Page 1 of A Manny for Christmas

PROLOGUE

MOLLY: CHRISTMAS EVE, 15 YEARS AGO

The man is an actual miracle worker.

In under a week, Max has transformed this neglected little cottage on his parents’ estate into a cosy, festive nest.

Ourcosy, festive nest.

Okay, so his efforts may be more cosmetic than fundamental. The neglect is still there, and we have a long way to go before this place is fully functional, but he’s done an incredible job of creating the illusion of the perfect Christmas retreat in the six days since his folks handed over the keys to us.

He’s so getting lucky tonight it’s not even funny.

I snuggle further into the soft blankets he’s tucked around me on the knackered old sofa and admire the view.

The fire crackling jauntily in the stone fireplace.

The velvet curtains in a rich burgundy hanging on both sets of windows, which Max appropriated (I suspect without permission) from some unused upstairs room in his parents’ house.

The tree, which is the sweetest, plumpest, most squat little tree and somehow perfect, dripping with a tacky and random assortment of tinsel and coloured lights and baubles, its evocative scent wafting through the room and making me feel all manner of festive feelings.

The presents under the tree of all shapes and sizes, ready to be ripped open tomorrow.

And best of all, the man coming towards me, dressed inexplicably in only jeans and a t-shirt despite the temperature outside. Right now, I applaud his inability to feel the cold, because, by God, is he a feast for the eyes. The jeans are worn, hugging his sculpted bum and thighs just enough to make me salivate, and the soft white cotton of his t-shirt skims perfectly taut muscle and exposes the frankly mystifying but utterly delicious golden skin of his bare arms.

And above the t-shirt?

Even better.

That face.

That smile.

Those eyes.

Crinkling at me like he likes what he sees. Like he knows just how willing I am to get cold for him, if he insists on stripping these layers off me.

I eye-fuck him shamelessly and scoot my feet away from the edge of the sofa so he can sit down. He sets two flutes on the ground next to him and holds up a bottle of champagne. His biceps flex as he twists off the cork, and I salivate a little more. I reckon the champagne would taste even better if I licked it off that golden skin.

He tilts his head towards me and gives me his bestI’m here to serve, but you may not be able to handle itsmile. The smile that, conversely, makes me want to lay myself at his feet and servehim.

‘Happy, baby?’ he enquires.

‘Deliriously.’ I wriggle smugly under my blankets. ‘Where’d you get that?’

‘Mum and Dad dropped it round earlier. Moving-in present.’

‘That was sweet of them.’

‘Yeah.’ He tilts a flute and slowly pours in the champagne before handing it to me. ‘You warm enough?’

‘I’m so toasty. That fire’s really kicked in. And I’ll be even toastier when you get under here with me.’

‘Give me five seconds,’ he promises, filling his own glass. ‘And I couldn’t let my woman go without a good fire on our first Christmas living together.’

I sigh. ‘You sound just like a caveman when you say things like that. I’m weirdly turned on. And I hate myself a little bit.’

His smile turns dirty. ‘You would have been a complete pushover as a cave woman. Fire.’ He thumps his chest. ‘Woman.’ He palms my boob. ‘Sex.’ He reaches under my blankets and I laughingly push him away while attempting not to spill my drink.

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