Page 1 of The Christmas Romance Wish

Emmie

CHAPTER 1

They say love conquers all, but my life story isn’t a romance. Well, if it was, it would be a dramatic tale of unrequited affection for a man I’ve never met.

Cue a lengthy sigh and me flopping theatrically onto a soft surface like a settee. I had one of those in what my brothers called my “Princess Closet.” It was a massive dressing room with a mirrored vanity, an island for my accessories, and custom shelving and cabinets.

As far as they’re concerned, I am a princess, but now I’m locked away in a tower—the fourth floor of Summit Spire, to be exact. It’s a building with a doorman in SoHo. My brothers insisted I live in a place with security.

If I were to walk into the hall right now, I wouldn’t be surprised to find a couple of men in black suits and earpieces guarding the door.

To say they’re overprotective is an understatement. Which is part of the reason I moved almost as far away as I could.

I love all four of my big brothers, but a girl needs some breathing room and a quiet place to write with amenities nearby—like a bakery café with the best peppermint mochas—within walking distance. At least one a day is essential, a requirement forproductivity, and most definitely a tax write-off. Anyone who sits at a computer all day knows what I’m talking about.

Back in Coco Key, I loved walking on the beach, but there wasn't a single decent coffee shop for miles. Priorities, people. However, I recently heard there’s a new coffee bookshop combo in town.

This may not be a love story, but I do tell stories professionally. They’re most often true ones of the biographical or memoir variety. I’m sometimes a ghostwriter, but more often a co-author.

The problem is, I don’t have my own story, especially not one that involves love. My specialty is bringing other people’s tragedies and triumphs, losses and wins, and sacrifices alive on the page.

As for my real life, there’s not much to tell.

But I do have a secret, which isn’t surprising since I’ve learned to keep certain things to myself, especially my feelings and worries. It wasn’t so much because of my brothers—okay, they’re pranksters, so I’ve always been a little cautious even though I avoided being their target. No, it’s because I opened my heart once and then had the door slammed in my face, literally.

I’m not pining over the guy. There is no love lost there, but between my fractured family situation, the four human shields who try to shelter me from everything, and my singular romance failure, I’ve become what my roommate calls a turtle.

Solitary, sometimes nervous, and selectively introverted. I admit, I tend to overthink.

Speaking of Dylann, from the other room, she calls, “Oh, Doodles. Doodles? You in there?” Without waiting for me to answer, the door swings open. “Of course you are.”

It’s true. I rarely leave lately except for my peppermint mocha runs.

We have a three-bedroom apartment with a view of a brick building. But it’s secure and, according to my brothers, that’s all that matters. Not that they have a say since I pay for it, along with the rest of my bills. I’ve never had anyone else to answer to, so theyhave authority in my life. I’m also the youngest, the baby—and never got to know our parents.

With the four of them and the nannies, it was a real helicopter-hovering overprotective situation—minus the parents. We didn’t have those. Suffice it to say, I rather like my adult life where there isn’t someone constantly looking over my shoulder.

Except now. I sense Dylann peering at my laptop screen.

I slam it shut. Rolling onto my back, I press to sit.

“How can you write while lying on your stomach down there on the floor?”

“Says the girl who goes to yoga class five days a week.” I smooth my hand over the area rug. “Plus, it’s plush.”

Dylann lowers down and crosses her legs. “Unless you weren’t writing...”

“I got a kink in my neck and needed to change positions.” I massage it for emphasis.

Even though my job requires me to be sedentary, the repetitive movement is hard on my body, hence, the daily, and sometimes twice daily, walks to get a peppermint mocha. And it explains my present location on the floor. Probably.

Dylann narrows her eyes and shakes her head as if catching me red-handed. “You’re in Crush Pose.”

“Is that one of your yoga-Pilates-barre hybrid class moves?” She’s dragged me to a few of them and they wrecked me. We both learned that I’m not a muscley pretzel.

She smirks, aware I’m trying to avoid the coming conversation—the one we’ve been having since she started calling meDoodlesa few months ago.

Dylann gets to her feet and circles me like she’s breaking down a crime investigation. “The Crush Pose is not to be confused with the Crush Swoon. That is the Victorian-era version where a woman dramatically throws the back of her hand to her forehead and then collapses onto a divan. The Crush Pose is best understood if you’ve ever seen movies set in the 1960s when a girl is on the phone, most likely talkingabouta boy she has a crush onrather thantohim, though that can apply to this scenario too. Let me demonstrate.”

---