Page 3 of Storybook Christmas

“I can’t wait for Paris,” I say, in dire need of a subject change of the brain. Smiling wistfully, I fill my mind with thoughts of eating divine chocolate croissants and drinking espresso with the view of the Seine River or the Arc de Triomphe.

I blow out a slow breath, realizing my dizziness has subsided.

My eyes skim The Hurricane, and holy cheese whiz—if I thought he was hot before, that was nothing compared to now—after he’s been so kind to me. His golden skin is flawless, especially in that tight white t-shirt. They could make a statue out of him, honoring his carved… well, everything.

And his full, luscious lips.

Suddenly, I want to kiss him. And the urge is so overpowering, my tongue tingles at the thought. I ache to have him pull me close and use that perfect mouth to overtake mine and make all my problems vanish.

I find myself leaning into him, thinking about how Joshua would feel if he knew I’d kissed a stunningly beautiful man.

He’d be sorry. So very sorry.

I regard The Hurricane, licking my lips as his face goes in and out of focus. I close my eyes as I inch closer, all my thoughts blending like the margaritas Bertha served tonight.

“Woah, hold on.” The Hurricane’s deep voice snaps me out of my trance. “I think you’d regret that tomorrow.”

I fly back, heat burning my cheeks before shooting to the tips of my ears. “I’m so sorry. I’m going through a bad breakup. And I’m drunken mess.”

“It’s okay, Lacy.” His tone is gentle. “I’m flattered.”

“I think I better go back inside.”

“Are you sure?”

“Oh, I’m sure.” I try to stand, but falter.

The Hurricane pulls me up, his shimmering biceps flexing in the process. He puts an arm around me to escort me inside, saying, “I’m going to tell Bertha that she needs to help you to bed.”

Or he could help me to bed.

Oh boy.

I’mneverlike this—whatever is happening with me has to be more than the alcohol.

I’m totally crushing on the hired stripper.

2

What's the Story?

AT THE UNHOLYcrack of dawn Monday morning, I arrive at the seventh-floor offices of Sutton & Sutton Publishing. I’ve got to get busy editing one of my author’s children’s Christmas stories for next year.

This one’s going to hit it big—I justfeelit. When a whiteout blizzard strikes Christmas Eve, Santa and his reindeer are in trouble—Rudolph’s red nose won’t cut it. Then, a sparkle—yes, that’s right, it’s called a sparkle—of fireflies comes to the rescue. They light the sky around Santa’s sleigh, allowing the reindeer to see through the squall. Christmas is saved!

I love every book I choose to work on, but I’m especially over the moon about Fireflies Save Christmas because of its concept and prose, not to mention its artwork, which is going to be gorgeous with the green glow of fireflies against the wintry night sky.

Mug in hand, my heels tap on the marbled floor as I make my way to my office. When I walk in the door, I jump, almost spilling my brimming cup of coffee.

Standing inside is Joshua, and with him is a vaguely familiar man with a shock of black hair. The man’s wearing a green jacket, faded jeans, and Vans velour shoes.

Now that’s a daring choice of attire at Sutton & Sutton.

The two men are both peering out my window.

“Joshua.” With my free hand, I tug at my lapel, and when I realize what I’m doing, I put it to my side, palms clenched. When he turns, I say, “What a surprise to have you here… in my office.” I force a smile. Nerves flutter through my gut, as Joshua hasn’t been by since the breakup. Now, he sends Bertha.

“Lacy—congrats again on the promotion.” He steps forward, running a hand through his long wavy hair before he extends it for a shake.

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