old boy?” I scratch the top of his head and take another sip of coffee.
He purrs in answer.
The clock ticks, the wind blows, and the sliver of moon sits high overhead.
It’s quiet.
Peaceful.
Then the clock ticks over to 12:00 am, December 1.
A light flicks on in the cottage across the street, its neat shrubs all in a row like pawns on a chessboard, ready for war.
“Here she goes.” I can’t stop my smile when I see her front door pop open and the porch light go on.
She’s wearing a dark sweater, gloves on her hands, a red pompom knit hat, and jeans. It’s frigid outside, but she’s coming out here to work. Her effort will keep her warm.
Glancing my way, she pauses for only a moment before reaching back inside the house and hauling out an enormous Christmas wreath.
“I bet she made that herself.” I scratch under Charlie’s chin.
The wreath is round and perfect, the holly leaves just so, the red berries decorating it at the perfect angles, and two cardinals perching along the top. She has a knack. I’ve never doubted it. In the three years I’ve lived here, she’s never failed to impress me.
Scurrying back inside, she closes the door for no more than a minute, then she reappears with a large box in her arms. She’s so small, it’s a wonder she doesn’t topple over, but she manages it, setting it gingerly on her dormant grass and opening the top.
What happens next is a dance that I watch every year—one that warms me even as it vexes me. This woman, Ariadne Morton, is relentless. Her hair is tucked neatly inside her knit cap, but I know it’s blonde and long. Her hips flare out, her waist narrows just a bit, and her breasts could be considered small by modern standards. But to me, they’re perfect.
I watch her the same as always. She carefully lifts out string after string of lights from her box. She’s run an extension cord from the plug to the right of her red front door and tests each strand before unfurling it on the “good” side of the yard or dropping it into a heap on the “bad” side of the yard, reserved for lights that refuse to do their job.
Meticulous and exacting, she assembles her troops. Each strand of lights, each window wreath, each bow—she’ll work them all into her design.
The first year I lived here, she didn’t get up at midnight on the first day of December. Back then, she decorated on the first, but wasn’t quite so rigid about it. She waited until the sun rose and hung her wreath and strung her lights.
Then I put up some lights of my own.
She put up more.
Curious, I added a snowman.
She added two.
Even more curious, I strung lights along the roofline of my house.
She strung digital icicle lights that looked like white starbursts of snow falling along her eaves.