 
# Welcome

There is something alluring and reassuring about holiday-themed stories, but during the busy holiday season, free time for reading can be in short supply. So I talked to several of my wonderful writer friends, and we decided to gift our readers a free collection of micro stories, tales that can be read in their entirety in only a handful of minutes. The result is _Tiny Treats: A Holiday Collection_. We hope you enjoy these stories and that you will check out other stories by the authors. Find out more about each author, their books and how to connect with them online in the bios included at the end of each story.

Happy Reading and Happy Holidays,

Trish Milburn

# Copyright Page

Each story is copyrighted © 2014 by its respective author.

"Mistletoe Cowboy"

Copyright © 2014 by Trish Milburn. All Rights Reserved.

"An Ugly Sweater Christmas"

Copyright © 2014 by Heather McGovern. All Rights Reserved.

"Close to Perfect"

Copyright © 2014 by Suzanne Ferrell. All Rights Reserved.

"To Santa with Love"

Copyright © 2014 by Lindsey Brookes. All Rights Reserved.

"A Perfect Party"

Copyright © 2014 by Anna Sugden. All Rights Reserved.

"The Miracle of the Child"

Copyright © 2014 by Bridget Hodder. All Rights Reserved.

"Mistletoe Magic"

Copyright © 2014 by D. B. Sieders. All Rights Reserved.

"On This Christmas Day"

Copyright © 2014 by Natalie J. Damschroder. All Rights Reserved.

"Fashionably Late for Christmas"

Copyright © 2014 by Tanya Michaels. All Rights Reserved.

"A SEAL's Proposal"

Copyright © 2014 by Tawny Weber. All Rights Reserved.

"White Christmas Pizza"

Copyright © 2014 by Donna MacMeans. All Rights Reserved.

"The Christmas Before Hell Froze Over"

Copyright © 2014 by Sally Kilpatrick. All Rights Reserved.

"Snowflake"

Copyright © 2014 by Monica McCabe. All Rights Reserved.

"An Unexpected Guest"

Copyright © 2014 by Beth Pattillo. All Rights Reserved.

"New Year's Magic"

Copyright © 2014 by Jody Wallace. All Rights Reserved.

"Giving Thanks"

Copyright © 2014 by Jeanette Grey. All Rights Reserved.

"A Holiday Miracle"

Copyright © 2014 by Michelle Monkou. All Rights Reserved.

"A Bluestone Christmas Homecoming"

Copyright © 2014 by MJ Fredrick. All Rights Reserved.

"Haintsgiving"

Copyright © 2014 by Maureen Hadegree. All Rights Reserved.

"All She Wants for Christmas"

Copyright © 2014 by Janice Lynn. All Rights Reserved.

"The Solstice Ball"

Copyright © 2014 by Nancy Northcott. All Rights Reserved.

"Zombie of Good Cheer"

Copyright © 2014 by Gretchen Stull. All Rights Reserved.

"Snow and Ghosts"

Copyright © 2014 by Nicki Salcedo. All Rights Reserved.

"A Candle in the Window" by Dorien Kelly

Copyright © 2014 by Dorien Kelly. All Rights Reserved.

"In Which Gardella Receives Three Gifts"

Copyright © 2014 by Colleen Gleason. All Rights Reserved.

"A Miracle for Molly"

Copyright © 2014 by Trish Milburn. All Rights Reserved.

# Table of Contents

Mistletoe Cowboy by Trish Milburn

An Ugly Sweater Christmas by Heather McGovern

Close to Perfect by Suzanne Ferrell

To Santa with Love by Lindsey Brookes

A Perfect Party by Anna Sugden

The Miracle of the Child by Bridget Hodder

Mistletoe Magic by D. B. Sieders

On This Christmas Day by Natalie J. Damschroder

Fashionably Late for Christmas by Tanya Michaels

A SEAL's Proposal by Tawny Weber

White Christmas Pizza by Donna MacMeans

The Christmas Before Hell Froze Over by Sally Kilpatrick

Snowflake by Monica McCabe

An Unexpected Guest by Beth Pattillo

New Year's Magic by Jody Wallace

Giving Thanks by Jeanette Grey

A Holiday Miracle by Michelle Monkou

A Bluestone Christmas Homecoming by MJ Fredrick

Haintsgiving by Maureen Hardegree

All She Wants for Christmas by Janice Lynn

The Solstice Ball by Nancy Northcott

Zombie of Good Cheer by Gretchen Stull

Snow and Ghosts by Nicki Salcedo

A Candle in the Window by Dorien Kelly

In Which Miss Gardella Receives Three Gifts by Colleen Gleason

A Miracle for Molly by Trish Milburn

# Mistletoe Cowboy

By Trish Milburn

Cammie Thurston handed another cup of hot chocolate to Verona Charles, the resident matchmaker of Blue Falls, Texas.

"These seem to be popular tonight," Verona said as she wrapped her gloved hands around the paper cup.

"Yeah. This cold front moved in just in time to make it feel like the holiday season." Perfect for the Christmas carols filling the air courtesy of the town carolers, members of the choirs of several area churches, and the annual lighting of the town Christmas tree.

"I just love this time of year. I've always thought there's something romantic about it."

Cammie didn't want to think about romance, not when she would be spending yet another Christmas alone. In fact, she'd volunteered to run the hot chocolate booth for her friend Keri Teague, owner of the Mehlerhaus Bakery, so Keri could spend the evening with her family. After all, surrounding herself with holiday merriment and friendly faces was way better than sitting at home watching Christmas movies with only Sir Charles, her corgi, for company.

Before Cammie was forced to find an adequate response, Verona's niece, Elissa, swooped in and grabbed her aunt by her jacket sleeve.

"You're holding up the line of thirsty folk," Elissa said, shooting Cammie a grin that said, "You're welcome."

But the next person in line made Cammie want to call Verona and Elissa back. Her heart started hammering the way it did every time Jason Walsh appeared in her checkout lane at the grocery. And that was so often that she feared it wasn't good for her heart at all. He really needed someone to tell him how to shop for groceries properly. Coming in for three or four items at a time, several days a week was in no way economical, especially when you factored the cost of gas to drive into town from his small ranch several miles out of town.

Not that she minded seeing him that often, despite her galloping heart rate. After all, he was perfect. At least in her eyes. Tall with long legs that were made for the jeans he wore, fit in that hard work in the great outdoors sort of way, close-cropped dark hair, and eyes that reminded her of expensive chocolates. And then there was his smile -- one part friendly, one part shy. That was probably the sexiest thing about Jason, the fact that he was so drop-dead gorgeous and he didn't act like it. Honestly, it was a complete mystery why he wasn't married with half a dozen impossibly beautiful children already.

"Cammie?"

With a jolt she realized that Jason was talking to her. Good Lord, how long had she been staring, fantasizing about him being a present under her Christmas tree?

"Uh, yeah. Sorry." She turned to pour him a cup of hot chocolate.

"I need two," he said.

Her heart sank. Was he here with a date? Every bit the merriment she'd been soaking up all evening flowed out of her. Without looking at him, she poured another cup then extended them both toward him without making eye contact.

That was it. She was booking a last-minute cruise to someplace balmy for Christmas, some long stretch of beach that reminded her of summer and not the lyrics of "Blue Christmas" playing over and over in her head.

"You okay?" he asked.

Without thinking, she glanced up and saw him looking at her with concern.

"Yeah, fine." Good grief, could her chipper tone sound any more forced?

He didn't look convinced, and for a moment she thought he was going to say something else. Instead, he simply gave a quick nod and headed into the crowd.

Trying to ignore the ill-advised feeling of her heart breaking, she focused on serving the rest of the people in the line. When the last person, a little girl in a cute little snowman hat, accepted her cup of hot chocolate, Cammie took the opportunity to cross the street to the bakery to refill two of the thermal dispensers.

When she stepped back out the front door a couple minutes later, she startled and nearly dropped them. Jason grabbed both dispensers as if they weighed no more than the paper cups she'd been filling all night.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. I just thought you might need some help."

Confusion swamped Cammie's brain as she looked past him toward the crowd enjoying the carolers' rendition of "Silver Bells."

"I'm okay, really. No need to abandon your date."

He smiled, sending her heart into overdrive again. "My mom's too busy talking to my aunt Louise to notice I left."

"Your mom?" Did she sound as much like a dim bulb as she was afraid she did?

"You thought I was here with a date?"

She shrugged. "I assumed."

"Why would you assume that?"

Why was he standing so close? How could he be so oblivious to the effect he had on her? On any heterosexual woman who had at least one functioning eye and an ounce of libido.

"I don't know. Two cups of hot chocolate, I guess."

Needing to put some distance between them, she headed back toward the booth. She was halfway across the street before she remembered that she wasn't carrying the dispensers anymore. Instead, Jason followed her with them. When he placed them on the table she indicated, he didn't move to leave. Instead, he took a deep breath.

"I have a question I've been wanting to ask you," he said.

"Oh?"

He tipped his cowboy hat a little farther back on his head as if he needed a moment to find the right words. A million possibilities ran through her head, none of them likely.

"Would you be interested in going to the Christmas dinner and dance at the Music Hall next weekend?"

Cammie stared at him for a moment. "Are you serious?"

He looked surprised by her question. "Yes. Why wouldn't I be?"

"I. . . I don't know. I'm just surprised, that's all."

"Why? You're a beautiful woman, Cammie. Why do you think I come into the store so often?"

Oh, goodness. Was he saying what she thought he was?

"You're terrible at making grocery lists?"

He laughed, and she couldn't help but smile in response. But when he reached out and took her hand, she froze. Was this really happening or was she at home in her bed dreaming of the perfect holiday moment?

"I've been trying to get up the nerve to ask you out for a long time."

"Why would you be scared to ask me out?"

"Because I was afraid you'd say no."

She stared up into those beautiful dark eyes for a moment. "I wouldn't have."

"So that means you'll go with me to the dinner and dance?"

She nodded and smiled. It was quite possible she was smiling like an idiot, but she didn't care. This was the single best moment of her life.

Jason's smile widened, causing her heart to fill with joy. He glanced toward the crowd behind her. "They're about to light the tree."

She allowed him to lead her up the steps to the small gazebo at the edge of the courthouse square just before all the lights went out. In the next moment, the thousands of white lights on the Christmas tree came on as the carolers began singing "We Wish You a Merry Christmas."

Cammie glanced over at Jason in time to see him notice the mistletoe hanging from the middle of the gazebo roof. Then he met her gaze.

"Pretty sure there's a tradition attached to this," he said.

With her heart thundering like a horse at full gallop, she smiled. "Who am I to argue with tradition?"

When his lips met hers, her arms went around his neck as if it was the most natural thing in the world. There was no doubt about it. Kissing a sexy cowboy under the mistletoe was the best Christmas present ever.

* * * *

Trish Milburn writes contemporary romance for Harlequin American Romance. If you'd like to read more about the inhabitants of Blue Falls, Texas, check out her Teagues of Texas and Blue Falls, Texas, series at <http://www.trishmilburn.com/books/>. While there, she hopes you explore her other contemporary romance, paranormal romance, young adult and women's fiction titles.

To keep up with her new releases, appearance schedule and for a chance to win prizes, sign up for her newsletter: <http://www.trishmilburn.com/about-trish/newsletter-sign-up/>.

When Trish isn't writing, she enjoys spending time with her husband, watching TV, reading, going to the movies with friends and road trips.

# An Ugly Sweater Christmas

By Heather McGovern

She was wearing a cat sweater. More specifically, she was wearing her mother's hideous Christmas cat sweater.

Gabie plucked at the puffy white monstrosity and wrinkled her nose. Whoever decided an ugly Christmas sweater holiday party was a good idea should be forced to wear one year-round.

She released her grip on the sweater, the bells sewn to the cat's elf hat jingling their way to freedom. "For the love of--"

"Hey!" Sara popped up beside her holding two cups of spiced cider. "Why are you standing way back here?"

Because lurking in the back, leaning up against a wooden column, was what she did when hiding from her office crush and object of lust. Wasn't this a universally known tactic?

Sara rolled her eyes. "You're hiding from him, aren't you?"

"I don't want to see Derek when I'm..." Gabie pointed to the giant elfin tabby cat on her chest.

"So? I'm wearing a glitter Frosty. We all look ridiculous. That's the point."

Not true. Derek didn't look ridiculous. He might be wearing a reindeer sweater with operational twinkle lights on the antlers, but he still worked it.

Gabie glanced down at her hat-wearing cat. She and the cat were definitely not working it. "After yesterday's meeting, I'm not sure I want to see Derek at all. I know he doesn't want to see me."

Sara sighed before shoving the glass of lukewarm cider into her hand. "You're overreacting. He probably doesn't even remember. Either way, you need to mingle." She spun away to join the employees milling about and dancing in the inn's great room.

Every year, the company rented the space for their annual holiday party. All the food and booze the employees could stand, and a shuttle home when they over-imbibed. Stories from the party would be told for the rest of the year. Infamous tales of table dancing, karaoke that was sung from the top of the bar, and a chocolate fountain version of a keg stand.

Gabie snickered into her cider. Then she saw Derek.

He strode toward the back of the great room, all muscular, long legs and confident stride. His dark hair, tousled and touchable, as usual, and that spark in his eyes like he was in on the world's best joke and everyone else was clueless.

But he walked toward her instead of veering toward the bathrooms.

"Crap." Gabie sipped at her drink.

No way was he coming to talk to her. No way.

Not only was he funny and gorgeous and everyone's favorite guy, but just yesterday she'd corrected him, in front of everyone, in a companywide meeting. It'd earned her an elbow jab in the ribs from Sara and a blank stare from her boss.

But Derek had been incorrect. Was she supposed to sit there and let him use the wrong credit model? No. She'd spoken up, suggested he try something else, and the room had gone silent as a tomb.

Derek hadn't said anything. No witty comebacks, none of his usual charm, not even a smile or that spark in his gaze.

That's probably why he walked toward her now, to have a word with her. She should find a better hiding place.

Gabie moved to dart right, the ladies' room her intended haven, but a grip on the back of her sweater held her in place.

No one was close enough to tug on her, so she tried again. The hold remained firm. She reached back, seeking with her fingers, and felt Christmas cat's white knit twisted and caught in the wooden pillar. Wiggling, she tried to break free.

That only made the snag worse.

"Hey."

She didn't have to look up to know Derek stood right in front of her.

Gabie went still and pressed her back flat against the beam. "Hey."

"Why are you hiding back here?"

"Oh. You know...just hanging out."

"I wanted to thank you for saving me in the meeting yesterday."

"You...huh?"

"The meeting. When you recommended a different rate model? You really helped me out. I appreciate it."

"You do?"

"Of course. I would've spent all week trying to figure out what wasn't working. You saved me a lot of time."

"Uhm..."

"I always thought you were kind of quiet, but you're really smart and outspoken. That's good to know."

"Uhm..." Apparently not so smart right now, since all she could manage was "Uhm."

"I hope it's okay that I asked your manager if you could work with my team on our next project. If she says yes, would you be interested?"

Gabie nodded. At least, she was pretty sure she nodded.

"Good. Do you want to go get a drink or something? I've kind of wanted to ask you before now, but...you know."

No, she didn't know.

"Anyway, I'd offer to buy tonight, but drinks are free. So, do you want to go get a free drink?"

A drink. He was asking her to have a drink with him - in a weird sort of way. Answering him would be appropriate. "Yes." She managed to get the word out as she stepped away, ready to walk with him. Except she couldn't move.

"Actually. I can't."

Derek stopped, turning toward her. "You can't?"

"No."

"Oh. Okay." The fact that he looked genuinely disappointed struck her speechless, right before she started babbling.

"No! Not no. I didn't mean that like no. I want to get a drink with you. I could get a drink with you; it's just that I can't. Because I'm stuck."

"You're stuck?"

She waved him closer, whispering. "On this wooden column. My sweater is snagged." She leaned away so he could see.

"You're stuck alright." Derek grabbed the back of her sweater, wriggling it in a failed attempt to get her free.

For her part, Gabie tried not to imagine what they looked like with Derek bent over her, jerking on her sweater.

"Got it." He pulled the snag free, guiding her away with a hand on her elbow.

"Thank you."

"No problem. You saved me from corporate embarrassment; I saved you from an inanimate object. It's the least I can do." He smiled then, the spark alive in his eyes and a lot more potent close up.

"Yeah." Her response felt pretty brilliant, considering.

"I should've known you were stuck here and not lurking under the mistletoe."

"What?"

Derek pointed up.

She followed his gaze to a perfectly formed ball of mistletoe. "Oh."

Derek slid his hand from her elbow to her fingertips. "May I?" He lifted her hand, the back of it only inches from his lips.

"I...uhm." Again with the uhms. She nodded instead of trying to make words happen.

Dipping his chin, he pressed a kiss to her hand, his lips warm and promising on her skin. He lingered there, a frisson of heat spreading down her arm. She imagined those lips on hers, wondering how he might taste.

The thought made her fidget, Christmas Cat's hat jingling as though the cat was equally excited. Gabie's nervous laugh escaped, but then Derek laughed too, still holding her hand. "Merry Christmas, Gabie."

"Merry Christmas to you, too."

* * * *

Heather McGovern writes contemporary romance that's humorous, heartwarming and hot as hell. Mild-mannered finance professional by day, glitter-bomb throwing author by night, she grew up thinking she'd either be a herpetologist - frog scientist to be exact - or Wonder Woman. She was born in the Upstate of South Carolina, but moved to Charleston to attend college and graduated with a BS in Biology. After realizing she didn't want to work in a lab or go to school for eight more years, she moved back to the Upstate to join the ranks or corporate America. She still lives there, in the Magical McGovy Forest, with her husband and son, and lots of pond frogs. If she's not working on a computer somewhere, she's playing superheroes with her son. He always lets her be Wonder Woman. She is represented by Nicole Resciniti of The Seymour Agency.

Find out more at heathermcgovernnovels.com and connect with Heather on Twitter and Facebook.

# Close to Perfect

By Suzanne Ferrell

"Hey beautiful, do you come here often?" the deep raspy voice asked from behind Libby Wilson.

Seated at the blackjack table in the Bellagio hotel, she tapped the cards in front of her, signaling the dealer she'd like another card.

He laid a card face up over her two face-down cards. A five of hearts. She signaled she'd hold.

With a smile she turned to watch the long, lean form of Deacon Reynolds, dressed in a dark suit, crisp blue shirt and black-and-blue-striped tie, slide into the unoccupied seat beside her. "Do you always approach women with that lame line?"

"Only those I'm sure won't slap my face," he said with a half grin, stacking a pile of chips in front of him.

She laughed. "So you think you'll get lucky with me?"

The laughter in Deke's coffee-brown eyes deepened to something more seductive. He lifted her free hand and kissed her knuckles just below the diamond engagement ring. "You are the luckiest thing to ever happen to me."

A throat clearing across the table.

Heat filled Libby's face as she looked over at the dealer, who had a patient but knowing smile on his face.

"Your turn, ma'am. The house is holding at nineteen." He pointed to the ten and nine cards turned face up in front of him.

Deke laid his hand over hers, stopping her from flipping her other cards over. "Let's make a side bet."

Lifting her brows, she tipped her head to the side, a smile playing on her lips. She always did love a challenge. "What did you have in mind?"

"If the house wins, you become mine for the rest of the weekend." The heat in his eyes deepened and she knew whatever he had in mind would be devastatingly sexy.

"And if I win?" she asked, although his proposal had her hoping to lose.

"If you win, you get your heart's desire, no matter the cost."

They'd flown to Vegas yesterday, arriving to the most luxurious suites she'd ever been in, complete with marble floors, whirlpool tub and a view of the outdoor fountain. Then he'd taken her shopping for this white silk sheath dress she was wearing and the lace shawl she'd draped across her shoulders. To start their holiday weekend they'd enjoyed a Thanksgiving turkey dinner al fresco to watch the fountain show at night. Today he'd scheduled her for all kinds of pampering--manicure, pedicure, couple's massage and a salon day for her hair and makeup. The man had made her feel like a princess already. What more could her heart desire?

Only one thing.

Slowly she smiled. "I'll take your bet."

Without looking she flipped over her other two cards. Another five, this time of diamonds and an ace of spades.

"The lady wins with twenty-one," the dealer said, shoving more chips her way.

Libby smiled at the dealer, gathered her chips into the silk and rhinestone clutch she'd purchased with her dress yesterday, then handed him a twenty-dollar chip as a thank you. "No. The lady already won years ago," she said, slipping her arm through Deke's.

The other players at the table applauded them as they strolled toward the exit.

"Did you get everything arranged?" she asked, squeezing his arm beneath her hand.

"I think you'll be very happy," he said with a sly smile.

While they'd decided a private wedding in Las Vegas over the Thanksgiving weekend was what they both wanted--after all they'd waited ten years, lost a pregnancy and both nearly died during that time--Deke had asked her to let him plan the details of their ceremony. At first she wanted to refuse, saying she was only getting married once and wanted it to be perfect. Then she'd seen the need in his eyes to please her and she agreed, on one condition. No Elvis impersonators. He'd laughed and said he'd be disappointed, but would refrain.

They stopped at the doors to the Terrazza di Sogno, where they'd reserved the area for their wedding. As they stepped out onto the winding stairs, the strains of "Clair de Lune" by Claude Debussey, one of her favorite classical pieces, began. The stairs were decorated with autumn mums, dahlias and lilies in bright hues of yellow, orange and deep red. The lighted Bellagio fountain could be seen in the background of the terrace behind the silver-haired man dressed in a suit and tie waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs.

Her legs trembling slightly in the high heels, she gripped Deke's arm tightly as they descended the stairs. How awful would it be to fall flat on her face trying to get married?

At the bottom of the stairs was a table with a bouquet of red roses and gerbera daisies, again in bold autumnal colors. Deke stopped and handed it to her.

"You remembered my favorite flowers," she said, tears filling her eyes.

"The autumn flowers for beauty, the roses for love, the daisies for laughter," he said, repeating her words from years ago back to her. Then he led her over to stand before the preacher.

Stars twinkled above them in the clear night sky as they exchanged their vows to love, honor and respect each other for the rest of their days. The strains of Chopin's "Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2", another of her favorites, played softly in the background. They gave each other rings they'd picked out back in Ohio, etched with the designs of flames in them to remind them of all they'd been through to be together. Finally, the preacher said, "You may kiss your bride."

Deke cupped her face in his big, calloused hands and stared into her eyes for a moment, all the love and desire inside him there in his dark eyes for her to see, then he slowly lowered his mouth to claim hers. It was a slow kiss, one of passion and promise. He pulled away, smiling down at her. "Mrs. Reynolds."

"Mr. Reynolds," she said, kissing him once more, quickly.

They thanked the preacher, signed the necessary papers and headed back up the stairs. Happy in the newness of their married status, they strolled to the elevator banks hand-in-hand, no words necessary between them.

At their floor, Deke paused outside the elevator. Libby tilted her head at him in question. He placed a finger on her lips and they waited silently for the door to close.

Without warning, he scooped her up in his arms.

"Deke!" she squealed, but not too loudly, wrapping her arms around his neck, her clutch in one hand and the bouquet in the other. With a grin and a twinkle in his eye, he carried her to their room, managed to swipe the room key and took her inside. "Did you like our wedding, love?"

She smiled at him. "It was close to perfect."

With a puzzled look he set her on her feet. "What was missing?"

"My heart's desire," she said, leaning up to whisper in his ear. "A baby."

He broke out in a grin. "Your wish is my command."

And he swept her up again to give her what she desired most.

* * * *

Suzanne discovered romance novels in her aunt's hidden stash one summer as a teenager. From that moment on she knew two things: she loved romance stories and someday she'd be writing her own. Her love for romances has only grown over the years. It took her a number of years and a secondary career as a nurse to finally start writing her own stories.

Currently there are two main series she's actively writing in: The Westen Series, a contemporary small town series based in a fictional Ohio town where "things aren't always what they seem", and features Close To Home, Close To The Edge and Close To The Fire. The second series is the Romantic Suspense books KIDNAPPED, HUNTED, SEIZED and VANISHED, featuring the Edgars family as they fight for justice, even if it means stepping slightly outside the rulebook.

KIDNAPPED and HUNTED were both Golden Heart finalist, and SEIZED, book #3 in the Edgars Family Novels, was a finalist in the novella category of the OKRWA's National Reader's Choice Awards contest.

Suzanne's sexy stories, whether on-the-edge-of-your-seat romantic suspense or small-town romantic suspense, will keep you thinking about her characters long after their Happy Ever After is achieved.

_Close To The Fire_ \- buy at your favorite online bookseller

Website URL: <http://suzanneferrell.com/>

FB URL: <https://www.facebook.com/suzanneferrell.author>

Twitter: @SuzFerrell

# To Santa with Love

By Lindsey Brookes

Delaney Daniels set the spatula she'd been using into the soap and water-filled mixing bowl in the kitchen sink, her gaze fixed on the frosted windowpane in front of her. Outside, the harsh winter storm still raged, blanketing Hunter's Gap, Colorado, and the outlying areas in thick, white flakes. The mountain road leading to her cabin was impassable. At least for her sporty little Nissan.

After more than three winters in Colorado, one would think she'd have traded in her car for a four-wheel-drive. But she worked mostly out of her house, so there was no need to drive into town in inclement weather. She had everything she needed, having stocked her cabin with food and supplies in case of a lengthy snow-in, which were quite common in the mountains of Colorado.

But today of all days... Sighing in frustration, she turned away from the storm outside. She should be out making her usual Christmas Eve visits, delivering cookies to all her now married friends and their families as well as to the local nursing home. Instead, she would be spending the holiday stranded in her tiny mountain cabin - alone.

No, not alone, she thought with a soft smile as she glanced across the room. Rags, her loveable, just shy of twenty pounds cat, slept lazily beneath the ornament-laden branches of the Christmas tree. Beside him, the half dozen cookie-filled Christmas tins she'd intended to deliver that afternoon.

Reaching out, she plucked an iced sugar cookie from the bell-shaped plate on the breakfast bar. "You chose this life," she reminded herself as she bit into the sugary-sweet confection. Instead of focusing on her love life after college, she'd focused on her career as a web designer. But more and more she found herself yearning for what the women she'd made friends with since moving to Colorado had. Someone special to share the holidays with. To cuddle with in front of fire on a cold winter's night. Someone to...

Kiss, a little voice in the back of her head finished for her, reminding Delaney of the pathetic, too-much-wine-driven letter she'd written to "Santa" this year. To be sent a sweet, sexy man of her own to give her that perfect kiss under the mistletoe was what she'd actually written, if she were being exact. So somewhere in the U.S. a postal worker was having a field day with her To Santa with Love letter.

She had just popped the remainder of the freshly iced, reindeer-shaped cookie into her mouth when a determined pounding erupted at the front door.

Rags shot to his feet with a startled hiss.

"What in the world?" she muttered as she hurried across the open room. Lifting the curtain away from the front porch window, she peeked outside.

A large, snow-covered form stood huddled against the cabin door. Her gaze shifted to the dark grey, four-wheel-drive Jeep parked in front of her place and she gasped. Why would the sheriff be coming up the mountain on a day like this?

Stepping away from the window, she unlocked the heavy wooden door and whipped it open, motioning him inside. "Sheriff?" she said as she closed the door behind him.

He straightened, pushing the hood of his parka back. Icy white flakes glistened on his cheeks and clung to the dark, wavy brown hair around his face. "Afternoon," he said with a crooked grin. A sight that never failed to set her heart to racing.

They had worked together for nearly six months, creating a town website that listed not only community links, but upcoming events as well. Caden Woods was thirty-one, single and undeniably handsome. He was also a perfectionist with control issues. She'd found that out while working with him on the website. One that had taken her forever to get "just right." At least, in his eyes. She'd thought the first version was more than acceptable. But money was money and he had paid for her services, so she'd met with him in town time and time again until the website was done to his satisfaction.

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

"Nope," he replied, grin still intact. "Just doing my job." Rags chose that moment to greet their visitor, twining around the sheriff's legs. "Well, aren't you a friendly one?" he said, bending to stroke the cat's back.

"Rags, don't be a pest."

"He's fine," he assured her, giving the cat's silky fur one last stroke before straightening to tower over Delaney.

"Am I under arrest?" she asked, looking up into his blue-eyed gaze.

"Should you be?" he asked, humor lighting his eyes.

"I don't think so," she said. "But it is what you do."

His grin widened. "Not all that I do. It just so happens I'm in charge of responding to all the letters written to Santa through the Hunter's Gap Post Office. They're too swamped during the holidays to respond to each and every one of them. With little or no crime in town, I've got plenty of free time on my hands to help them out. So here I am."

Here he was. Color flooded her cheeks as she recalled bits and pieces of her letter to "Santa." So it wasn't some stranger at a faraway mailing center for the United States Postal Service who'd read her letter. It had been Caden.

"You saw my letter?" she said, the words a strangled whisper.

He nodded and then reached into the front pocket of his coat to pull out a sprig of mistletoe, a bright red ribbon tied around its base. "I was going to wait for Christmas day to deliver this, but with the weather being what it was I knew I'd best get up here today. Unfortunately, the roads were worse than I thought. Looks like we'll be spending the holiday together. At least until the roads can be cleared for safe travel."

He was stranded there with her? All because of a silly letter. "I'm sorry you're stuck here," she said with a frown.

"I'm not," he replied, holding the sprig of mistletoe up over her head. "It'll give me plenty of time to work on that 'perfect kiss' you wished for." Lowering his head, he brushed his lips over hers in a gentle kiss. "Mmm...your lips are even sweeter than I'd imagined they'd be all those nights I sat beside you in my office, thinking up reasons to keep you coming back to work on the town's website."

"You thought about kissing me?"

"Constantly," he admitted unabashedly. "Then I got your letter and knew I'd be a fool to let this opportunity pass. Like I had by not asking you out when I had the chance."

Her heart was racing. She'd been attracted to Caden from the beginning, but she'd been put off by his inability to ever be satisfied, fearing he would be that same way in a relationship. Turned out it wasn't perfect he wanted. He wanted her.

"Then what are you waiting for?" she said with a playful smile.

Flashing that sexy grin, Caden drew her to him, making her every Christmas wish come true.

* * * *

Romance author Lindsey Brookes has finaled in or won more than 75 RWA chapter-sponsored contests with over a dozen different manuscripts. She is also a four-time RWA Golden Heart finalist as well as a past American Title III finalist and winner of Harlequin's Great American Romance Novel contest. She writes for Kensington Publishing and Amazon Publishing and has indie-published several of her contemporary romances. Lindsey is represented by Michelle Grajkowski from 3 Seas Literary Agency.

www.lindseybrookes.com

www.possumhollowseries.com

<https://www.facebook.com/lindsey.brookes.9>

<https://twitter.com/Lindsey_Brookes>

# A Perfect Party

By Anna Sugden

Another holiday party. Another night of pretending Lizzie Martin was just a good friend.

Taylor "Mad Dog" Madden drained his beer, then loaded up his plate. He'd hang out at the buffet table until he could leave without seeming rude. Taylor had considered not showing at all, but since the Christmas party was hosted by his friend and New Jersey Ice Cats teammate, Jake "Bad Boy" Badoletti, that would've raised more questions than he wanted to answer.

Taylor deliberately avoided looking through the hatch into the kitchen. Lizzie was in there, piping guests' names onto the Christmas-themed cookies that would be passed out as party favors. Amazing to think that he and Lizzie had only cooked up the idea for Lizzie's Sweet Treats at a Thanksgiving party two years ago and now her personalized cookie business was so successful that clients booked her months in advance. She'd already repaid his seed money, but had insisted he remain her silent partner, claiming he was good luck.

Friend. Business partner. Good luck charm. Every-damn-thing but what he wanted to be.

Unable to fight it any longer, his gaze was drawn to Lizzie.

She looked lovely, as always. Her blond hair was swept back in a fancy braid, and she wore a candy-cane-striped apron with Sweet Treats embroidered across the chest over a red sweater dress that clung to her generous curves. Sugar dusted her lips, making him yearn to taste her sweetness.

Realizing he'd licked his own lips, Taylor groaned silently. Why the hell did he torture himself like this? Why didn't he just tell Lizzie how he felt?

Because he was scared he'd ruin their friendship and lose her altogether.

He and Lizzie had been pals since they'd clashed over the last spoonful of potato salad at a Memorial Day party his first year in the NHL. They'd hung out together ever since, which had done them both a favor. Taylor hadn't been interested in dating after his childhood sweetheart had dumped him, and Lizzie'd had big plans for the future so was happy being single.

Things had been great, until this year's July 4th party. They'd been watching the fireworks when Lizzie had fed Taylor one of her "Stars and Stripes" cookies. The moment her fingers had brushed his lips, the exploding rockets had moved from the sky above to inside his head. That's when Taylor had realized friendship was no longer enough. The good news was that she hadn't noticed his body's reaction to her. The bad news -- she didn't seem affected by him at all.

Every time they'd gotten together after that, Taylor had struggled to hide his deepening feelings.

Lizzie's laughter interrupted his thoughts. Damn it. What was his buddy Jean-Baptiste Larocque doing in the kitchen flirting with Lizzie? Taylor ground his teeth, as JB wrapped an arm around Lizzie's waist then swiped a cookie. The stud forward could get any woman he wanted. Did he have to horn in on Taylor's woman too?

Except, technically, she wasn't Taylor's woman.

Time he did something about that. For sure, he couldn't stand this limbo anymore. Taylor set his plate aside and walked into the kitchen.

"Leave the cookies alone, Larocque," he growled.

JB released Lizzie immediately, but the look he shot Taylor was a challenge, daring him to act. "Only taking what's mine, Mad Dog." His friend held up the cookie to show his iced name. "I don't poach. Though if yours is unclaimed much longer, it's fair game."

Despite his cocky words, the understanding in JB's dark eyes as he sauntered out of the kitchen said he knew how Taylor felt about Lizzie. Crap. Was it that obvious?

Apparently not to Lizzie. She smiled brightly as she came across to hug him.

Taylor closed his eyes briefly, inhaling her sweet scent mingled with vanilla and sugar. He'd bet she tasted as delicious as she smelled.

This was not the time for those thoughts. He forced himself to step back and grin at her.

"What happened to you?" Lizzie ran her fingers gently over his split lip and bruised cheek. "That black eye looks sore."

His pulse kicked at her touch. "I got checked into a stanchion during last night's game and cracked my jaw on the boards. Looks worse than it is."

"Poor baby." She kissed her fingertips and pressed them to his mouth. "A kiss will make it better."

She'd given him the perfect opening, yet Taylor hesitated. If he kissed her, he'd cross a line; they could never go back to being just friends.

The hell with it. He had to know -- one way or the other. "My injuries deserve a proper kiss, don't you think?"

"In your dreams." Lizzie's laugh faltered as she met his steady gaze. "You're serious? I... uh..." Her voice trailed off and her blue eyes widened as he drew her toward him. Color filled her cheeks, but she didn't protest.

He lowered his head slowly, giving her plenty of time to stop him.

She didn't.

Taylor was wrong -- Lizzie was more delicious than her scent. She tasted way better than any cookie. Than any other woman.

As their lips met, then lingered, desire rippled through his body. It felt so good. Better than good. It felt right.

He pulled her closer, until she was plastered full-length against him, and deepened the kiss. Lizzie wound her arms around his neck, moaning deep in her throat.

Lost in the kiss for minutes, maybe even hours, Taylor wondered why he'd worried about making his move. It was going to work out perfectly.

Lizzie ended the kiss then pulled away. "That was unexpected. And not very sensible."

He smiled, enjoying the taste of her on his lips and the pleasure tingling inside him. "Being sensible is overrated."

"Maybe, but this can't happen again."

A chill washed over him, like he'd been sprayed with ice. "What?"

"Anyone could have walked in." She strode out of the kitchen.

What the hell had just happened? One minute she was kissing him like she was enjoying it, the next she was out of there faster than Larocque on a shorthanded rush.

He was still trying to figure it out when Lizzie returned and tossed his jacket at him. She wanted him to leave? Man, how had he screwed this up so badly? Taylor shrugged into his jacket and turned to leave.

"Where are you going?" Lizzie asked.

"Home."

"Why?"

He looked at her, confused. "Isn't that what you want?"

"No. I thought we could continue what we were doing outside." She opened the back door. "In private."

Then Taylor realized that Lizzie wore her coat. His heart hitched with hope as he followed her into the wintry night.

Still, he wanted to be sure. "But you said..."

She smiled, interrupting him. "I didn't want us to be disturbed."

"I thought I'd made a huge mistake."

"You did." Lizzie walked into his arms, tilting up her head so her mouth was just beneath his. "You wasted five months."

Happiness filled him. "Then, I'd better make up for lost time." And he kissed her.

It was a perfect party, after all.

* * * *

Former marketing executive Anna Sugden loves reading romance novels and watching films with happy endings. She also loves watching hockey and football, where she prefers a happy ending for her teams. When she's not researching hockey players (for her books, of course), she makes craft projects and collects penguins, autographs and memorabilia, and great shoes. The current books in her New Jersey Ice Cats series are A Perfect Distraction and A Perfect Trade, with A Perfect Catch out in February 2015.

Anna lives in Cambridge, England, with her husband and two bossy black cats. Learn more about Anna, her books and her shoes at <http://www.annasugden.com>. You can also follow her on Facebook (<https://www.facebook.com/AnnaSugden.RomanceAuthor>), Twitter (<https://twitter.com/AnnaSugden>), Pinterest (<http://www.pinterest.com/annasugden>) and on the Romance Bandits blog.

# The Miracle of the Child

By Bridget Hodder

"Earl Roger de Dredfort, you have refused to marry the woman His Majesty the King chose for you. To humble your ungodly pride, you shall complete a pilgrimage to the Monastery of Missel and perform the Stations of the Cross in the Chapel of Souls on Christmas Eve. Perhaps then you will find yourself in a better frame of mind for marriage."

The stern, disappointed words of his family priest, Father Genovus, had spurred Roger along every mile of this cold, muddy, miserable Yuletide pilgrimage.

This is an injustice, Roger thought, as images of the mistletoe, mince pies and Christmas revels he was missing back at Dredfort rose up to taunt him. Had he not done enough for the King by fighting in his wars, without also being forced to wed a perfect stranger for the sake of more wealth and more power?

He sighed.

His once-proud horse was plodding slowly through the rain, picking its way along what used to be a road yet was now almost a stream. Around him, ten other pilgrims and their leader, Brother Barnabas, looked equally wretched. Roger shook the hood of his fur-lined woolen cloak as if that would dry it somehow. Then he turned to a graceful figure in deep blue, who rode upon a white palfrey by his side. "Courage, Alys!" he said warmly. "The monastery should be just around the next bend."

Her voice was faint when she answered. "Thank Heaven. We are all chilled to the bone." She raised her head and lifted her lashes to reveal the gentle blue eyes which had been haunting his dreams of late.

I wish she would tell me her full name, he thought. Yet all of us here have left names and titles behind.

Indeed, there was a certain freedom in being simply "Roger," and not the Earl of Dredfort. That freedom may have been what helped him become so familiar with Alys over these grueling weeks of travel. They'd begun by sharing glances at first, then polite conversations which eventually became far more. He awoke every day now looking forward to her company, her insights which seemed far too mature for such a young woman, and that intriguing touch of sadness behind her sweet smiles which hinted at depths he would probably never explore.

For their time was short.

Missel Monastery was up ahead, and tomorrow was Christmas.

Would he ever discover the reason why such a young lady was on this dismal pilgrimage alone at Christmas rather than quaffing Wassail bowls and warming her toes by the Yule log at home?

Alys was speaking. "We may thank a good Providence that this rain has not become snow. I do not know if poor Goodwife Damesfred could bear it." She inclined her head toward a stout elderly pilgrim who complained incessantly.

Ah! Roger did not know if he could bear it when the pilgrimage ended, and he and Alys came to a parting of the ways.

No doubt, the King already had another heiress lined up for him to marry, and Father Genovus had insisted that wedding the King's choice was God's will. For by so doing, Roger would ensure peace and safety for all in this region of Angland.

But there could be no peace for Roger.

He had fallen in love at last.

Caught in Alys' blue gaze, he forgot everything around him, until her laughter jerked him from his reverie.

"What is it?" He jumped slightly. "Why do you laugh?"

She waved a gloved hand in the air. "Look!"

When he realized the rain had turned to snowflakes, he joined her in mirth. Goodwife Damefred began to whine.

"Make haste!" Brother Barnabas called. "Before the road ices! There are the gates of the monastery!"

The Monks of Missel greeted them with warm blankets, hot soup, roaring fires, and a magnificent Christmas Eve service of chanted lessons and carols. But rather than cheering up like the other pilgrims, Alys had grown pale and agitated as the night wore on.

After Mass, Roger sought her company for his Stations of the Cross, but she was nowhere to be found. He performed the walk of the Joyful Mysteries in the Chapel of Souls alone. "O' Lord, forgive my pride," he prayed...then he was interrupted by an unexpected sound.

A baby's cry.

He arose from the pew and followed the sad little wail down a deserted hallway and into a pleasant chamber which contained a large crib full of sleeping babies. Beside it stood a beautiful young woman cradling a squalling, red-haired infant.

He gasped.

"Alys! What are you doing here?"

Roger has found me! Oh, what will he think?

Alys' heart beat fast, but she held tight to the baby. Her baby.

Olivier.

As Roger came forward, the tears Alys had held back so long began to flow. And when he put his arms around her, words began to flow, too.

She poured out the tale of how a red-haired knight had trifled with her affections a year ago and left her unwed and with child. Her father, the Duke of Knare, had petitioned the King to find a husband for her (without revealing her pregnancy), but the earl chosen by the King had refused to marry her.

"I gave birth in secret," Alys sobbed, "and my parents snatched my babe, gave him to the Monks of Missel to raise, then sent me to the Abbey to become a nun. I would rather be a nun than deceive a good man like the Earl of Dredfort! Then the Abbess sent me on this pilgrimage to cleanse my sin... and now I have found Olivier!"

She kissed the baby again and he became calm, cuddling to her breast.

"I know him by his red hair," she breathed, "and by his heavenly scent. I shall flee with him and disappear. Nonetheless, I must confess, Roger. I love you."

When Alys glanced up, sure she would find disgust writ across her beloved's countenance, she encountered such a look of joy instead that it reminded her of the light of the Star of Bethlehem.

A still voice within her whispered: This is Christmas Eve, when miracles happen.

"Alys, my love," he cried softly. "It must be God Himself who has led me to you and this innocent child on the night of our Savior's birth."

Alys was too dazed to reply. Did she hear aright?

Now Roger knelt before her.

"I am the foolish earl who rejected you. God grant me the privilege to make a wiser choice now. Will you take me as I am, dear lady, a man in love who will love your child as his own?"

While the happy lovers kissed with the baby nestled between them, three figures in religious habits backed quietly away in the shadows.

"Mother Abbess," the Head Monk of Missel whispered. "Your idea of sending Alys on this pilgrimage was brilliant. Thank Heaven the earl's priest, Father Genovus, cooperated in our little scheme."

She sniffed. "We are God's hands on Earth, Abbot. We should call back the nursemaid now to watch over the abandoned babes."

The monastery bells began to chime the hour of midnight.

"Merry Christmas," Brother Barnabas said.

* * * *

Bridget Hodder lives in a New England cottage by the sea, where she writes fairytale romance and adventure set in the fictional Kingdom of Angland. She has twice had the honor of being a finalist for the Romance Writers of America's Golden Heart award. Her first book, _The Rat Prince_ , is coming from Macmillan/Farrar, Straus & Giroux in spring of 2016.

Visit Bridget on Facebook, at Goodreads or at the Sweet Sixteens website.

# Mistletoe Magic

By D.B. Sieders

"You can't be serious! No one spends Christmas in the lab!"

Ellen held the phone away from her ear and grimaced, waiting for her sister's howler-monkey screech to fade. "Settle down, Paige. There's two feet of snow on the ground and the airport shut down three hours ago. No flights in or out."

"So?"

She rolled her eyes and bit off a snarky reply. Paige didn't get it. Of course, Paige wasn't a card-carrying member of the professional lab rat society. Heaving a sigh and suppressing a shiver, she replied, "I've explained this to you before. Experiments don't stop just because of holidays. I'm stuck here. It sucks, but there's nothing I can do about it until they rebook my flight. I might as well be useful."

Paige snorted. "You know, a normal person would go home and curl up under a warm blanket with a glass of wine or a hot guy."

Yeah, maybe a normal person wouldn't be slaving away in academics, juggling research and teaching schedules when she could be raking in the big bucks in pharmaceutics. But Ellen loved her job. Coming into work was no sacrifice.

Especially with the view.

"Where are you, anyway? It sounds windy."

Ellen's cheeks heated in spite of the outdoor chill. "Oh, I'm out on the roof. Just came up here to sneak a peak at the city lights before heading home. Hey, I can see the big Christmas tree on top of city hall."

She could also see through the office window of Dr. Jace Morrow, resident workaholic and the most eccentric and elusive man on campus. With a mop of thick, dark hair, broad shoulders, and an ass that wouldn't quit, he made quirky look good. Too bad he was a stone cold, personality-deficient robot who ate graduate students for breakfast, fellows for lunch, and junior faculty for dinner. Even the department chair gave him a wide berth.

Still, eye candy was eye candy, and she was at a safe distance.

Twirling the sprig of mistletoe she'd pilfered from the university's holiday display, she took a deep breath of crisp winter air and filed away the image of Dr. Morrow for a private Christmas fantasy later.

Or maybe...

"I've got to go."

"What for? Thought you were going home."

"I am. But first," she said, reveling in giddy anticipation, "I've got to go see about a hot guy."

Ellen hung up before Paige could squeal in her ear again and hauled her frozen keister back inside. The short walk down the hall to Dr. Morrow's office thawed her limbs but did little to settle a sudden case of nervous shivers. Jeez, get a grip. The worst he can do is tell you to get lost.

His office door was open, and as usual he sat hunched in his chair, fingers drumming on his desktop as he stared at the computer screen. She gave a quick courtesy knock and said, "Hi, Dr. Morrow."

He jumped so hard he banged his knee on the desk and nearly fell off the chair.

"I am so sorry!" Scrambling to salvage the opportunity, she blurted out, "I'm not sure we've officially met, but I'm--"

"Dr. Ellen Sanders, Room 306 one floor up in the corner office. You talk fast and drive a blue Prius." He rubbed his knee absently through the random treatise, gaze darting around her general direction but not meeting hers.

Giving him a moment to recover, Ellen shifted her attention to the plastic action figures neatly perched on the bookcase behind his desk. Boris Karloff's rendition of Frankenstein's monster loomed in the shadowed corner, his bride on display in the center. The white streaks in her updo matched her gown and the lab coat of her maniacal creator, standing in apparent admiration of his work in the corner opposite Frankie.

"I like your mascots." The corners of her mouth lifted in amusement as her gaze swept the collection of neatly framed classic horror movie posters lining the office walls, landing on the Gene Wilder as the mad genius from Young Frankenstein. "They match the décor."

His lips curled into a shy, boyish grin. "I like old movies."

"So do I. Igor is a personal favorite of mine."

"It's pronounced Eye-gore."

She laughed, unable to contain surprise and delight. She hoped she hadn't scared or offended him. Again. But two smiles and a joke from Dr. Cyborg in the space of five minutes? "I'm sorry," she gasped between chuckles, "that was just a really good one."

His brows furrowed as his downcast gaze darted back and forth, like he was performing a particularly complex set of calculations. "Good one?"

She sighed, exasperated. "A good joke. Seriously, this is real progress coming from Dr. I-have-no-sense-of-humor-of-which-I-am-aware Morrow."

He relaxed, that little smile curling his lips again before softening to a rueful expression that almost broke her heart. "Oh, I get that one."

"I'm sorry, I wasn't making fun on you," she said quietly.

He shook his head and waved one hand in dismissal before resuming the nervous drumming on his desktop. After staring at his lap, he took a deep breath, lifted his head, and met her gaze directly for the first time...well, ever. It shocked her more than the unexpected humor, the earnest, open expression and intensity pouring from a pair of light blue eyes. "I know you weren't making fun of me. I can't read people all that well, but I have enough experience to know when I'm being mocked."

She released the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "Oh, God, Jace--"

"Don't." He cut her off, lowering his gaze again and fidgeting in his chair before folding his arms around his chest tight enough to strain his shirt seams. No, this man wasn't made of stone at all, and she feared anything she said now would shatter him like glass. "I know pity when I see it, too."

"Jace, I--"

"It's easier when I have a script. I know what to say when I lecture or when I need something from a store. I can get most of what I need online and use the chat function when I need help or customer service. At least I can think about how I'm expected to respond then. I don't...do well with casual conversation, so most people think I'm a jerk and don't talk to me." He glanced back up at her, gaze defiant, as if daring her to argue.

"I don't think you're a jerk."

He ran a hand through that mop of dark hair and sighed. "Why are you here, Ellen?"

Why indeed.

Thinking fast, she took a deep breath, a leap of faith, and grabbed a pen and paper from his desk. After some frantic scribbling, she held out the paper.

He accepted, the most adorable look of puzzlement crossing his features. "What's this?"

"A script," she replied, "to make it easier for you."

He scanned the page with her stick figure drawing of a couple beneath the title "Coffee Date?"

Then he lifted his gaze, nodded, and gave her a brilliant, melt-your-heart smile.

She grinned back and held the sprig of mistletoe over her head.

"Merry Christmas, Jace."

* * * *

D.B. Sieders was born and raised in East Tennessee and spent her childhood hiking in the Great Smoky Mountains, wading barefoot in creeks, chasing salamanders, fish, and frogs. She and her family loved to tell stories while sitting around the campfire. Those days of frog chasing sparked her interest in biology. She is a working scientist by day, but she never lost her love of telling stories. Sieders live in Nashville, Tenn., with her husband, two children, two cats, and her very active imagination.

You can find Sieders on her Blog, Website, Twitter, Facebook, and Goodreads.

# On This Christmas Day

By Natalie J. Damschroder

A second after Danny opened the door, a sheet of ice slid off the roof and crashed on the porch in front of him. Shards bounced into the foyer and off his boots. While he'd been buried in Rina's boiler repairs, the street and his truck had become coated in about an inch of ice.

Well, that sucked.

Rina peered around his arm. "When did that happen?"

He glanced down with a smirk. "You weren't paying attention?" When she leaned forward to get a better view of his truck, her body brushed against him. His smirk slipped as his own body tightened. Chilled air wafted past them, lifting her spicy scent and making him a little dizzy. What the hell?

"I was in the kitchen with my headphones on. There's no window in there." A fact she complained about every time he was here, as if he'd just add one for her. She shivered and pulled back, wrapping her arms around herself. "I guess you're not going anywhere."

He closed the door and bent to untie his boots. "You got a towel? I'll mop up this mess." The shards of ice had melted already, soaking into the mat and puddling on the tile.

"Thanks." She disappeared down the hall and came back a few seconds later with an old bath towel. "I'll be in the kitchen. The bread needs to come out of the oven."

He made quick work of the water and would have hung the towel on the door handle to dry, but noticed a draft coming under the door. He stuffed the towel against it instead and made a mental note to bring some weather stripping over next time he came. He'd just gotten a new shipment into the hardware store. Even though many of Crestview's residents had lived in Massachusetts for decades, there was always a rush on weatherproofing once things turned bad.

"Sucks that it's Christmas." He walked into the tiny, depressing kitchen made comforting by the yeasty warmth of the bread she'd just taken out of the oven. She leaned over the island to grab a trivet and her shirt gaped, giving him a clear view of luscious breasts cupped by a black lace bra. His mouth went dry and other parts of him seemed to wake up from a deep sleep.

He didn't get it. He'd known Rina since kindergarten. They were close friends. The kind who did favors for each other like fix a cranky boiler or give relationship advice. Why now?

_Why not now?_

He didn't have a response for that one.

"I'm sorry you won't make it to your brother's." Rina pulled a bottle of red wine from the fridge and nodded to the cupboard above her. "Can you reach the wine glasses up there?"

"Sure." He took the three steps to reach her and opened the cupboard. She didn't move, giving him no free space. As he reached up to the top shelf--since when did she keep something she used so much so high?--their bodies brushed again. This time her breast made full contact with his side, and when he settled back on his heels, he couldn't help looking. Her nipples were tight against her silk shirt. Why was she wearing a thin silk shirt, anyway? It was frigging cold outside, and maybe she was baking bread in a tiny kitchen, but the rest of the house had yet to heat up from the boiler problem. And he might not be much in the kitchen himself, but he knew cooking in silk was courting trouble.

So what else was she courting?

"Rina."

"Would you open the wine?"

He'd seen her routine a million times. Some called her a man-eater. She had a lush sensuality and body language that said, "Come and get it, if you think you can handle it." Her confidence was off the charts, and she was far more likely to be turning a guy away than trying to seduce him. But he'd swear that was what she was doing now.

And he had no clue how he felt about it.

He took the wine bottle and the corkscrew and retreated to the other side of the island while she pulled out plates and what looked like leftovers from the fridge.

"I have some beef stew from Murphy's. Seems good for the weather."

"Sure." He worked the screw into the cork. He'd be lying if he said he'd never thought about sex with Rina. She was adept at light relationships with no promises. But that had never been what he wanted. He'd _thought_ , for a long time, that he wanted one of his other best friends, Rina's cousin Amber. But once Amber was out of the picture--she was now happily married to their friend Kale, who'd been missing in action for several months last year--Danny had realized he loved the idea of settling down with her more than he loved _her_. And he'd also wanted to fill the hole in her life.

Rina, a licensed psychologist, had been the one to help him figure that one out. But she hadn't pushed him to figure out what came next.

He poured the wine, started to hand her a glass, and froze, stunned by the look in her eyes. It was a deep, yearning hunger...and way, way more.

"Danny," she whispered, and before he knew what he was doing, he was across the kitchen. The wineglass made a barely secure landing on the counter, and his arms were around her, his mouth covering hers.

And Jesus Christ, she was everything he'd been missing. Her body fit tightly, perfectly against his, her back strong under his hands, her hair lush and wild. She moaned. He pulled her tighter, gentling because this was not about simple lust. Her mouth...she tasted like _home_. Not the family-around-the-Christmas-tree kind of home. This was deeper, more primal. She _belonged_ here, in his arms, and he belonged there, holding her. He lost track of where they were, of how long they kissed. He couldn't let go, as if the warmth and need filling him would disappear if he did.

But eventually, he had to. He cradled her face in his hands and realized he'd crowded her against the wall next to the refrigerator. He lowered his forehead to hers so his heaving breath wouldn't blast her in the face. "What is happening?" he murmured.

Rina wrapped her hands around his wrists. "I don't know. I think I'm dreaming."

"How long?" He meant, how long had she wanted him this way, but he couldn't get all the words out.

"Far longer than I realized." Her voice was low, hesitant. So not Rina. "When I thought you and Amber would--well, it hurt. Ever since... I know it's weird. We've--"

"No, that's the thing. It's incredibly far from weird." He backed up a little and grinned down at her. "Ice storms are now my very favorite weather."

She laughed, and he'd never seen her so happy. Not amused or cynical or calculating. Just...happy.

And on this Christmas Day, so was he.

* * * *

Natalie J. Damschroder writes high-stakes romantic adventure, sometimes with a paranormal bent. Occasionally, she also writes contemporary romance such as _If You Believe in Me_ , a reunion Christmas story, and this sequel. Fun fact: The titles come from song lyrics. If You Believe in Me is from "Santa Baby," and "On This Christmas Day" is from her very favorite Christmas album, Trans-Siberian Orchestra's Christmas Eve and Other Stories.

Learn more about her at her website, <http://nataliedamschroder.com/>, follow her on Twitter @NJDamschroder or like her Facebook page at /NJDamschroder.

# Fashionably Late for Christmas

By Tanya Michaels

Jasmine Tucker hadn't been dreaming of a white Christmas--what would be the point in south Texas? Besides, she'd experienced enough snow in New York. Instead, Jazz had dreamed of a triumphant homecoming. Which was difficult to accomplish when the last leg of your trip was cancelled due to "mechanical difficulties."

Rather than unleash her exasperation on the frazzled guy behind the airline counter, Jazz flashed a practiced smile, the one that got her through runway shows despite painful high heels, the flu or a bad breakup. "Is there a later flight you can put me on?"

He shook his head. "Sorry."

No surprise. The so-called regional airport outside her hometown of Cupid's Bow was a glorified landing strip. Connections from Houston, on "air-taxis" that barely held a dozen passengers, were limited to two or three a day.

Her smile tightened. Time for a Plan B. "There's a car rental place in the airport, right?" It was only a three-hour drive. Granted, she'd been up since before dawn to allow time for security at LaGuardia, plus her layover this afternoon, but with some caffeine--

"There are rental companies," he confirmed, " but...it's Christmas Eve."

Translation: good luck getting a vehicle when surrounded by a bazillion other holiday travelers, most of whom had reserved their rides in advance. Jazz sighed, moving along to Plan C. "Point me to the nearest place I can get a drink."

The lounge was standing room only--lots of travelers putting the rum in rum-pa-pum-pum. A drink might soothe her nerves, but it wouldn't get Jazz to Cupid's Bow. Should she leave the noisy lounge and just call home? Her father would come get her. It wasn't as if a cancelled flight reflected failure on her part.

She knew this logically. But why was it always her who needed bailing out in some way? Why wasn't it ever Crystal, the overachieving homemaker who'd married her high school sweetheart, or Susan, who'd just been named the school district's first female superintendent?

"Need a seat, ma'am?"

Jazz turned to find a broad-shouldered man on the barstool next to her. He tipped back his cowboy hat, giving her a good look at clear hazel eyes and a chiseled face that was sun-kissed even in December.

"Are you leaving?" she asked. That would be a shame.

"No." The corner of his mouth quirked. "Just demonstrating good manners. Standing in those can't be easy." His gaze darted to her stiletto heels.

Truthfully, she regretted her choice in travel footwear, but she'd felt compelled to look her most glamorous for her return to Cupid's Bow. "I can't believe you noticed my shoes. Especially in this crowd."

His half-smile stretched into a sexy grin that sent tingles up her spine. "I may have watched you through the window before you came into the bar."

So she wasn't the only one enjoying the view. Good to know. "I'll take your seat." She nodded toward his half-finished beer. "But can I buy you a refill in exchange? I'm Jasmine, by the way. People call me--"

"Jazz?"

She studied him intently, belatedly connecting the dots between the extremely cute, though slender, teenager she'd known and the cowboy before her. Damn, he'd filled out nicely. "Brody Davenport. I asked you to the Sadie Hawkins Dance sophomore year." Despite exchanged glances and hallway small-talk, that had been their only real conversation. It had ended with his abrupt no.

He ducked his gaze. Was he remembering how she'd stuttered and stammered after his rejection?

She felt as off-balance now as she had then. "Of all the places to run into each other."

"Headed home for the holidays?" he asked.

"Yeah. Or was, until my flight got grounded."

"Same here. I mean, I still live in Cupid's Bow, but I was out of town on business. I'm killing time in the bar while I wait for my cousin to pick me up."

The bartender appeared, taking her order for a white wine. When she glanced back at Brody, he was regarding her with good-natured curiosity.

"So are you traveling from Milan or Paris?" he asked.

She was surprised he'd even known about her ambitious adolescent dreams, much less remembered them. "New York City." Until this morning, it had been home. But she'd told her roommates months ago she wouldn't be renewing the lease at the first of the year.

He flashed an admiring smile. "You actually did it, didn't you? Lived out your big-city dreams? You're certainly beautiful enough to model."

His compliment struck a bittersweet chord. "Thank you. I was modeling, but..." She'd booked assignments over the past seven years, including some print ads and shows at Fashion Week. Most recently, she'd even modeled fashions on a cable channel design competition. Yet she'd never earned enough money to afford the apartments she wanted without roommates, and she was pragmatic enough to admit her chances of superstardom dwindled with age. "I'm moving back to Cupid's Bow."

"Really?"

"To open my own boutique." In New York, she was nobody, but she was the only person from Cupid's Bow to ever appear on reality TV. She hoped to parlay her quasi-celebrity status and the money she'd saved into a successful store.

Brody smiled. "Never met anyone as excited about clothes as you."

The youngest of three sisters, Jazz had resented her hand-me-down wardrobe. She'd daydreamed about high fashion. "Is that why you didn't want to go out with me?" she asked impulsively. "Because I seemed shallow?"

"What? No! You..." He stared into his beer, his tone dropping to murmured confession. "I was in awe of you. Even at sixteen, you seemed destined for big things. You were so impatient for graduation, your chance to get out and see the world."

That was how he'd viewed her? "Put your way, it doesn't sound like I was desperate to get out from under my sisters' shadows," she said wryly. "Much as I love them, I had a hard time measuring up."

"I'll bet they're proud of you. Maybe even secretly jealous. I'm an only child, myself. From the time I was old enough to sit on a horse with Dad, he'd take me all over the ranch, showing me the land that would be mine. I love running the place--can't imagine being anywhere else--but..."

"Sometimes you wonder, 'What if?'"

He nodded, his gaze locked on hers. "Like, what if I'd said yes to the most beautiful girl who ever asked me out even though we were on separate paths?"

Her stomach turned in a slow somersault, and warmth fizzed through her. "Not so separate," she reminded him. "We'll both be in Cupid's Bow--as soon as I figure out how to get there."

"Ride with me and my cousin," he invited. "You can tell us about New York, and we'll catch you up on local gossip. Not that Cupid's Bow is very exciting." He lifted his hand, brushing his knuckles over her cheek. "Then again, maybe that's about change."

"Maybe it is." For the first time all day, returning home didn't feel like defeat. It felt like a second chance.

* * * *

Tanya Michaels is the award-winning, bestselling author of more than forty books and novellas. Her upcoming titles include Good with His Hands, a sexy mistaken-identity romance for Harlequin Blaze, and The Sheriff and the Single Mom, which kicks off her Cupid's Bow, Texas series for Harlequin American Romance. When Tanya isn't writing, reading or chauffeuring middle-schoolers, she watches way too much television. She lives outside Atlanta with her family--two smart-aleck kids, a smart-aleck dog and a wonderful husband who patiently overlooks her love for Elijah on CW's The Originals.

Catch up with Tanya on Facebook or Twitter to discuss TV/books or to find out what crazy things her kids have said lately.

# A SEAL's Proposal

By Tawny Weber

Bryanna Spencer was a woman with a slightly addictive personality. And she was seriously hooked on the taste of Sam Morelli.

He was better than chocolate-covered caramel, comfort carbs and a sale at Jimmy Choos. All rolled into one sexy, tempting package of sweet manhood.

Bryanna sniffed, forcing herself not to give in to the sadness beating at her back as she dressed for their date.

Their big date.

Oh, she knew the drill. A girl didn't grow up in a Navy family with a brother who was a SEAL without learning a thing or two about their manly credo. She and Sam might be going hot and heavy now, but she'd seen the writing on the wall when he'd passed his BUDs testing. And now he'd finished SEAL training. According to everything she'd observed over the years, including Sam's own brother dumping the love of his life five years ago because SEALs and relationships didn't mix, she knew what was coming next.

Tonight was the dump date.

The let her down gently date.

The last chance for great sex date.

A tear slipped down her cheek as she adjusted her stockings, checking to make sure the black seam was perfectly straight up the back of her legs. She turned to face the gilt cheval mirror, her hands sweeping over the silk covering her slender waist to cup her breasts where they overflowed in the tight crimson corset.

Her blond curls swept over her shoulders and her skillfully made-up blue eyes were shiny with tears, but a couple of stubborn blinks got rid of those. If this was their last night together, she'd make it one Sam would never forget. Not because she was a weeping wet mess, but because she was the sex goddess of his dreams. He might be leaving her, but she'd be damned if he'd ever forget her.

A quarter of an hour later she'd slid into a dress as red as her corset, the soft fabric offering hints of the lingerie beneath. Cute boots that she couldn't afford but had bought to cheer herself up donned her feet. She was ready.

As if hearing her thought, the doorbell rang.

One more deep breath and an extra notch of brightness to her smile to match the twinkling white lights she'd wrapped around the living room, then she crossed the apartment and pulled open the front door.

"Sam," she breathed, her heart stuttering as it always did whenever she saw him.

He was gorgeous. Dark hair, light eyes, a slashing brow and a smile that melted her panties.

"Bryanna." Even his voice was sexy. Husky and low, always sounding like he was just on the verge of laughing. "You look amazing."

Then he handed her a rose. A single pale peach rose just starting to unfurl. Her favorite.

She lifted it to her nose, using the excuse of breathing in its heady scent to blink away her tears.

"I'll have to give you an extra special thank you after dinner," she promised. Unable to resist, she rubbed her thumb over his full lower lip.

Sam reached into his pocket, his eyes intent on her face.

"Before we go, I want you to open this."

He handed her a small box wrapped in festive reds and greens, the bow glittering in the overhead light. Oh wow, the evening even came with gifts? Her heart took a nosedive into the toes of her cute boots, making Bryanna work to keep her smile in place.

But Sam, ever the perfect guy, noticed because he frowned.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his fingers warming her skin as he tilted her chin up so he could inspect her face.

"I don't have your Christmas gift yet," she lied with an exaggerated look of regret. She deliberately kept her gaze away from the tree where the hand-knit fisherman's sweater, fancy ratchet set and customized display case for his medals were wrapped and waiting.

"That's okay." He shrugged, poking at the package with one finger, a small frown creasing his brow. "It's not really a Christmas gift."

A going away gift. What did two years of whispered secrets, mind-blowing lovemaking and joyful friendship merit? Bryanna couldn't keep the smile in place this time. She set the package on the small side table next to a bowl of holiday-hued M&Ms.

Then, aiming for distraction, she slid her hands up Sam's chest, skimming the delicious breadth of those strong muscles before curling her fingers behind his neck.

"How about I open it after dinner," she suggested, rising to tiptoes to brush a teasing kiss over his lips. "Or better yet, after dessert."

She added a seductive flick of her tongue, letting him know just how tasty dessert would be. Her heart melted with gratitude when he took the invitation.

Sam's hands gripped her hips, pulling her tight against his body. His tongue delved deep, taking the kiss from teasing to tempting with one swift thrust. Bryanna melted into his body, her pulse racing, desire coursing through her system. Even knowing he was about to break her heart, she couldn't resist the lure of passion that flared hot and needy between then.

Apparently he could, though.

Because he pulled away, reached over to pick up the box again and thrust it into her hands.

"Open it now." His tone allowed no argument.

Reluctantly, she took the package again and made a major production out of carefully peeling away the bow and untying the ribbon. Her red polish glinted against the paper as she unfolded the wrapping.

The paper draped over her hand, Bryanna flicked open the velvet box.

A sparkling diamond winked back at her.

If he'd punched her in the gut, told her she had lousy taste in footwear or sucked in bed, she couldn't have been more shocked.

"It's a ring," she said, her wide-eyed stare shifting from it to him and back again.

"It's an engagement ring," he clarified.

Bryanna tried to piece together what was happening.

"Why?" she breathed.

"I want you to marry me. I want us to be together. I want to know that you're here when I come back from missions, that you're a part of my life forever."

"But..."

"But SEALs shouldn't be married?" he said, correctly guessing what she'd been unable to say. "That's Noah's superstition. I'm not about to go through life without you. Not if I have any say in it."

She couldn't stop the tears this time. They coursed a trail, hot and happy down her cheeks.

"Well?"

"Well, what?" she asked, blinking at his impatient tone.

"Well, are you going to marry me?"

For the first time, Bryanna saw the nerves in Sam's eyes, the worry creasing his brow. He wasn't sure?

"I love you," she said quietly. "I'd love to marry you. If you're sure."

"Sure? Bryanna, you are my everything," he said as he slid the ring onto her finger. Before she could do more than sigh at the vision of it there, he pulled her into his arms.

"And now," he promised just before his mouth took hers, "You'll be my wife."

* * * *

New York Times and USA TODAY best-selling author of thirty books and counting, Tawny Weber has been writing sassy, sexy romances since her first one hit the shelves in 2007. A fan of Johnny Depp, cupcakes and color coordination, she spends a lot of her time shopping for cute shoes, scrapbooking and hanging out on Facebook.

Love sexy SEALs? Be sure to check out Tawny's upcoming release, A SEAL's Sacrifice, as well as the rest of the Sexy SEAL stories. You can see them all here.

You'll not only find excerpts and book information at TawnyWeber.com, there are also contests, giveaways, a Red Hot Readers Club with freebies, first chapters, recipes and members-only opportunities.

To get all the latest news, be sure to join Tawny's newsletter. Or you can visit with Tawny on the social networks: Facebook, Twitter and Pinterest

# White Christmas Pizza

By Donna MacMeans

Dust had gathered on the colored bottles as thick as the snow falling outside. It was bound to be a white Christmas; another cold, lonely white Christmas.

A month had passed since Aunt Betsy's death. In her will, she'd left her isolated country home to her favorite niece. Molly smiled. It didn't hurt that she was also the only surviving relative. The house had been deserted for five years while her aunt stayed in assisted living, and thus was more appropriate for Halloween than Christmas; dark, dusty, full of cobwebs and depressingly quiet. While Molly was sad at her aunt's passing, and grateful for her thoughtfulness, some company in the spooky old house would be appreciated. "You never know," she could almost hear her aunt whisper, "Christmas is a time for wishes and miracles." Hah! She laughed. Not bloody likely. She plunged her hands into soapy water, retrieving another bottle from her aunt's collection.

A cobalt blue bottle emerged from the suds; a blue bottle with a rolled piece of paper inside. A message in a bottle! The cork in the neck of the bottle stubbornly refused to budge, but after some persistent wiggling, she nudged the cork aside and the well-preserved paper slipped free.

_My Dear Molly-girl -- I hope you enjoy your holiday gift._

_Aunt Betsy_

Molly-girl. The moniker squeezed her heart. Aunt Betsy must have written this before she'd moved five years earlier. Was that the year her aunt gave her the Ethiopian fertility mask? Or perhaps it was the year of sexy negligee that no one other than herself would ever see? She couldn't remember. But her aunt must have placed the message in this bottle years earlier then forgot to pass it along.

The doorbell startled her. She wasn't expecting anyone. Certainly not someone insane enough to drive in this snowstorm. She peeked out the front window to see a car with a pizza delivery sign on the top. Pizza? She hadn't ordered any pizza. They must have the wrong house. She'd tell the delivery kid just that.

Only it wasn't a teenager on the other side of the door, but a handsome guy she guessed to be about three years older than herself, holding two pizza boxes wrapped in some sort of insulated warmer.

"Please tell me you ordered a pepperoni mushroom and a white pizza?" he asked hopefully.

She shook her head. "I'm sorry, no." And she truly was. He had lost puppy eyes and a sweet, loopy smile. She hated to turn him away so quickly, but his pizza would be growing cold and his customer upset.

"There's no Douglas Smith here?" A bit of desperation slipped into his voice.

"No," she said. "I'm sorry. I'm new to the area so I can't even direct you to the Smith residence."

He bit his lip and looked over his shoulder where the snow had already claimed three quarters of his tires and threatened to consume the rest of the car in a matter of hours. His tire tracks were already rapidly disappearing.

"That's too bad. I think I'm lost. I can't tell the roads from the fields in this storm." He turned toward her. "Can I interest you in a large pepperoni and mushroom and a white pizza?" His eyebrows lifted in a silent plea.

She laughed. "Don't you have to deliver that to Mr. Smith?"

"Not in this weather. I'm not sure I can find my way back to the shop much less to his house." He passed the bundle under her nose. "Are you sure you're not hungry? Best pizza in town."

Unsure whether it was the pile of snow that was building inside the open door or the yummy-sweet smile of the guy with the boxes, she caved. "Let me find my wallet."

"Don't bother. It's on the house." Before she could stop him, he stepped in. "I figure these aren't hot anymore. I've been driving around for an hour at least. Then I saw your lights. Are you here alone?"

Panic must have crossed her face. She reached instinctively behind her, feeling for something to use as a weapon.

"No. No," he said quickly. "That came out wrong. I just thought a woman such as yourself might need some help attacking all this pizza." He looked at her sheepishly a moment before his stomach audibly growled.

"Well, it is a lot of pizza." She smiled. "You might as well stay a while."

"Thanks." He grinned. "Have to admit, it does smell good." She led him back to the kitchen where they could sit.

"Aren't you a little old to be a pizza delivery boy?" she asked.

His eyes crinkled and her knees weakened. Lord, he was gorgeous. "It's a family business," he explained. "My brother owns Tony's Pizza. I just help out with the deliveries when his regular delivery crew doesn't show up."

"Like when it snows?" She slipped the white pizza in the microwave.

He smiled. "Like when it snows."

"What do you do when you're not delivering pizza?"

"Teach. I'm a math teacher at Patriot."

"No kidding. I used to teach English. At least I did before I moved here. I guess now I'm looking." She bit into a cheesy slice and tasted a bit of heaven.

"Good, isn't it? My brother knows his way around a pie." He picked up a piece. "You know one of the Patriot English teachers announced she'll be taking maternity leave shortly. It's a temporary position but it could lead to something permanent."

"Really?"

They talked. They laughed. They had a surprising amount of interests in common. The pizza slowly disappeared.

And the snow continued to fall.

Hours later, Matthew glanced out. His car was already buried beneath several inches. "Molly, I hate to sound forward, but would it be possible for me to spend the night here? I'm not sure it's safe to even try to go back."

She had to agree. The roads had blended into the fields. "You'll have to sleep on the couch, I can bring you some blankets and a pillow. The rest of the house is pretty uninhabitable at the moment." She looked at him askance. "Won't your wife worry if you aren't home?" She'd already checked his hand for a wedding band, but sometimes that didn't mean anything.

"Not married," he said. "It's hard to meet singles up here in the tundra. I just haven't found the right one. Yet."

She floated back to the kitchen on a cloud of promise and hope. She had a good-looking man in her house just a few days before Christmas. Water still filled the sink from her interrupted cleaning. She pulled the plug, letting the now-cold water drain, revealing one last green bottle designed to look like a fish. Like the previous bottle, a slip of paper was rolled inside.

"Probably a clue to that missing present," she murmured to herself. The screw cap came off easily with the assistance of a towel for a firm grip. She unraveled the paper.

_You're welcome, and Merry Christmas_

_Aunt Betsy_

* * * *

Award-winning author Donna MacMeans made a wrong turn many years ago in college when she majored in accounting. What was she thinking? Balancing books just can't compete with writing them. While she still maintains a small tax practice four months of the year, she devotes the other eight months to crafting seductive Victorian historicals, historical paranormals and contemporary paranormals for Penguin Books. This particular story was conceived while she was washing her collection of colored bottles (inherited from her mom). Her daughter had placed messages in several of them.

Donna's books have won numerous awards, including the prestigious Golden Heart from Romance Writers of America and the Romantic Times Reviewers Choice Award for Historical Love & Laughter, as well as recognition in many regional contests. Her books consistently receive high praise and glowing reviews. Her seventh published novel, The Whisky Laird's Bed, released this summer with Berkley's Intermix imprint.

Read about her and her books at: www.DonnaMacMeans.com

Like her on Facebook at: <http://tinyurl.com/mjca8j6>

Visit her at Pinterest: <http://www.pinterest.com/donnamacmeans/>

# The Christmas Before Hell Froze Over

By Sally Kilpatrick

That year I had a love-hate relationship with Christmas. Ginger had been given a clean bill of health, but the Gates brothers had an irrational love for "Feliz Navidad." To make matters worse, they were both flush with cash from having worked the Christmas tree lot in town and had plenty of fives to ensure I kept playing it.

At least they weren't requesting "Sweet Home Alabama" daily.

As I wrapped up Jose Feliciano, I looked around The Fountain. Bill and I had draped Christmas lights all the way around the room, draping them over old metal signs for Ne-Hi and Sundrop, the lone deer head, and even a smoke detector. In some places they hung over nails painstakingly driven into the cinder block walls. A tiny Charlie Brown tree leaned on the corner of the bar, but the mood was festive. Only three more days until Christmas, and we had a new waitress, Tiffany.

"Hey, Beulah, why don't you play that Christmas shoe song?" Mac slurred through the last word.

"Nah, man. That's too sad," Pete Gates yelled before leaning over to make a shot at the pool table.

To stop the argument I launched into a request for "Angels We Have Heard on High." As was custom, the regulars sang along. They sounded pretty darn good on all of those glorias. And was that Tiffany's shy soprano?

I took another swig from my beer. Since it was my second beer on an empty stomach, it was more likely I was hearing things.

The clock chimed nine, saving me from any more Christmas music. Everyone knew I played Christmas music only from open until nine and only from the day after Thanksgiving until the day before Christmas. There were plenty of rules I was ready to break, but I wasn't going to be playing Christmas music any longer than I had to.

As I played my signature song, "Dwelling in Beulah Land," the door opened and revealed a possible rule for me to break. I told myself I wasn't going to date any more bikers, but...this guy.

Tall and lean with leather pants, he took off his helmet to reveal long blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. As the song registered with him, he turned to face me with a grin, and I sucked in a breath.

It was John.

He'd been ahead of me in high school, the kid who had a band and was actually good at singing. Last I'd heard he'd gone off to be a star. But he was here. And he was looking even better than he had back when we were in high school.

I couldn't wait to finish the song that signaled the beginning of my break, and I practically leapt from the risers to join him at the bar.

"Beulah, is that you?"

"The one and only. What are you doing after close?"

"Oh, I'm not sticking around." His eyes darted to the door as if he couldn't get out of the place soon enough.

I leaned against the bar and poured on the charm. "That's too bad. I was hoping we could catch up. For old time's sake."

I'd found an exploration of the male species dismal for the most part, but I had fond memories of John. In fact, John was the only guy I remembered fondly. If not for him, I would've sworn men off altogether.

"I gotta get out of here." He grabbed his helmet and bolted for the door.

I followed him outside. "Was it something I said?"

He stopped outside, gasping in air. "No. I thought I could do it, but I can't."

"Do what?"

He turned to look at me, his hazel eyes glinting under the security light. "I can't be in a bar yet. Beulah, I'm not the guy I was. I'm sober now."

Sober? And I was tipsy? What kind of crazy world was this? He was about to walk away from me, and he was the only guy to ever treat me like. . . a person.

So I kissed him.

He froze for a minute, but then he met me touch for touch. My body tingled in anticipation, and for a minute I thought I had him. Then he broke the kiss.

"Too soon," he said in a ragged voice, his forehead against mine.

"What?"

"For a relationship. And for what it's worth I'm sorry for taking advantage of you before."

That had cost him, but my mouth went dry at the idea he thought we were a mistake.

"Don't be. You're the only man who ever--who was good to me."

He flashed me a brilliant smile. "That means a lot to me, Beulah."

"Will I see you around?"

"Not unless you head over to Grace Baptist Church." He said as he prepared to put on his helmet. "I'm the new youth leader there."

My blood ran cold. My father had been preacher. We hadn't been on the best of terms. "Unlikely you'll see me there."

"Too bad. Maybe in town, then."

Off he went with a growl of his motorcycle, leaving me very, very confused.

"Ho there, Beulah! Why so glum, chum?" Bill asked when I walked in.

"John's a sober preacher now."

He chuckled. "Oh, that sounds horrible."

I smacked his arm playfully. "I thought he might be the one, you know."

"Maybe he still is."

I snorted. "Bill, hell will freeze over before I fall in love with a preacher."

He laughed. "You need to be careful, Beulah Land. The good Lord has a way of making us eat our words sometimes."

I stuck my tongue out at Bill, reminded myself that John wasn't the only man who'd ever been nice to me. "Just for that I'm gonna go break my own rule and make you listen to 'The Twelve Days of Christmas.'"

"I take it all back!"

But it was too late. Bill had to listen to the Twelve Days, and I had said words that were just begging to be eaten.

* * * *

Sally Kilpatrick lives in Marietta with her husband, Ryan, and her two children. Her debut novel, _The Happy Hour Choir_ will be released by Kensington on April 28, 2015. _The Happy Hour Choir_ won the Duel on the Delta, finaled in the Maggie Awards for Excellence and was a 2012 Golden Heart® finalist. Sally has two other novels coming down the pike--think Shakespeare with cows (Bittersweet Creek) and _It's a Wonderful Life_ in a funeral home (Giving up the Ghost, a 2013 Maggie finalist). She is also president of Georgia Romance Writers.

www.sallykilpatrick.com

# Snowflake

By Monica McCabe

"A hot guy is making eyes at you," Nora declared in true best friend fashion.

Sophie shot her a glare. "I don't care." Their spur-of-the-moment Christmas cruise to St. Thomas was supposed to be a "We hate Kyle" themed getaway, a desperately needed tonic for the kind of fury only cheating boyfriends can incite.

Make that ex-boyfriends.

"He looks like Bradley Cooper," Nora whispered loud enough to be heard over the _Love Boat_ theme song piping over the ship's PA system. Love...life's sweetest reward...the song poured out in nauseatingly cliché surround-sound.

"Still don't care," Sophie said and sipped her lime daiquiri. She was far too busy relaxing, soaking up poolside sunshine and doing it without a single drop of sunscreen.

Defiance was her new middle name.

"Seriously," Nora whispered, "that chest..." Her sunglasses lowered as she peered over the top.

Sophie's newly formed armor cracked, but she held fast to the mantra that men were sneaky, and self-indulgent, and betrayers-of-all-things-decent.

"I'm completely UN-interested," she said. Double that if he was gorgeous, because that only meant he was a super-powered snake charmer.

"Heaven sent!" Nora drawled out long and breathy.

Curiosity slithered in and Sophie sighed in resignation. With a shocking lack of common sense she reasoned that whatever had her friend in a tizzy must be worth a peek. She'd do it quick. A snapshot taken in a casual, indifferent sort of way. So she carelessly flipped her magazine page and glanced up.

Her eyes widened and pretense jumped overboard.

Adonis incarnate moved across the lido deck, drawing every female eye from port to starboard like a magnet. He was deliciously lean, with hard muscles, an all-over tan, and a dazzling white smile that aimed her direction like a laser beam.

And to her growing horror he strolled right up to her chaise and stopped, hands on well-defined hips wrapped in embarrassingly tight trunks.

"Sweetheart," he purred with smug confidence, "today's your lucky day."

Stunned speechless, Sophie's eyes lifted past his marble-sculpted chest, glided across lips that promised naughty things, and blinked at the massive white pom-pom of his Santa hat.

Set a course for adventure...your mind on a new romance...the sappy song continued.

It slammed her back to reality. "Go away," she snapped.

He postured, allowing the sun to gleam off well-oiled coconut-butter-scented biceps. "Leave? Before you even taste Christmas Sin on a platter?"

Nora choked on her fruity drink and a quiet rumble of laughter came from the poolside crowd.

Sophie ignored it all in favor of glaring at the completely gorgeous, but totally obnoxious Don Juan wannabe.

"Get. Lost. Now." Honestly, this guy's ego wass bigger than the Seven Seas.

He just winked, completed unfazed by her bad attitude. "I'm the ghost of Christmas Presents." His look promised lust-filled nights. "Don't you want to see my package?"

The neighbors roared in laughter.

Sophie's face flamed but Romeo grinned wickedly and continued. "What do you say, sweetheart? I've got mistletoe." He started patting imaginary pockets in those skin-tight swim trunks.

"Enough!" She flung her magazine aside and stood up, beginning to boil. "Know what your problem is?"

"I'm a snowflake?" His grin screamed cheesy. "Because I'm pretty sure I've fallen for you."

A twenty-something guy in a pool chair laughed so hard he belly-flopped into the deep end, chair and all.

"Someone call security!" Sophie shouted as she yanked her swimsuit cover from the chaise and tied it on in jerky motions.

The last of the _Love Boat_ song wrapped up and the speakers fell silent, but she barely noticed. Six months of suppressed rage finally broke free.

"You're beyond arrogant," she lambasted him. "Astronomically conceited. A two-timing jerk." She punctuated each blast with a harsh poke to his chest. "Worse, you're outrageously drunk at two o'clock in the afternoon!"

"No, I'm not." He blinked and brushed the giant pom-pom from his face before yanking the Santa hat off his head. He glared at it like it sported fangs. "I'm..." he paused, clearly at a loss for words.

"What's the matter?" she asked sweetly. "The God's-Gift-To-Women routine backfiring on your cheating, germ-infested self?"

Nora touched her arm. "Um...Sophie...this isn't Kyle. It's..." Her friend paused and quirked a questioning brow in the direction of Romeo.

"Mason."

Sophie barely slowed down. "You, Mason, are despicable. Harassing fellow passengers is against ship rules."

"There are rules?" He looked around at an avid audience and frowned.

"Of course there are rules! And you're breaking them. Why?"

He rubbed at his temple like it ached. "Because I hate holidays and wanted to escape?" He actually had the nerve to look confused. "What's going on here?"

Sophie sputtered. She wasn't letting him play this card. "Really? This is how you plan on saving face?"

"Saving face? What are you talking about?"

The abrupt change in his demeanor started her worrying about personality disorders and the odds of a possible air-sea rescue mission. She was surrounded by a bunch of crazies in the middle of the Caribbean Sea. Surely there was a sat-phone on the bridge, at the very least some sort of maritime 911 system.

"You aren't fooling me," she said with narrowed eyes. "And for the record, I've got a black belt in karate."

He just stared at her like she'd grown another head.

"I've special forces training," she lied in pure self-defense and took an aggressive step forward. "If I wanted to, I could kill you in less than thirty seconds!"

He lifted his hands palm up. "Slow down. Something is wrong here." He shook his head as if to clear it. "God, I hate Christmas. Nothing good ever happens in December."

A cold uncertainty began to fill Sophie, halting her intended blood bath.

Especially when the audience began clapping and parted to allow a flamboyantly dressed man in a cape to aim straight for them.

The man wore flair like a stage actor and stepped over to clap Mason on the back. "Well done, my good man!" Amid the whistles and cheering of the poolside crowd he then swept the edge of his cape into a theatrical bow.

Sophie frowned, every bit as confused as Mason looked.

"Greetings, shipmates!" The guy shouted and circled in place. "Love Boat strikes again! Never doubt the skill and power of the Great Flortini! I can hypnotize anyone, anywhere. Turn the most reluctant of men into Romeo."

Sophie met Mason's horrified eyes and knew they mirrored hers. This had all been a game? A twisted form of shipboard entertainment?

The Great Flortini grabbed Mason's hand and shook it vigorously. "You were magnificent!"

Mason yanked his hand back. "You are a menace," he fired back. "A rat in a fancy cape."

The audience laughed harder and Flortini swept into another bow.

Mason turned his back on the hypnotist and faced Sophie. "Look, I'm sorry. Can we start over?"

In light of their new reality, how could she not? She nodded. "I'm Sophie Benton."

"Mason Devereux," he responded. "How about we ditch the lido deck and find a quiet corner to talk?"

"Do it!" The crowd yelled out.

The hilarious insanity of it all finally hit her and she grinned. "Heck of a way to meet a girl, Snowflake."

"Right," he sheepishly grinned back. "Can we get out of here now?"

* * * *

Adventuring is in Monica McCabe's blood. She's explored glaciers and ancient Mayan pyramids, dived shipwrecks and reef caves, camped in Sasquatch country, and driven across the United States three times. Her latest craze is collecting as many official stamps in her National Parks Passport as she can. When not traveling she's writing romantic adventure books and is currently under contract with Kensington for DIAMOND LEGACY, a contemporary romance about a dental zoologist and an undercover agent on the trail of diamond smugglers.

www.monicamccabe.net

www.facebook.com/monica.mccabe

www.twitter.com/monicamccabe

# An Unexpected Guest

By Beth Pattillo

Bertha Fortune surveyed the shambles that constituted the nursery of Haddon Park. Overturned chairs. Toys and books tossed about. And now stray branches of evergreen and ribbon and mistletoe strewn across every available surface. Though the true culprits would readily admit to their handiwork, Lord and Lady Haddon would simply blame Bertha, the latest in a long line of governesses.

Such was to be her Christmas at Haddon Park.

_Even so, my misery is of my own making. Mine, and my mother's._

In the past months, Bertha had learned contrition for the sins she had committed before her banishment to Haddon Park. For most of her formative years, abetted by her mother's dislike of her stepsister Lucy, Bertha had participated in the tormenting of the girl.

Life, as it turned out, had proven the great equalizer. Lucy was now a royal princess and married to a charming prince. Bertha's mother was long departed -- not from the earth, but from England. She and an Italian prince had decamped for warmer climes and fewer expenses. One of the expenses they had left behind was Bertha. And so she, who had once been what could only politely be termed a rather ugly stepsister, was now and would always be a governess.

Her sister Esmerelda had been left in similar straights. How had Esmie done it, a governess to an earl's five children? She was married now to her earl, although they lived in a rather shabby manor house that her sister had inherited. Bertha could turn to Esmie for help, but...well, Esmie had an ample number of mouths to feed.

The door to the nursery opened, and Bertha took a deep breath. There was plenty of room to fill her lungs since her dress, which had once hugged a rather plump figure, now hung like a sack. She would need every bit of air she could manage if she was to give the three hellions the scolding they deserved.

But instead of her charges, an unfamiliar male figure entered the room. He was tall and thin, with a pair of spectacles perched on his nose that did nothing to hide intelligent brown eyes.

Those eyes widened when he saw her. "I say, I am sorry. I had steeled myself to confront...um, I mean greet my niece and nephews." He glanced around the room. "And though I see evidence of their recent occupation, it seems they are not here."

Bertha blushed. Occupation was a good word. The room looked as if it had been under military siege.

"I'm afraid I don't know where they are." Not a very good admission from the woman who was in charge of their care. Bertha felt her cheeks grow warmer.

The gentleman smiled, and his expression was kindness itself - not something Bertha had been accustomed to in the Haddon household. "If the rapscallions have decamped, then count your blessings, my dear." He reached out and set an overturned chair upright. "If we hurry, we can have this place set to rights rather quickly."

"Thank you." Tears stung her eyes. To hide her response to such a simple gesture of civility, she turned away and began gathering up books and puzzles from the floor.

The man was silent for a moment. She turned her head just in time to see him watching her from behind those spectacles in a rather interesting way.

Bertha was unaccustomed to anyone finding her attractive. For so long, she had comforted herself with cakes, pies, anything to hand, and so had been what her mother called "pleasingly plump." But food for servants in the Haddon household was generally of a plain and rather thin variety. The past months had been equal to the task of slimming her figure to more generally accepted proportions.

The man looked a bit abashed to have been caught staring. "I am Gerald, Lord Hocking, by the way. Lady Haddon's brother. The demon spawn in your charge are my relations, but I hope you won't judge me too harshly. I scarcely visit above twice a year." He paused and gave her an assessing look. "Perhaps it is time I took a more active interest in their upbringing."

Bertha had been a governess now long enough to learn to be wary of the Haddons' guests. In less than a year, she'd been cornered in an alcove, pursued through the shrubbery maze, and stalked in the stables. But this man's interest - Gerald's interest - did not make her feel as those others had done.

"You are to remain at the house for Christmas?" he asked.

"Yes. I have nowhere to--. That is, Lady Haddon expressly wished me to stay and keep the children out of sight during the celebrations."

"Yes. She would, wouldn't she?" Gerald's jaw tightened. "Well, then, my dear, if you are to be given charge of the heathens, I will provide reinforcements on one condition."

Her heart stopped. No, please. She did not have the wherewithal left to dodge yet another lecherous gentleman.

"I can manage the children, sir. Pray don't let me trouble you."

He frowned. "I have offended you."

He didn't seem the lecherous type, but her faith in the male sex had diminished considerably. "I am merely tired, sir. I'm sure your sister will be wanting you in the drawing room."

"My only condition," he said, ignoring her dismissal, "is that you tell me your name." He smiled again, and more tears threatened. She was proof against lechery, but kindness was another matter altogether.

"Bertha Fortune." Not for the first time in her life, she wished that her mother had shown some elegance when saddling her with such a name.

"Well, then, Miss Fortune--." He stopped, winced, and then laughed good-naturedly. "Perhaps I may call you Bertha?" He crossed the room to stand directly in front of her and sketched her a courtly bow. "And you will call me Gerald, I hope."

She nodded. "Only not in your sister's hearing."

"Agreed." And then he winked at her. "The key, of course, will be to stay out of her hearing altogether."

Bertha laughed. It felt foreign. Strange. And very welcome.

"You are here for the holidays, then, Gerald?" She couldn't help but return his smile.

"Yes. Perhaps longer. My plans are somewhat...uncertain."

Her heartbeat accelerated. Now she understood why Esmie would marry a man with more children than fortune. All for this...gift. For that was what it was. This sudden stirring of the heart. This inner whisper that said, "There you are." All from a chance meeting in a topsy-turvy nursery.

A commotion in the hallway foretold the return of her charges. Gerald reached for her hand and clasped it in his. "Courage, my dear. After all, if Mary could deliver our Savior in a stable, we should be able to manage these three in the luxury of Haddon Park."

She returned the pressure of his fingers against hers. "Greater miracles have happened."

"Indeed they have." He looked at her for a long moment. And even when the children came bowling through the door, he did not let go of her hand.

* * * *

As an author, I've been lucky enough to write a variety of books. I have a special love for Regency historicals, and if you enjoyed this peek into Bertha Fortune's happily-ever-after, check out my two novels, Princess Charming and Her Perfect Earl. I am also the author of the Besty Blessing series, the Sweetgum Knit Lit Society series and the Jane Austen's Formidables series. I live and write in Tennessee with my understanding husband, two mostly-grown kids, and one very high-maintenance dog.

www.bethpattillo.com

Twitter: @bethpattillo

www.facebook.com/bethpattilloauthor

# New Year's Magic

By Jody Wallace

At precisely 12 a.m. on New Year's Day, when he came at her for a celebratory kiss, Ana's date turned into a pumpkin.

"Crap!" Ana snatched up the large gourd before any of her fellow revelers smashed it. The residual effects of the spell should prevent bystanders from noticing the transmogrification, but the spell to change Jimmy back into the human he'd been ten seconds ago wouldn't work on pumpkin pulp.

She was going to kill that damn cat. This time, she was really going to do it.

Leading with the pumpkin, she pushed free of the throng. Confetti and balloons drifted from the ceiling as the crowd broke into a drunken rendition of "Auld Lang Syne." Her stilettos pinched her toes with every stomp.

Not that the date had been going fabulously--it was hard for a sorceress to relax with a normal, even one as cute as Jimmy--but she'd been dateless for too long. The last man who'd interested her... Well, the less said about him the better.

Except she'd be saying a lot of things to him here in about twenty minutes. Threatening things.

Ana hailed a cab. Jimmy had driven, so his car keys had turned veggie with him. Luckily her parents had taught her never to venture forth on this plane without the accoutrements of normal folk, like money for cabs, cell phones, and memory-wiping spells for any slip-ups.

When she got home, she left Jimmy on the porch next to her inflatable Santa and stormed into her house, a well-kept rancher in the suburbs with a private backyard that allowed her to have her own herb garden, koi pond, and ceremonial dais.

"Malcolm!" she yelled. "Get your furry butt down here and explain yourself!"

Of course Malcolm ignored her.

She whispered, " _Attente felinus_ ," activating the homing device in his collar. The tendril of magic led her upstairs into her bedroom, where he lounged on the quilt in ebony feline splendor.

"I suppose you think you're clever," she snarled.

He blinked yellow eyes at her and yawned. A huge housecat, he approached twenty-five pounds, shiny black except for paws, chest and stomach.

"I know you did this. Somehow." She wagged a finger at him, not close enough for him to swat. "Turn him back. You know I can't undo a spell another sorcerer cast."

Instead, Malcolm rolled over, displaying the stripe of white on his belly that was hard to resist. When he'd been human, his stomach had been equally hard to resist, for different reasons.

Hell. If she'd resisted when he'd been human, none of this would be happening right now.

Ana threw up her hands. "You don't get to be jealous when it was your wife--"

Malcolm meowed loudly.

"Fine. Your betrothed in a political union intended to seal the treaty between sorcerers and demons." She plucked hairpins out of her up-do and threw them, one by one, at Malcolm. "Too bad the groom deserted his blushing, horned bride at the altar."

Malcolm batted her hairpins to the floor. His inability to communicate in this form hadn't prevented her from figuring out the basics over the past three months.

Hadn't prevented him from screwing up her life, either. A life that was getting trickier and trickier the more things heated up between demons and sorcerers because of the botched wedding. How long could she keep Malcolm hidden?

Especially now that he'd found a way to turn her dates into pumpkins. Clearly the first spell a man-turned-cat needed to master.

With a huge sigh, Ana sank onto the bed beside the cat. Not for the first time, she said, "You should have told me."

If he'd told her he was that guy, the sacrificial lamb on the demon marriage altar, she'd never have kissed him after he'd rescued her from that hellhound. She'd never have taken him home. She'd certainly never have...

But she had. Well, they had. Twice. Now Malcolm was as hairy as poor Jimmy was orange, and she was beginning to think their cover was disintegrating like tissues in a rainstorm. The only reason it had worked so long was because the hex had been designed to transform her into an animal. The demons and Wardens were searching high and low for Malcolm Debeers, not a sorceress with a cat.

She hooked several hairpins together, fidgeting. Worrying. So much worrying. "I have to date. People are starting to get suspicious. Young, single sorceress like me with no partner? No coven? They're already sniffing around. If they cast the right spells, they'll figure out you're not a familiar. How am I supposed to protect you if you won't cooperate? You saved my life, and I owe you. But I have to date."

Malcolm headbutted her arm, asking for pets. His coat flowed beneath her fingers like silk. As usual, her skin tingled pleasantly. "How did you cast the spell? We have to change him back."

The tip of his tail flicked. Then he jumped off the bed and trotted out of the room. She followed.

When he scratched at the front door, she let him out. He sat beside the pumpkin--Jimmy--and stared at it.

Ana stared too. To her surprise, the pumpkin gave a shudder. A wobble. It was like something inside was trying to get out.

Malcolm launched himself at the gourd with all the fury of a cat who suddenly needed to be in the other room. His lean body impacted the twitching vegetable and tumbled it down the porch steps.

Splat! The pumpkin split open on the flagstone walkway. A tiny monster ripped through the crack with long, black claws and started to grow.

What the hell...literally! Jimmy was a yaoguai.

Luckily her parents had taught her to be prepared for demon attacks, too.

Ana hefted the inflatable Santa and batted the swelling, hissing red fiend. The balloon absorbed it before it completed its transformation. Trapped inside, it could do nothing on this plane until she released it.

Malcolm licked his shoulder where he'd struck the pumpkin.

_Saved you again_ , whispered a laughing voice in her mind.

"How did you know? How are you talking to me?" she asked, startled.

_I, ah, have a confession_ , he responded. It was Malcolm. She recognized the deep timbre of his voice instantly, recognized it in her bones. And other places. _Come inside and we'll talk._

Magic tingled in the air around them. Transmogrification magic that Malcolm seemed to be casting on himself. She recognized the tingle as much as she did the voice, and when she realized why, she cursed.

She closed the door behind them. Slammed it, actually. The air shimmered as Malcolm's form returned to its natural bipedal state.

They were going to talk, all right. After she kicked his sexy, naked, human ass.

* * * *

Jody Wallace grew up in the South in a very rural area. She went to school a long time and ended up with a Master's Degree in Creative Writing. Her resume includes college English instructor, technical documents editor, market analyst, web designer, and general, all-around pain in the butt. She resides in Tennessee with one husband, two children, two cats, and a lot of junk. In fact, she has always lived with cats, and they have always been mean.

To discover other books by Ms. Wallace, visit her website at <http://www.jodywallace.com>. You can also find her at Twitter and Facebook.

To discover meankitties, visit the cat's website at <http://www.meankitty.com>.

# Giving Thanks

By Jeanette Grey

Sara waited until nobody was looking before she did it. Mom was elbow-deep in turkey guts, and her aunts and grandma were arguing about something or other, while everyone else shouted at the television in the other room. She snuck a quick text and pretended she was heading to the bathroom, then darted right past it to the end of the hall.

With a long-practiced motion, she eased the window up without a sound, just far enough to slip through it and out onto the fire escape. She slid the window shut behind her, and it was like magic. All the voices from inside went quiet, and the sweltering heat from the busted radiator and the 1980s oven gave way to cool autumn air. She took a deep, gulping breath and sagged against the brick to wait.

"Rough day?" a familiar voice called out.

She whipped around.

And there he was, already waiting for her. Jamie Callahan. The next door neighbor's son. And so much more.

He was leaning against the railing on the other side of the fire escape, dressed in jeans and a brown jacket, his hair a little longer than it had been the last time she'd seen him. Back before she'd left for college and he'd...stayed here.

"You have no idea." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, pushing herself off the wall to stand up straight. Playing it cool when every instinct told her to break out into a run. "Holidays, you know?"

A crooked grin stole across his mouth. "Definitely." He lifted a beer bottle in salute and gestured with it toward his dad's apartment. "It's practically World War III in there."

She chuckled in empathy. "I think World War III would be quieter."

"It's quiet enough out here."

Of course it was. That had always been the appeal of it.

She trembled with a shiver that was part the chill and part just how it felt to see him again. Something in his face softened, and he put down his bottle and lifted an arm.

It was all the invitation she needed.

A half dozen strides, and she'd crossed the narrow expanse of the fire escape, practically throwing herself at him. His chest was as warm and broad and firm as ever, and as he pulled her close, surrounding her, she breathed him in.

The past two months, she'd done everything she could to fight the rising tide of loneliness. College had been great. She'd made friends who liked the same things she did. She'd thrown herself into classes that had challenged her in a way high school never had, but it'd only helped so much. She'd missed her mom and the privacy of her room, and deep down, beneath everything, she'd missed this. A ten-by-four expanse of wrought iron grating, looking out over a dirty alley. And a boy she wasn't supposed to even know, much less miss.

Nearly twenty-four hours she'd been home. And this was the first time she'd felt like it.

She spoke into his shirt, hiding her face. "It's really good to see you."

"It's pretty okay to see you, too."

A laugh bubbled its way out of her throat. She pulled away to smack his biceps, and he jerked his arm in, looking wounded for all that she'd scarcely touched him.

"What? What did I say?" he asked.

"You know."

The grin on his face said he certainly did.

Turning back to look out over the alley, he wrapped an arm around her waist, keeping her tucked against his side. She'd forgotten to bring a jacket, but it didn't matter when he was so close.

"So when did you get in?"

"Last night."

He made a humming sound in the back of his throat.

Guilt churned inside her. "I tried to sneak away earlier..."

"It's okay. I had family stuff, too."

Not for the first time, she wished things could be different. That it could be both their families inside, fighting about casseroles and pies. But she was still who she was, and nothing had changed about him.

She was the girl whose mom had sacrificed everything to send her to a private school, and then to the best university she could get into. Jamie was the boy who'd barely scraped by in public school, the one who was a little rough around the edges.

The first day they'd moved into this apartment, Sara's mom had taken one look at him and told Sara she would have nothing to do with him.

She hadn't been able to control everything, though. Sara had discovered the fire escape quickly enough, and had returned to it again and again as a refuge. The first time the boy with the dark eyes and the holes in the knees of his jeans had been out there, too, she'd almost run away.

Years later, she was so, so glad she hadn't.

"How long until you have to get back inside?" she asked.

"You know my dad. He won't miss me."

It was an exaggeration, but not as much of one as she wished it was. "My mom will."

He stiffened. "You should go back in. Eat your turkey or whatever."

At the barest hint that he was even considering pushing her away, she curled her fingers into his shirt, wishing she could hold onto him by the strength of her grip alone. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

_Give away our time together. Act like anything is more important than this._ "Just don't."

They stood there in silence for a long minute, but for all that she'd protested, the sad truth of the matter was that he was right. Their time out here was limited.

Voice gruff, he said, "My dad bought an apple pie. For dessert."

"My mom's making pumpkin."

"I like pumpkin."

"And I like apple."

"Meet you out here after?"

She melted into him. It was an old game they'd played for ages, sneaking each other parts of their dinners. "Sounds perfect."

Almost as perfect as the way he finally turned, the broad heat of his palm coming to rest on the side of her face as he tipped her head up. She let her eyes drift shut and held on.

Warm, dry lips met hers, the taste of them enough to make her heart swell. It'd been so long since she'd been able to touch him like this. Be close to him like this.

The kiss only lasted a few seconds, but it would linger in her memory for so much longer. He let her go, dropping his hands and pressing his brow to hers.

And in that moment, it was enough to imagine they could stand like this forever. To take the heat of him and clutch it as near to her heart as she could.

Ignoring the ticking of the clock, she kissed him again. And she gave thanks for the time they had.

* * * *

RITA-nominated author Jeanette Grey started out with degrees in physics and painting, which she dutifully applied to stunted careers in teaching, technical support, and advertising. When none of that panned out, she started writing.

Never content to do just one thing, she is published in new adult, as well as contemporary, futuristic, and male/male romance. Her short fiction has appeared in collections such as Best Erotic Romance 2013 and 2014, and her novella, Take What You Want, was named one of Library Journal's best books of 2013.

Catch her upcoming release, an erotic futuristic romance called Through the Static, available in January 2015 from Samhain Publishing.

Website: <http://jeanettegrey.com/>

Twitter: http://twitter.com/#!/jeanettelgrey

Facebook: <http://www.facebook.com/jeanettelgrey>

Blog: <http://www.badgirlzwrite.com>

# A Holiday Miracle

By Michelle Monkou

Chet Reeves walked through each room in the house, surveying the number of boxes that held his possessions. Since his return to Clover Hill, the small-town island community on Maryland's Eastern Shore, nothing about his life had returned to normal. Tossing out the old felt like the right thing to do. He faced a new reality. A soldier's life of running enemy lines, pushing back against the aggression, dodging IEDs had come with a brutal truth that any video war game couldn't begin to capture the hell.

A new beginning, the therapist harped _ad nauseum_ , that he should go out and blend with the world. Instead he planned on clearing the clutter and retreat to live this shitty life handed to him.

His cane added a third dull thud to the uneven gait from his prosthetic leg. He'd taken every option of surgery and physical therapy, hoping for a sudden miracle--in his case, a new limb. Instead, his bitterness festered.

The telephone rang. He answered.

"Hello, may I speak to Chet? I'm calling about the items for sale?"

"That's me." Chet didn't have casual callers anymore, especially females with bright, sunny voices.

"Lorna Finney. I'm interested in purchasing the oval standing mirror."

"It's still here."

"I'd like to stop by within the hour."

"Sure." He provided the address and hung up.

"Chet." His mother called from the bottom of the stairs. "Are you up there?"

"I'm coming down. Just got a call from a Lorna Finney for the mirror."

"Finney?" His mother snapped her fingers. "It can't be Tina Finney's daughter. I'd heard that she came back. Left all high and mighty, but something happened involving money and the FBI. No one on the Finney side is saying too much. Funny how that is, huh? When it's someone else's business, Tina can't keep her mouth shut."

"I don't have a clue about the latest town gossip." Chet had other things on his mind, such as the dreaded sixteen steps to the first floor. Something he'd rather do in private.

"Lorna is probably two or three years younger than you. Looks like her mother, poor thing, but has her grandmother's wild personality."

"Now I remember who she is." Chet smiled as the memory played. "'Joan of Arc' Lorna led a student protest that almost got her kicked out. Always figured she'd sprint from this town." He thought he'd done so, too.

"Humpf, she's got nowhere else to go. Bankrupt. Lost a house in New York. You know how things are for hifalutin people in this town--nothing sticks to them."

"Aren't you full of holiday cheer," Chet mocked. He took another painful step, thankful to be halfway down the staircase.

"I know this is home to you, your grandma's--may she rest in peace--but think about making a fresh start."

"Over to the right side of the tracks, right?" Finally, he was on the first floor. Beads of perspiration dotted his brow. Pain took a while to stop throbbing.

"Not answering. Come live with us." Her hushed concern soothed his pain, somewhat.

Living with his parents, allowing them to take care of him, couldn't survive in his imagination, much less in reality.

His mother sighed when he didn't respond. "Anyway, I brought dinner--on the stove. I'll head out, now." She hovered so close that he tried not to add space between them.

He walked to the front door and opened it.

"You don't have to be so rude." She kissed his cheek, patting it gently. "Take care. Call me if you need anything."

His mother's exit matched her entrance with a slow walk down the path, chin raised, and focus straight ahead. She looked over at the neighbors, nodded, and then waved, repeating until she got into her car.

He turned to head back inside when a bright red convertible that had seen much better days pulled up in front of the house. The driver, a woman with wild hair, promptly jumped out and charged toward him.

"Ms. Finney, I presume." He didn't really have to ask. Every interesting feature about that teenage girl was still there, but with a mature twist toward oddball. The tamed brown hair was transformed into a reddish-wine explosion of spiral curls that framed a face decorated with a brow ring, nose stud, and bright cherry-red lipstick. The thick Coke-bottle glasses were gone. He took in the olive-green eyes with their upward exotic slant.

She bounded up the steps with ease. Her casual black T-shirt featured a white skull with fangs that dripped blood and jeans torn at the knees, making its own statement from the neat, church girl clothes she'd worn to school. All in all, Lorna had a sexy, fit body and an upbeat attitude that snapped him out of the doldrums. Her cursory scan swept over him and his cane, then resettled on his face.

"Chet? Good to meet you." She extended her hand and shook with a pleasant firmness, before following him into the house. "Have you lived here long?"

"This was once my grandparents' and then parents' house." He led her into the living room and paused, unsure what to do next.

"Are you moving?" Her gaze swept over the boxes.

"No."

"You know, you look familiar."

"Hmm. The mirror is upstairs. I'll bring it down." Now why did that lie pop out when he could barely get himself up or down the stairs?

"I've got to run to an appointment. Can I just run up and check it over, pay, and then have you deliver it to my house?"

"Sure." Thank you.

"You'd do that? I live--"

"I know where you live." He blamed her for his runaway mouth.

"Really?"

"You're Joan of Arc Finney. You're in the big white house off Falgers Road."

She blinked her sexy eyes. "You were the football player who got a boatload of scholarship offers."

The reminder of his younger--whole--self soured his mood. "Follow me, please."

Thankfully she stayed quiet as he limped up the stairs.

"We're here." He grimaced.

The dark, heavy furniture once belonged to his grandmother. He pulled out the mirror with its ornate, handcrafted wooden frame.

"This is gorgeous! Are you sure you want to get rid of it?" She stroked the wood, her slender fingers lightly tracing the swirls of the woodcrafter's tools.

"I don't need it." All the mirrors had been taken down or covered in the house.

"How much?"

"A hundred." He hadn't a clue. Mainly he went by the enthusiasm of the buyer.

"Seventy-five?" She opened her purse.

"Fine."

"Maybe I should've said sixty," she joked. "So you'll deliver?"

"Early tomorrow."

"That'll work. Gotta go." She headed downstairs, not waiting for him.

"Don't you want a receipt?" He wasn't finished listening to the sing-song lilt.

"You can bring it with you." She smiled. "I'm looking forward to it."

The car revved and pulled off from the house. His only visitor for the week came and went within thirty minutes. Yet, she'd had enough energy to stir excitement and then suck it all back to her when she left. No matter what, he'd make that delivery tomorrow.

* * * *

Michelle Monkou is a multi-published author with over 20 books in print and digital. She began her writing career in 2002 with Black Entertainment Television (BET) Books, Arabesque imprint, Evernight Publishing, and Boroughs Publishing. She writes contemporary romances, paranormal/urban fantasy and publishes her backlist and original stories on her independent digital platform, Stella Maris Publishing. Her stories speak to the heart and offer that happy-ever-after ending for the romance fiction reader.

Michelle is also an active participant with romance writers' advocacy efforts. She served on the boards and as presidents of Washington Romance Writers, and the 10,000-membership Romance Writers of America. She's a weekly contributor on USA TODAY's Happy Ever After Blog, conducting author interviews, recommending and reviewing books, and providing commentary on romance fiction.

She resides in Maryland, writing many more stories to fill the hands and e-readers of romantic bookaholics.

Website: <http://michellemonkou.com>

Facebook: (Author page)

Twitter & Pinterest: @michellemonkou

# A Bluestone Christmas Homecoming

By MJ Fredrick

Nathan Owen sat in the back of the cab and watched the gold, yellows and oranges of the Minnesota countryside pass by.

He was on his way home. Finally.

After a few failed attempts, the cab driver had stopped asking questions. The bill would be staggering, he knew, coming from the airport in Brainerd. He could have called someone to come and get him, but he wanted his homecoming, already delayed almost a year, to be a surprise, and he knew no one in Bluestone who could keep a secret.

He sat up straighter as they approached familiar territory, the curve of the road north of the lake, the trees lining the road, trees he'd ridden past every day on his way to school. On the other side, their colors would reflect on Bluestone Lake, one of his favorite sights.

There was Quinn's bar, but the "For Sale" sign was gone. Boysen's store had a fresh coat of paint. The landing looked good, the leaves in front raked, the sidewalk clear for anyone who wanted a last-minute fishing trip. Some of the boats had already been lifted in preparation for their move to storage over the winter.

Nathan's stomach tightened as the cab turned onto the street in front of the elementary school. For a moment, he was tempted to ask the cabbie to drive back to Quinn's, where he could gather his nerve

"Someone's ready for Christmas early," the cab driver commented.

Nathan almost didn't get what he was talking about, tears blurring his vision as they approached home. He blinked, and saw.

Christmas lights sagged from the eaves, the bulbs faded, though even in the late daylight, he could see they were lit. A Christmas tree was framed in the big picture window, tinsel reflecting even more lights. A pine wreath with a big pink bow hung on the door.

"She said she'd hold Christmas until I got back," he murmured, reaching for his wallet.

The cabbie turned, surprise brightening his face. "How long were you gone?"

"Too long." Nathan dropped the cash, with a generous tip, and opened the door.

He wasn't prepared for the smell, wood smoke mingling with the falling leaves in the crisp air. It slammed into him, carrying him back to his childhood, both the pleasure of playing in the raked leaves and the hated chore of raking them before the first snowfall. Who had raked the yard? Because despite the sad Christmas decorations, the house looked good, the yard neat.

He tugged his jacket a little closer against the chill he'd forgotten after years in the desert, hiked his duffel higher on his shoulder, and started up the sidewalk.

The front door opened and he stopped, bracing himself for his mother's reaction, but it wasn't his mother who walked through the door. Instead, Makayla Collier, the next-door neighbor, stepped out, dark hair falling over her sweater-clad shoulders, the tanned legs he'd admired for so many summers covered now in dark denim, the jeans tucked into tall brown boots.

When she saw him, she stopped, too, her hand over her chest. Then she squealed and vaulted down the porch steps to launch into his arms. He staggered for a moment before wrapping his arms around her and holding her close. For years, he'd wanted to do this, to feel this woman in his arms, but his troubled teenaged years--and her formidable father--kept him at a distance from the younger woman. He'd watched her grow up from a distance, always admiring, never worthy enough to take action.

And now she was in his arms, her head tucked under his chin, her arms wrapped around his shoulders, so tight.

"I didn't know you were coming home. She didn't say anything," Makayla said, lifting her face to look at him.

Tears sheened her eyes, and the sight hit him right in the gut. Despite his habit of denying himself, he stroked a thumb beneath her eye, letting the tears roll down his callused finger.

"She didn't know. It's a surprise."

A smile blossomed across Makayla's face. "She's going to be over the moon."

"Is she--doing okay?" he asked as she stepped back, out of his arms, and he felt the loss acutely. To distract them both, he gestured at the decorations.

Makayla's smile widened. "She's just fine. I just brought her groceries, though, and checked to see how she was doing."

"Seems a little odd that she left the decorations up."

"People understand. And the kids call it the Christmas house. Everyone's going to be so glad you're home, and safe." She touched the collar of his uniform shirt, the insignia there. "Congratulations. Are you home long?"

"Home to stay." After wanting so badly to escape, he'd dreamed of this house, this town, almost every night when he was away. He knew he should go into the house, but he didn't want her to walk away, not yet. "You?"

"Never left. Well, to college, but you know. I'm teaching in Boller, at the high school."

"My teachers were never so pretty when I went there." He might have done better, might have found his place sooner.

She blushed and dipped her head. "You forget I remember you. They were probably always yelling at you."

The first smile he'd felt in a long while tugged at his lips. "You're probably right. You still live next door?" He wanted to ask if she was married, involved. His glance at her left hand probably gave away his motive.

Her own smile revealed the dimples he remembered so well. "I do. Mom and Dad moved to Texas after last winter, but I wanted to stay, so they sold me the house." She gestured with her left hand. "You should come see it. I've made some changes, and it's really cozy." She dropped her hand quickly, self-consciously. "I mean, once you settle in. Since you're home a while."

She turned and started toward her house.

"Makayla." Her name was a croak in his rusty voice. Damn, it had been a long time since he'd talked to a woman.

She looked over her shoulder at him.

"I'd like you to--show me around town. You know. So much has changed, and..." His voice trailed off, knowing how lame he sounded. He'd never been an expert at conversation, but he hadn't thought the skill had deteriorated this badly.

The dimples again. She turned back and took a couple of steps toward him. "I'd love to show you around."

The twinkle in her eyes told him she saw the foolishness of his request. She placed her hand on his chest, rose on her toes and pressed her soft mouth to his. Every fantasy he'd ever had about her came into sharp focus as he slipped his hand around the small of her back, bringing her against him, parting his lips over hers and drinking her in.

Only the sound of a car door closing brought him to his senses, and he lifted his head slowly, looking at her smooth skin, her long lashes resting on soft cheeks before her eyes drifted open and focused on his.

She took a step back, full lips quirking. "Come on by whenever you want. Now, go let your mother know you're home."

For the first time in too long, he felt his own happiness rise, and he hurried up the steps of the porch and swung open the door.

"Mom! I'm home!"

* * * *

MJ Fredrick knows about chasing dreams. Twelve years after she completed her first novel, she signed her first publishing contract. Now she divides her days between teaching elementary music and diving into her own writing--traveling everywhere in her mind, from Belize to Honduras to Africa to the past.

She's a four-time Golden Heart Award finalist, and she won the 2009 Eppie Award with Hot Shot and the 2010 Eppie with Breaking Daylight. She was a 2012 Epic Award finalist with Don't Look Back.

Connect with MJ online.

Website: <http://mjfredrick.com>

Blog: <http://mjfredrick.wordpress.com>

Newsletter: <http://bit.ly/1hf1goB>

Facebook: <http://on.fb.me/16D4kvK>

Twitter: <https://twitter.com/MJFredrick>

# Haintsgiving

By Maureen Hardegree

Correct me if I'm wrong, but today was Thanksgiving, not Thanksgivesmas.

As the TV commercial's Christmas music blare lowered to the _Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade_ announcers' happy talk, I, Heather Tildy, overworked and underappreciated ghost handler, struggled to keep my heavy eyelids open. I'd stayed up way too late last night, watching _The Nutcracker_ ballet on PBS with my sister Claire once we'd finished baking pies for today's McCormack-Tildy feast. Sort of.

I also had been texting my friend Tina. My latest dilemma? Drew's mom wouldn't let him come over today. Yeah, she hasn't forgiven me for his suspension. As only a BFF can, Tina had done her best to talk me off that my-boyfriend's-mom-hates-me ledge, but I was still teetering.

My life sucked. Nothing ever went my way for long, not with Christmas swallowing my favorite holiday, not with teachers, or boys, and especially not with ghosts. And that was problem fifty thousand and two. Before returning to the Pecan Hills High grind on Monday, I had to whittle down the list of applicants for my never-ending after-school project. Would it be ghost-on-a-rope in the gym, gas station attendant, or the overachiever who wanted to reshape me in her image?

Yeah, I was thinking straight-A ghost could wait until . . . um, forever. Maybe they could all wait.

While the Rockettes tapped and high-kicked to a jazzed-up version of _The Nutcracker Suite_ , which was _so_ Christmas--not Thanksgiving--I caught myself nodding off. Yawning, I figured why not and burrowed into the sofa cushions for a much-needed nap.

The next thing I knew, a betwinkled tree reflected on the TV screen and expanded out to the walls and up the ceiling. My heart galloped at pop-quiz-I-will-most-likely-fail speed.

Clone rats with Audrey's evil friend Karen's face and fleshy tails chased me until I was breathless. One wearing a cheap, plastic crown chose that moment to part her overly-glossed lips and mocked, "Boo hoo, no Drew."

I blinked. How did she ...? _Audrey_. Yet another thing I _wasn't_ thankful for, my older sister's big mouth.

Drums rat-a-tatted from the kitchen, and in marched Audrey, Claire and Tina in matching dark-wash jeans, riding boots, and cropped red sweaters. Instead of sabers and guns, each raised a curling iron, flat iron, or blow dryer. Not exactly weaponry that could defeat clone rats chanting, "Boo hoo, no Drew."

A wide-shouldered soldier an inch or so taller than my sisters appeared in a brass-buttoned uniform and a paper maché head, just like the Nutcracker in the ballet last night.

"Drew?" I hoped he was the guy leading the charge against the Karens, but then I felt guilty that I was letting him do all the work.

Removing one fuzzy pink slipper, I beaned it right between crowned Karen's shoulder blades. Her overly made-up eyes glinted as she faced me. Her whiskers twitched. She lunged at me, and I dodged. But she managed to back me into a corner anyway.

"Can I get a little help here?" I called out.

Sneaking up behind Queen Karen, Nutcracker snatched her dollar-store crown and flung it. She screamed, and before she could reach the spinning plastic, it, Karen, the clones, everyone and everything but me and Nutcracker Drew imploded.

At least, I figured it was Drew. Or--I breathed in the scent of salty ocean, then peered more closely at my savior's paper maché head that suddenly morphed into ghost Jack, the board short-wearing haint most likely to win my heart if only he wasn't dead.

My voice shook. "What are you doing here?"

He flashed that mischievous grin I'd almost forgotten. I hadn't seen him since summer. "Some old guy told me I could come back on special occasions."

"But you're not staying." Somehow I knew.

"Can't. Just wanted to remind you that you're doing good."

"And I should be thankful that I can help," I finished for him, but I wasn't feeling it.

"If you hadn't accepted your gift, we never would have met."

"Not everyone can help the stuck. Yeah, I get it."

He sighed heavily, and his breath stirred the air. "No, you don't."

I reached my hand toward his chest, but rather than go through him like it should with a haint who's been dead awhile, warm, solid muscle covered in a rash guard flexed beneath my fingers. Leaning in, he cradled my face in hands I shouldn't be able to feel, but did. The patchy stubble on his chin scratched as our lips met in a much-too-short kiss that left me wobbly-kneed.

"How'd you do that?" I asked.

"Maybe there are some ghost-handling rules you haven't figured out. Just like you haven't figured out that you're not the kind of girl who wallows in self-pity."

I crossed my arms over my pajama-covered chest. "I was not wallowing."

"Yes, you were."

Okay, so maybe I was. But had I really done much good? Sure, Jack was no longer roaming the beaches of Jekyll Island or haunting the rental. His anger at dying had fizzled. He seemed at peace.

"I don't have a lot of time," he said. "You did help. You also gave me my first legit kiss."

Somewhat like the one we'd just shared that felt more real than a dream should--because I was pretty certain that's what this was, a figment of my sleeping brain.

"You've helped more than us ghosts move on. You helped my mom and dad. Instead of filing for divorce this fall, they took a trip to New England to see the leaves. That wouldn't have happened if you hadn't helped me talk to her."

Maybe.

I'd discovered the truth about Weatherly's death and helped Xavier's family deal with their grief, too. I guess I'd made more of a difference than I'd thought. Not only had I assisted the dead out of limbo, I'd also aided the loved ones left behind who were not part of the job description.

"Don't go," I begged.

"I have to. You're waking up."

"Will I see you again?"

Jack turned to pure blinding light. "In your dreams," he said with a laugh.

"Heather," someone, not Jack, growled, and a bony elbow impacted my side.

"Get up," Audrey ordered, shifting into bossy gear. "You have to . . . blah, blah, blah. . . . pajamas."

I opened my eyes cautiously.

"Everything okay?" Claire asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine." I touched where I'd actually felt the pressure of Jack's lips against mine and breathed in Thanksgiving--sautéing onions, browning butter, caramelizing sugar, and roasting turkey. "Actually, I'm more than fine."

I was grateful. I had Mom, Dad, Grandma, and an aunt who helped me navigate the crazy haint-filled world few people saw. I had two sisters and a dog who loved me, who I loved back (even though they sometimes irritated the crap out of me). I had good friends and a Facebook-validated living, breathing boyfriend. By late afternoon, I'd be stuffed as full as some people's Turduckens. And no school 'til Monday.

No, my ghost-filled life didn't suck one bit. Even if the rest of the world was determined to Christmasify Thanksgiving.

* * * *

Although Georgia YA author Maureen Hardegree concedes to having all the usual baggage of a middle child, she is NOT a ghost handler. She does, however, believe in connecting with her inner teenager and in feeding her active imagination--it likes Italian food and chocolate. Maureen is a past president of Georgia Romance Writers and a longtime contributor to BelleBooks' Mossy Creek Hometown anthologies. Feel free to visit Maureen's website (www.maureenhardegree.com), Pinterest boards, and Facebook page to say hello and find updates on signings, events, and upcoming 2015 releases, which includes If It Haint Broke, Book Six of the Ghost Handlers series.

# All She Wants for Christmas

By Janice Lynn

"Ho. Ho. Ho."

How in the world had he gotten talked into this, Jarrett Woods wondered for the hundredth time. Adjusting his fake belly, he glanced toward the woman squatted next to the curly-dark-haired little girl.

Leah Davis. That's exactly how he'd gotten talked into this. How he got talked into lots of things. Leah asked, batted her big blue eyes at him, and before he could lasso his all-too-agreeable tongue into submission, he was promising Leah the world.

Or in this case, to play Santa for her four-year-old's preschool class.

"Santa, this is Katy." Not that he didn't know who Leah's daughter was. The munchkin spent as much time playing in his backyard as she did her own. "She's been especially good this year." Leah batted those big eyes.

No wonder he couldn't tell her no. Not that her plea that Katy would have been disappointed Santa no-showed her class wouldn't have been enough to convince him to say yes, but Leah turned his firefighter, tough guy self into putty.

Jarrett dragged his gaze from his neighbor's pretty face to look at the mini-me clasping her mother's hand.

"Ho. Ho. Ho. Katy...yes, I remember putting your name on my 'nice' list." He sounded ridiculous, but rather than point out that he was the worst Santa ever, or even worse, say she recognized him, Katy gave a shy smile and climbed into his lap.

He hugged her closer, or tried to. The padding on his Santa suit got in the way. "What do you want Santa to bring you this year?"

Katy cocked her head, studying him so closely he knew the gig was up. Instead, she stretched, cupped her tiny hand around his ear and whispered, "I want a daddy."

Jarrett coughed. Sputtered. Tried to recover with a jolly "Ho. Ho. Ho." A daddy?

His gaze shot to Leah's. Her brow rose in question. No doubt he looked like one of his supposed reindeer caught in headlights.

"Jimmy says his daddy takes him fishing so I might need a fishing pole to go with my daddy."

When he didn't immediately respond, not counting his choking, Katy patted his make-upped cheek. "I was very good this year, Santa. Do you think I could have both?"

How was he supposed to respond?

"That's a pretty tall order for my North Pole elves. They've never made one of those items in their toy shop."

Katy frowned then brightened. She leaned in. "The elves don't have to make a daddy. Use your Christmas magic and make Jarrett my new daddy!"

She smiled as if her plan was brilliant. Jarrett was speechless.

"Santa?"

"Katy, darling," Leah interrupted. "Let's make your picture with Santa so others can have their turn."

Katy smiled with a still floored Santa then winked at him. "Don't forget."

No worries. Jarrett would have difficulty thinking of anything else the five days left until Christmas.

Because Leah wasn't the only one he couldn't say no to.

Leah knew Jarrett was home, so why wasn't he answering the door?

"Jarrett, it's me," she called, opening the door leading into his kitchen. "Katy and I baked Christmas cookies."

Tucking a T-shirt into his jeans, Jarrett walked into the kitchen. Leah's breath caught. It always did when she saw her neighbor.

"There you are," she greeted.

"Sorry, I was..." His gaze landed on the plastic container. "Are those cookies?"

How the man stayed so fit she'd never understand because he could put away some food. She and Katy loved feeding him.

"They are." She held out the container. "They're for you and the guys at the station."

"You think they'll last that long?" Grinning, he popped the lid and pulled out a cookie.

"They'd better," she playfully scolded. "Santa's watching. Would hate for you to get put on the naughty list last minute."

He demolished his cookie in two bites. "Pretty sure my name was permanently etched onto that list years ago."

"I don't believe that." Jarrett was the best man she'd ever known. If only...no, she wouldn't go there. They were friends. He dated perky athletic types. Not well-rounded single mothers.

"Nonetheless, it's true." He reached for the cookies. "I need another."

"Save some for the guys." She play smacked his hands. "What did Katy ask Santa for?"

Finishing his cookie, he licked a stray bit of sugar from his fingers and ignored her question.

"I want her Christmas morning to be magical."

"Give me another cookie."

Leah crossed her arms over the plastic container. "Not until you tell me what Katy wants for Christmas."

Grinning, he attempted to get the cookies. "You're the one going to be on the naughty list. Give me another."

Backing up, she held the container tighter. "Not until you tell me."

Not to be daunted, he continued his playful pursuit until she was pressed against the door.

"Now what are you going to do?" he teased.

Glancing upward, Leah's eyes landed on the mistletoe she'd hung above his doorway a couple of weeks ago. He'd helped her retrieve the greenery. It had only seemed fair she share.

His gaze followed hers then slowly slid back down. The teasing light faded.

Leah gulped. He was considering kissing her.

She wanted him to kiss her.

But she didn't want to be just another woman who came in and out of his life.

She wanted...his lips covered hers. That's what she wanted. What she'd been wanting for months.

He kissed her softly, his lips worshiping hers. Her heart thudded like the Little Drummer Boy's rum-a-thump-thump.

"I know what I want for Christmas," he whispered against her mouth. "And Katy wants a fishing pole."

"Mom! Mom! Wake up!" Katy bounced on Leah's bed.

Leah yawned. "It's too early."

"It's Christmas morning." Katy tugged on her hand.

Laughing, Leah sat up. "Let me get the camera."

"Hurry!"

When they walked into the living room, Katy squealed with glee. Leah stared at what _she_ wanted for Christmas.

"Jarrett?"

"Merry Christmas, Leah."

"Why are you here?" Not that he didn't have her spare key, but that was in case she got locked out, right?

"He's my Christmas present," Katy announced proudly.

Leah's gaze dropped to her daughter. "Excuse me?"

"You heard her," Jarrett answered. "I'm her Christmas present."

Katy's eyes widened. "Santa told you?"

"Something like that."

Katy's eyes lit on the fishing pole with a red ribbon tied around it. Bouncing with happiness, she ran to check it out.

"Explain."

"How about I just give you this instead?" He held out a present.

Raising the box lid, she gasped. "Jarrett?"

Grinning, he knelt. "Since I'm Katy's new daddy, you and I should make it official."

"That's what she asked Santa for? A daddy?"

"For me specifically."

Leah's heart squeezed. "You don't have to do this. I'll explain to her."

"Explain that I'm crazy about you two and want to be a part of your lives."

"But..."

"Leah, don't you know how I feel? Couldn't you tell when I kissed you?"

Could it be true?

"Tell me."

Jarrett wrapped his arms around her and kissed her gently on the lips. "Merry Christmas, My Love."

* * * *

Award-winning author Janice Lynn loves to spin a tale that touches her readers' hearts by putting a smile on their lips and a tear in their eye. Her favorite read is one with a strong heroine who can laugh at herself and a hero who appreciates the heroine's strengths and imperfections, and can't help but love her. Janice strives to write characters who make her want to go along for their adventure and smile several times on the journey to their happily ever after.

Janice lives in Tennessee with her family, her vivid imagination, and bunches of unnamed dust bunnies that moved in after she started pursuing my writing career.

She has published over 20 books with various publishing companies including Harlequin Enterprises and Dorchester Publishing. Her books have won numerous awards including the National Readers' Choice Award, the Golden Quill for Best Short Contemporary Romance, the American Title, the Holt Medallion Award of Merit, and the Golden Quill for Best First Book.

For more information on Janice Lynn, visit her website at www.janicelynn.net or her author Facebook page at www.facebook.com/JaniceLynnAuthor.

OTHER BOOKS BY JANICE LYNN: Jane Millionaire, Causing a Commotion and The Glass Slipper.

# The Solstice Ball

By Nancy Northcott

A smart man would move on.

Roland Wade knew this, and his inability to do so chapped his shorts.

"So did you ask her?" Broderick Hamilton kept his deep voice low. Considerate of him, though the small outboard motor's noise would likely keep his question from carrying to the boat behind them anyway. Gliding over the Okefenokee Swamp's black water, that boat held the strawberry blonde he referred to and four seventh-graders.

"Last week." Roland grimaced to close the subject.

The water perfectly reflected the silvery trunks of cypress trees, with their few remaining needles a rusty brown, and a sunset that blazed like his hopes going down in flames.

He'd invited teacher Periwinkle Lee to tomorrow night's Winter Solstice Ball at the Collegium, the southeastern mages' secret headquarters.

He should've known better.

She was like a fairy princess, petite, pretty, and wicked smart. He, unfortunately, looked more like an ogre, thanks to his linebacker's hulking build and a nose broken from too much football. And school hadn't been his thing.

"Faint heart ne'er won fair lady," Broderick teased as he brought the boat into its slip.

And princesses didn't date ogres. Peri's refusal had been polite but firm. Roland shrugged.

The other four boats carrying students and mage guides docked. The last boat carried two of Roland and Broderick's fellow mage cops, known as deputy reeves.

Because Mundane, or normal, humans couldn't know about mages--or their government center, academy, or law enforcement facilities, which masqueraded as the Georgia Institute for Paranormal Research--the deputies wore ordinary clothes. Each also wore a sword, magically screening it from sight. Because ghouls, dark magic users who kidnapped mages and Mundanes for breeding, were active around the swamp, mage students took no field trips unguarded.

Roland climbed out, and someone's elbow in his back-- _thank you, Broderick, you well-meaning asshole_ --propelled him toward Peri's boat. Startled, she looked up.

"Uh, hi." He offered her a hand.

The students scrambled out, but Peri, to his great surprise, hesitantly closed her fingers around his before stepping onto the dock. His pulse kicked. Although he released her instantly, the feel of her smooth skin and surprisingly callused palm lingered on his fingers as her violet scent teased his nose.

"Thanks," she said.

They stood in awkward silence, not quite looking at each other. Then Peri's head snapped up. She rushed to stop a pair of boys roughhousing on the dock.

Roland scowled at the live oaks by the water. After dinner in the little town of Wayfarer, which would be decked out for Christmas and the Solstice, came an hour-plus ride back to the Collegium. Damn.

Too bad he'd drawn bus duty. The trailing SUV would've been a Peri-free zone.

Refusing Roland was the smart move. Peri knew that. Yet her eyes kept straying to the big man with the blond buzz-cut who sat behind the driver. In the darkness, the dash lights silhouetted his broad-shouldered frame.

Roland's fellow deputy, dark-haired GiGi Gonzales, leaned across the aisle toward Peri. Under cover of the chattering students, GiGi said, "He's a good guy."

She must've noticed Peri staring. Peri's cheeks heated. "He seems very competent."

"And he's a sweetie."

"I've heard." But he was also big, taciturn, and stealthy, like the toughs who'd lurked in the slums of her Chicago childhood. He made her nervous. No predator could pass the deputy reeve screening, of course, but Roland evoked bad memories.

Even if he did have a voice as deep and smooth as liquid nighttime. And eyes that often gleamed with humor.

Peri shrugged, and GiGi sat back.

The road ran through part of the swamp, past campgrounds deserted for the winter holidays. In the dark, the trees blurred into one big shadow.

A flare of muddy yellow light slammed into the front of the bus, stopping it cold. Thrown against the seat in front of her, Peri gasped for breath.

Roland and GiGi both shouted, "Ghouls! Down!"

Dropping to the floor, Peri flung out as wide a magical shield as she could. The fifteen students had drilled for this. Too young to shield magically, they should slide to the floor between the seats, duck, and cover their heads with their arms to shield against glass or debris.

They complied, and quietly. Good.

Standing before the emergency door, GiGi glowed from the magical shielding she'd spun around herself.

Peri cautiously peeked toward the front.

Also magically shielded, Roland blocked the aisle with his sword in hand. He looked like a mythical hero, facing down the enemy to protect the children behind him.

A fist-wide bolt of muddy golden energy shattered the windshield and slammed into him.

Peri went cold with fear. The blast drove Roland back several steps before his shielding aura deflected it.

Ghouls yanked the front door off. Roland jumped to the bottom step and gutted a burly male with an upward slash.

Behind Peri, metal screeched. The emergency door snapped off its hinges and crashed to the side. Bolts of blue and green mage energy clashing with the muddy ghoul magic lit the night outside.

GiGi blasted a green bolt from her sword through the opening. Two dirty yellow ones flashed in, slamming into her belly. Less burly than Roland, she couldn't stand against the strike. It flung her up the aisle.

A heavyset, male ghoul approached the gaping doorway, its extended talons, the muddy whites of its eyes, and the stinging reek of ammonia confirming it wasn't human.

_Oh, hell, no._ Peri leaped to block the opening. The thing grabbed for her leg. She jumped backward.

The ghoul stepped on the bumper, holding the doorway's sides to pull itself up. She side-kicked its face as hard as she could.

The ghoul lost its grip. GiGi pulled Peri clear and stabbed the big female who leaped into the doorway.

Then the noises stopped. No more ghouls appeared.

"Clear," Roland called. Broderick and Darren, the deputies outside, echoed him.

Someone near the front was crying. Peri started forward. But Roland leaned over a seat, his rough face softened by his smile. "It's okay now, sweetie," he said.

"Promise?" Stacy Maxton's blond head edged slowly upward.

"Promise." Roland smiled at her.

The trust in the girl's face and the kindness in his had Peri's heart stuttering.

Peri kept the students by the SUV while the driver and a deputy used a combination of magic and tools to get the bus drivable. Roland prowled up and down the road, watching the surrounding darkness.

As he turned, they made eye contact. He hesitated a moment, then walked toward her. Her usual wariness stirred, but the image of him standing in the bus's aisle squashed it. She'd misjudged him. Here was a chance to make it right.

"You kicked ass," he observed. "You shouldn't have had to, though. We scanned thoroughly, but the ghouls somehow evaded or blocked that, which is bad news. You okay?"

"Fine, thanks." She turned to him, looking fully at him as she so rarely had. "I'm glad you weren't hurt. When you were hit, I was scared."

"I just did my job."

"You were wonderful with Stacy." Peri steeled herself. "I've been unfair to you, Roland. I grew up in a rough place, and you reminded me of some nasty people. I'm sorry."

"You're not the first to react that way." Despite his wry tone, the shadow in his brown eyes might've been hurt. "It's okay."

"It's not." She hesitated then looked away. Did she dare mention the ball?

Roland blurted, "If you've changed your mind about the ball, the invitation stands." He looked wary, as though he expected refusal.

Peri smiled, and his answering smile sent warm fizzies through her.

"I'd like that," she said.

* * * *

Nancy Northcott's childhood ambition was to grow up and become Wonder Woman. Around fourth grade, she realized it was too late to acquire Amazon genes, but she still loved comic books, science fiction, fantasy and YA romance. A sucker for fast action and wrenching emotion, Nancy combines the romance and high stakes she loves in the books she writes.

Her debut novel, _Renegade_ , received a starred review from _Library Journal_. The reviewer called it "genre writing at its best." Nancy is a three-time RWA Golden Heart finalist and has won the Maggie, the Molly, the Emerald City Opener, and Put Your Heart in a Book contests.

Married since 1987, Nancy and her husband have one son, a bossy dog, and a house full of books.

www.nancynorthcott.com

# Zombie of Good Cheer

By Gretchen Stull

"Do you think Santa is a zombie?"

He'd come to expect questions like this. Jilly was an inquisitive child, had been from the start, but expectation didn't make answering any easier.

Ben stared at the back of his daughter's petite, blond head, wishing once again for a fully annotated _Dad's Guide to Raising Daughters_ , complete with an appendix on post-apocalyptic parenting.

When in doubt, stall.

"Interesting question, Jillybean. What do you think?"

She continued staring beyond the gate of the army-base-turned-survivor-camp they called home, but her head tilted in apparent thought. It was a mannerism she'd picked up from him.

"It snows at the North Pole. Snow is hard to walk on, and zombies fall a lot. So, Santa's probably safe."

Her reasoning amused him. "I think you're right."

"I hope he can find us. We've moved lots."

Ben's blood froze in his veins. He did some quick calculations and kicked himself mentally. December 24. The world may come to a screeching halt, but a six-year-old will remember Christmas.

He should have, too. She was a kid, she deserved some sense of normalcy amidst the chaos. But strict holiday observance seemed unimportant when battling starvation, exposure, disease--being eaten by the hungry undead. Since The Uprising, as the return of the undead was known, they'd moved from survivor camp to survivor camp. First looking for Jilly's mom, Ben's absentee ex-wife. He shuddered, refusing to dwell on what had become of the woman he had at times both loved and hated. Afterward, their mission was safety. He wanted a camp with order, supplies, and none of the roving vigilantes, called Vigs, who treated The Uprising as an opportunity to exercise their most twisted desires. People who adopted names like Blade and Bullet, and exploited the fear those names conveyed.

Suddenly, the Vigs didn't scare him as much as facing this first Christmas, post-apocalypse.

"Honey--"

"I know Santa is magic, but we don't even have a chimney."

All he'd ever wanted was to keep Jilly innocent. To let her be a kid as long as possible. He took a bracing breath. When had the preservation of innocence come to seem so impossible?

_Probably around the same time the dead decided to rise up for a taste of the living._

Christmas Eve had always been their event. He'd tried to get her mom to participate, but she'd never seemed to care. So he'd cared twice as much, to make each Christmas as magical as he could. Did this new world have room for magic? Was it better to kill all fantasies quickly, instead of letting reality draw out the pain for the same eventual result?

Unhindered by his emotional turmoil, Jilly continued jabbering. "And he only comes after everyone is sleeping, but Ms. Saw said tonight's different. She said she's got a surprise, I just have to wait. I hope Bridget the Ballerina, like mommy promised me for my birthday."

Saw. Some of camps they'd stayed at had a dozen or so Vigs. Here, she was the only one. He avoided her, didn't trust her motivations. He instructed Jilly to avoid her too, but when out of his sight--at the camp school or playing--it was almost like Saw sought her out.

He'd been quiet with his reservations so far, thinking it was paranoia, but if Saw was filling Jilly's head with nonsense, he'd put a stop to it.

"Jilly, the truth is--"

She looked over her shoulder at him. Wary expectation was etched on her face. Defiant hope. "We have to wait here for her, Daddy. She promised."

He'd heard that before, but then so had Jilly. Six years of dealing with her mother had provided a crash course in broken promises.

_She knows._ He swallowed hard. He didn't have to impart any harsh realities, she already knew. He forced a smile he didn't feel. If she chose to hope for better, he would let her. The disappointment would come, but he wouldn't rush it. He'd just be there for her afterward. Like always. This year, it was the only Christmas present he had to give.

He stepped forward and draped his arm over her thin shoulders, pulling her into the crook of his side. "We can wait, for a bit."

Time passed slowly as they stood together, huddled against the chilly Tennessee air. The sun was starting its descent when a warning sounded from the guard tower.

"ACTIVITY TO THE RIGHT!"

Ben shoved Jilly behind him, shielding her from the main gate as he moved away from the incoming threat. The courtyard erupted in commotion, guards rushing to defense. A repetitive, high-pitched squeak was nearly lost amid the metallic prep of weaponry. Under that was the low, undeniable moan of the undead.

Jilly's fingers dug into his hip.

"We're okay," he murmured, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. There hadn't been a zombie within miles of the base in weeks.

The squeak was louder now, but foreign.

A noise of surprise erupted from the guard tower.

As the squeaking increased, an even more foreign sound joined it--laughter.

Ben strained to see over the people separating him from the gate. Jilly pressed against his hip. Suddenly, she was gone.

He was too shocked to yell as she darted forward, running straight for the fence.

Time slowed. His legs weren't cooperating. He plowed unseeing after her.

Jilly reached the gate and wrapped her small hands around the chain-link fence. The next second lasted an eternity. He jerked her back with enough force to pull her off her feet. He was on his knees an instant latter, gripping her shoulders with trembling hands, looking her over for injury.

"What were you--don't ever--are you okay?"

She looked confused. Crestfallen. "But Daddy, she promised."

"Grown-ups don't always keep their promises."

"I know." She peered at him through her lashes. "But she did. See?"

Breathing hard, he looked up, finally able to see the scene beyond the fence.

He blinked. Twice.

They were zombies, no doubt about it, but he'd never seen zombies that looked like this. Eight of them, walking side by side in two lines of four. Each was angled forward, struggling against restraints that had them yoked to a trailer bearing a small fishing boat. On its hull were two words.

"Santa's . . . _Slay_?"

He didn't realize he'd said the words aloud until warm laugher caught his attention. Saw was standing just a few feet in front of the zombies, wearing an oversized Santa hat. "It seemed appropriate, given the nature of my reindeer."

More laughter broke out around him. The zombies were _decorated_. Plush antlers topped their heads. Suspiciously armless torsos boasted the ugliest Christmas sweaters imaginable. In their mouths, bright red ball gags protruded from between blackened teeth.

"Are those . . . ?" He let the question dangle as he met her gaze.

She cast a quick look at Jilly. "Rudolph's red nose. They all wanted to lead the sleigh," she added with a wink to Ben.

"Saw, what the hell's the meaning of this?" barked one of the guards.

"It's Christmas Eve, Sergeant."

"And?"

"What's Christmas without some indulgences?" She smiled. "Food, clothing, even a few bottles of booze. Far too much for me to bring back on my own." She walked to the closest zombie and patted him on the shoulder. He leaned in her direction, but was unable to grab or bite. Instead, he looked like he was trying to nuzzle her. "I know protocol dictates foraging missions are for camp necessary items only. But, this being a holiday and all . . ."

"Got any beer in that boat?" he asked.

"Tis the season."

"And the, um, reindeer are secure?"

"Until we put them out to pasture."

"Open the gates," he directed the solders, "get these supplies inside."

"Ms. Saw!" Jilly yelled, throwing herself into Saw's arms. For once, Ben didn't object. "Did you see Santa?"

"Better than that, I got to talk to him."

"Really?"

Saw nodded. "He's super busy, with everything that's happened. But he said there's something important he wants you to have, because you've been such a brave girl this year." From her satchel, she pulled the one present Jilly wanted most. The one her mother promised but never delivered.

"Bridget the Ballerina! Thank you!" She squeezed the doll to her chest, her face a picture of pure joy.

"Not me, it was all the big man in red."

A lump formed in Ben's throat. For the first time, he didn't feel alone in trying to ensure his daughter's happiness. It felt . . . nice.

"Jilly," he said, "how about you go get washed up for dinner. I'll be in soon."

Doll tightly in hand, she left without protest.

"Thank you," he said when Jilly was gone. His voice was rough to his own ears. "How did you know?"

"She told me."

He smiled ruefully, shaking his head. "And I'd told her not to talk to you."

"She told me that, too."

"I owe you an apology."

"You don't. You're taking care of her; never apologize for that."

"We've been to so many camps, encountered so many Vigs. I just want to keep her safe."

"I'm not a Vig."

That surprised him. "But you're not on the duty roster, and you leave for days at a time."

"I know this area better than anyone. My assigned duty is scavenging. Sometimes, it takes a while."

"But your name?"

She laughed. "I've gone by Ms. Saw for years. Shortened it when I first started teaching kindergarten. It's easier to pronounce than Sawczenko."

"I'm an idiot."

"You're a parent." She squeezed his hand. "There are a handful of kids in camp, but Jilly's the only one of her age group. She reminds me of my students, my old life. I know she doesn't need a doll, she needs a world that makes sense. But I can't give her that. And no kid gets to just be a kid anymore. They've all had to grow up fast. I wanted to give her something frivolous and fun that let her be a kid, if only for a few minutes." She lowered her eyes and he realized her cheeks were tinted pink. "Stupid, huh? Wanting to preserve innocence in a world that's outgrown the concept."

He had to touch her, just a light brush of his fingers against her chin, so she'd meet his gaze. "Not stupid. It's the same thing I want to do for her, even when I don't know how."

She covered his hand with her own. The contact was nice. The knowledge that even though the world had crumbled, there were still others who cared and tried to do the right thing? That was nice too.

"So Saw--"

"Saw is for the kids." Her eyes twinkled. "Call me Kate."

He smiled. "So Kate, would you like to join us for Christmas Eve dinner? We have a whole series of frivolous traditions."

"I would be delighted."

* * * *

New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Gretchen Stull wrote her Master's thesis on zombies, making her (technically) a professional zombologist. Remarkably, there isn't much work out there for a zombologist . . . yet! In the meantime, she strives to find a balance between juggling the demands of work and family, and dreams of a day when she'll get a full night of sleep.

<http://www.gretchenstull.com/p/main-page.html>

# Snow and Ghosts

By Nicki Salcedo

They walked through the graveyard on the morning after Christmas. Graham shoved his hands deep into his pockets. Ava followed him up the hill with tight fists at her sides. As the first snowflakes began to fall, she released a breath and raised a gloveless hand toward the gray sky.

The space between them was a conscious thing, like spirits walked between them, keeping them apart. Graham wanted to put his arm around her shoulders because she was always cold, even on warm days. He wanted to tuck the hair away from her face and inhale because she smelled like cinnamon and nutmeg and newfound happiness.

But still she hid her face from him and covered her scars.

The reluctant flurries danced sideways and upward and hovered without falling, and finally drifted toward Ava's outstretched hand as she caught bits of ice in her palms. Soon tiny teardrops of snow covered her hands.

"Ice crystals," she said.

Graham stopped walking and glanced down at her hands. The moment he touched her she tensed. She wasn't afraid of him anymore. She was afraid of being without him. He wished he could read the future in her palms. He wished he believed in the future. A few snowflakes landed and melted on her face. He wiped them away. When he looked up at the sky, the snow refused to kiss him.

The only gift he wanted was Ava's lips.

"We should go back to the car. I didn't realize it would be this cold," he said.

"I don't mind the cold," she whispered. Graham thought he heard the echo of other words she didn't say. _When I'm with you. I don't mind the cold when I'm with you._

"I'll keep you warm," he offered.

This time he held onto her hand. At that small invitation, Ava slipped her arm into the crook of his because his heat was intoxicating, and she wanted to get closer to him. She was still learning how to get close to anyone.

"What are we doing here?" she asked as he led her farther up the hill. They passed tombstones with block letters etched like wounds on stone. Ava broke away from Graham and ran her hand against strange names. _Griffin. Noelle. Fenris._

Monsters and Christmas and snow and ghosts.

"It's Boxing Day," he offered. "A day to be with your friends, eat leftovers, and share the joy of the holidays with someone you love. You worked twenty-four hours straight before Thanksgiving so that five hundred people could have food. I watched you wrap a hundred gifts on Christmas Eve so that kids who don't have a home could get a new pair of shoes yesterday."

"You were working right there beside me, Graham."

"Nobody works like you. You're not the kind of woman who likes simple gifts. You play hide and seek with your nieces. You like rainy days and dark alleys in the middle of the night. Today should be a holiday for you. Boxing Day. I wanted to find out if you liked snow and sunshine and kissing me."

"Really?" she asked. At the thought of kissing him a smile touched her lips. She moved away from the graves back to his side. The best gift he'd given her was teaching her to smile. He knew how to make her fall in love with him.

"How can I ever give you anything? You want nothing," he said.

She turned her face to him. Three terrible scars marked her face like shadows. "I do want something. Anything you give me is something I want."

"Then come on."

They reached the top of the hill and found the fence that bordered the cemetery. Graham pulled Ava to a small, forgotten corner where the grave markers were flat to the ground like stepping stones.

_Joseph Sapphire_

No inscription beneath the man's name except his life span. The date he was born. On the date he died he was thirty-three. He hadn't lived long. Graham hated his father. There were other men named Joseph who would have done everything for their sons.

"I'm older than my father was when he died," Graham said. "I've never ever seen his grave until today. You've given up a lot of ghosts this year. I thought I better give up one of mine."

She bent down and touched the etched letters. Some scars could not heal. They would just erode away until both the scars and the person were gone.

"Without him, I wouldn't have you, Graham. _Merry Christmas, Joseph. And thank you."_

The snow fell with a sudden intensity. When Ava looked up, Graham was shadowed by white. His dark eyes still visible through the storm.

She knew his father had done terrible, unforgivable things to Graham. Ava loved the shadows, but Graham avoided them. He was afraid of finding the ghost of his broken youth. She had her own broken past. There was the day she almost died. When someone tried very hard to kill her. She thought about it less and less. But it was still there.

Nearly dying and surviving was one kind of miracle. Learning to rebuild and rebuild yourself was of gift. She owed Graham some sunshine even if she loved the night.

"Boxing Day," Ava said. "A day to put away the ghosts." She wiped snow off the lonely tombstone one last time.

Graham knelt next to Ava.

"I forgive you," he said, and just as quickly he was on his feet. "Let's go home."

_When I'm with you. When I'm with you I'm home._

She wished she could flip a switch and send the snow back toward heaven. Not everything that fell was meant to stay on the ground. Graham extended a hand to her and lifted her up.

He touched her hands. She kissed his lips. They walked close together without snow or ghosts between them.

* * * *

Nicki Salcedo is the author of All Beautiful Things. You can find out more about her and her work at <http://www.nickisalcedo.com/> and connect with her on Twitter at <https://twitter.com/NickiSalcedo> and Facebook at <https://www.facebook.com/authornickisalcedo>.

# A Candle in the Window

By Dorien Kelly

Kathleen Doyle took the last few steps toward O'Connor's Pub, perversely irked that her Christmas Eve plans--which had consisted of a giant packet of salt-and-vinegar potato crisps, copious amounts of chocolate, and _Bridget Jones's Diary_ playing in an endless loop on her television--had been cut short. Best friends could be royal pains in the arse, and Brigid O'Connor was taking top prize in that category tonight.

Kathleen pulled open the pub door and drew a surprised breath as the warmth and raucous noise of the crowd rolled out at her. O'Connor's had always been the most popular gathering spot in Ballymuir, but it looked as though the rest of County Kerry had tried to pack into its close confines. Brigid hadn't been exaggerating when she'd said she was drowning in thirsty customers and needed help. Kathleen worked her way through the throng, returning greetings and apologizing when she tread on the occasional toe.

"It's madness out there," she said to Brigid when she'd made it to her.

"Complete," Brigid agreed while taking a moment to knot her long hair and clip it atop her head.

"What happened to your da and Lorcan?" Kathleen asked, referring to the other two O'Connors most usually found behind the bar.

"Da's over to the church helping set up for midnight mass, and Lorcan's running late with an errand. As soon as you've stowed your jacket, I'll put you to work drawing pints and collecting glassware. If someone wants a Moscow Mule or some other cocktail fanciness, call it out to me and I'll cover. And don't worry. The night should settle down when the music starts."

Kathleen glanced over to the bay of tables and low stools in the front window, where anyone with a mind to join in a song usually settled in. All of the usual suspects were there, tuning fiddles and sampling pints. If Joe, her boyfriend, hadn't had to move to bloody Australia for work, he'd have been there tonight, too. And she'd have been right beside Joe, laughing at his jokes and loving the way he had of looking at her as though she encompassed all the wonders of the world. And Joe's kiss...ah, what she'd give to feel his mouth hot and seeking against hers.

Kathleen's throat tightened as self-pity nipped at her. She'd said all the positive things a girlfriend should when he'd let her know that an emergency at the office meant he'd not be coming home for the holidays. It wasn't his fault, and she knew that. No more than it was her sister Eileen's fault that she'd given birth three days ago, and Mam and Da had gone to Dublin to help out until Eileen had her legs under her again.

"Start setting up some pints before the crowd turns on us, or worse yet, heads down the street," Brigid called from the far end of the bar.

"Are you sure you know what you're doing back there?" grocer Seamus Spillane teased good-naturedly from his seat near the taps.

"I'm nearly an O'Connor," Kathleen replied, which was the truth. And heaven knew she'd watched the smooth pour of a pint often enough. Every Friday, she and Joe would meet at the pub when she'd closed down The Knittery, her shop, after a long, tourist-filled day.

"Enough about Joe," she muttered to herself. Eventually she managed to fall into the rhythm of pulling pints and racking used glasses for washing.

As Brigid had predicted, orders slowed once the music started, and then stopped altogether when Vi Kilbride, possessor of the finest voice in the village, stood to sing an old song. Kathleen's Irish wasn't as good as it should be, but she knew the lyrics told of a magical night in Bethlehem and of a promise to the world. When Vi finished, the crowd remained hushed for a few, awed heartbeats before breaking into applause. Even Kathleen, as out of sorts as she was, had shivered.

" _Go raibh maith agat_ ," Vi said to her listeners, thanking them. "Though I'd be thinking you've heard enough of me over the years."

"Never!" her husband Liam called out, making Vi laugh.

"You, especially," she said to him.

Kathleen wanted to turn away from the intimacy of their love as much as she wanted to celebrate it. She yearned for Joe so deeply that her loneliness sometimes threatened to consume her. She felt like a spoiled child, wishing for the one gift she couldn't have when already she possessed so much: friends, family, and a village she adored.

"Before I sit down, I need to point out a horrible lack, Brigid O'Connor," Vi announced. "It's Christmas Eve and you have no candle in the window, inviting in cold and weary strangers. You must have something back there to put to use."

"Right, indeed," Brigid said. "But I was too busy getting run ragged by the lot of you to get the candle out." She reached into a cubby-hole beneath the cash register and pulled out a white, tapered candle in a brass base. "Kathleen, would you take this over and set it up?"

"Of course," Kathleen replied.

"It's LED. All you need do is twist the base and it will light."

Kathleen lit the candle and held it aloft as she wove her way through the tightly packed crowd. It was no easier work when she got to the musicians, either.

"Look at us, elbow to elbow, and drink to drink," Vi said. "Edna and Padraig, come out this way and bring your stools with you. The rest of you, come along, too."

It was as though the waters of Ballymuir were parting and then closing behind her as Kathleen made her way to the window. She bent down, pulled aside one of the tan café curtains, and set the candle on the window sill. The candle's light flickered feebly before going out altogether.

"Bloody hell," Kathleen said as she tinkered with the thing to make it light, but it was as stubborn as she was inept. Brigid should have chosen a more coordinated bearer of the magical Christmas spirit. And she should have stayed home with her chips and chocolate for self-medication until well after her Christmas wreath had gone dry.

"Are you needing some help?" a male voice asked from behind her.

Kathleen's heart pounded even though she knew she was indulging in fantasy. That couldn't be Joe, much as she wanted it to be. She didn't want to face reality, but she could hardly hide in the pub's front window forever. Kathleen allowed herself to dream to the count of three before standing. And when she turned, Joe was there and wonderfully real, in front of her, with Lorcan O'Connor by his side.

"Joe was your errand?" she asked Lorcan while trying not to cry.

He nodded.

"And my best Christmas gift, ever," she said.

Joe's smile was broad and his arms were strong when she flung herself at him. But his kiss... _ah, his kiss_. It was absolute, once-in-a-lifetime, perfection.

* * * *

Dorien Kelly is the New York Times bestselling author of the Ballymuir series of contemporary Irish romances. Visit her website at www.dorienkelly.com.

# In Which Miss Gardella Receives Three Gifts

By Colleen Gleason

London, 1819

Miss Victoria Gardella Grantworth was an unusual woman by the standards of London Society, commonly known as the _ton_. Although she was quite beautiful, with thick, dark, unruly hair and intelligent hazel eyes, and appeared no different than the other young women who'd debuted into Society during the current Season, she did, in fact, have a secret.

She was a vampire hunter--one from the long line of the Gardella family--and had just recently learned of her duty to carry the stake. She knew what it was like to shove a sharp, pointed piece of wood into the heart of a red-eyed man who was about to plunge his fangs into her--or someone else's--neck.

Other than the poof of foul-smelling ash, however, once the stake was slammed into the creature's heart, the incident was over...and most often, Victoria found herself rejoining whatever festivity or event in which she'd previously been participating before being called away to attend to her duty. A ball at Almack's, a theatrical play the Drury Lane theater, a moonlight walk through Vauxhaul Gardens, a musicale in the stuffy parlor room of an acquaintance. Of course, there were times when she might return with a torn dress, oozing vampire bites, or other mishaps...but that was part of her life.

It was her responsibility to keep Londoners safe.

If she had the occasional nightmare about red-eyed demonic men tearing into her throat, or sharp-fanged women clawing violently into her flesh, it was to be expected. She'd faced those incidents more than once...and had kept a number of young women and handsome dandies from being mauled into a bloody pulp.

But tonight was Christmas Eve, and tonight hunting and slaying vampires was as far from Victoria's mind as it could ever be--which was to say, not completely gone, but certainly not at the forefront of her thoughts.

Lady Melly Grantworth, Victoria's mother, came bustling down the stairs, giving orders and opinions to all and sundry as usual. "Victoria, be certain to take your blue cloak. The snow is coming down quite thickly, and it is more than a bit chilly. The wind is whipping up! Parsons, the coach must be brought around and warm bricks put in there immediately. The church is two blocks away, and then after we will attend the Christmas Eve dinner at Duchess Farnley's."

Lady Melly paused at the bottom of the stairs. "What's this?"

Victoria turned, in the process of donning the brilliant blue cape lined with rabbit fur, and saw three packages sitting on the foyer table.

"I do believe they are for you, Victoria," her mother said. There was a combination of suspicion and delight in her eyes--for even from where she stood, Victoria could see the wax seal on one of them that clearly belonged to one of the peerage. More than anything, Lady Melly wanted her daughter to wed--and to wed for money and power.

But of course, a vampire hunter simply could not marry. Especially a female one. Thus, Melly was going to have a great disappointment in her life.

"They're for me? Three packages?" Victoria paused in donning her gloves--not her favorite ones, unfortunately, for she'd recently lost one in the dangerous neighborhood of St. Giles. (A place a normal woman of the _ton_ would never dare visit.)

"They certainly appear to be. Look at them."

"How interesting," Victoria murmured as she examined them, and a little prickle of knowing trickled over her shoulders. "How curious."

The first one, a perfectly square box, was tied with an ornate bow. The box itself had been covered with glitter, and it sparkled in the low light of the foyer. It was the heaviest of the three, and the most beautiful. There was a small notecard with the seal of the Marquess of Rockley (the most eligible bachelor of the _ton_ ) and her name was written in formal penmanship: _Miss Grantworth._

Victoria untied the bow, tucking the glittering silver fabric away to be used for trim later, and opened the box. Melly, who'd been hovering over her shoulder, gasped when she saw the glittering jewels inside.

"Why, that's worth a small fortune, Victoria!" her mother squealed. "Rockley has indeed set his cap for you!" She fairly began to dance around the foyer.

Victoria lifted the necklet of golden-topaz gems from its mooring. It glowed and glittered, the jewels catching the light like a soft fire. "It's beautiful," she murmured, thinking of how handsome and charming and dashing Lord Rockley was. They had shared several dances over the last weeks, and he had made his interest clear. And she could not deny that her own heart beat much more quickly when in his presence. He'd even kissed her during a ride in the park.

"You must change your gown, Victoria," Melly ordered. "So you can wear them tonight! Rockley will be at the dinner, and he will want to see you in those jewels."

But Victoria shook her head. "I don't have the time to change, Mother. Perhaps tomorrow night." And she picked up the second package.

It was long and flat, and very light. While not wrapped as prettily as the one from Rockley, this gift was packaged in pale pink paper. A dried rose with small touches of real boxwood were tied in place with gold lace, making the gift appear both elegant and understated. The card simply said _Victoria_ in a simple, masculine hand.

"Who on earth--" Melly said, hovering once more.

Victoria didn't have an answer until she pulled the golden lace free and opened the flat box. Nestled inside, wrapped in clove-scented tissue paper, was a pair of gloves. They were exquisitely tailored of supple ivory calfskin, with delicate stitching and tasteful embellishments. Only one person she knew would have such excellent taste.

A flush rushed up over Victoria's cheeks as she pulled the pair free and a small note fluttered to the floor. _Perhaps you should have a complete set_ was all it said--but she had already realized the giver.

Sebastian Vioget, disreputable, mysterious, and as handsome as a golden god, had boldly and impolitely relieved her of one of her gloves during their first meeting...and had refused to give it back. His golden-amber eyes had been hot and filled with promise as he stripped the glove from her hand and then leaned in to kiss her.

"Victoria! What on earth is wrong with you? Are you catching a fever? Your cheeks are _red_."

She looked at her mother, and the flush dissipated. "No, not at all."

"And who are those gloves from? They are very expensive. Surely you don't have _two_ suitors! Why, you cannot do anything to jeopardize your arrangement with Rockley!" Melly screeched. "You cannot wear those tonight. They don't match your gown!"

"No, of course not, Mother," Victoria said mildly. She'd learned long ago to just let her mother prattle on--and then to do whatever she wanted to do. She tucked the gloves away to be worn another time.

"What on earth is this one?" Melly was examining the third present--which could hardly be considered a gift at all. It certainly didn't look like one. "It looks as if a beggar wrapped it up for you, Victoria. Why on earth would a beggar give you a gift? "

Just as intrigued, she took up the last item. Long, slender, and thin, the package was loosely wrapped with plain brown paper and tied with twine. Her name had been written directly on the paper in an impatient dark scrawl: V. Gardella.

Then she knew who'd sent it. For some reason, she felt it necessary to turn away from Lady Melly when opening it--which was fine, for her mother had gone back to ogling the topaz necklace.

After she tore the paper away, Victoria found herself holding a lethal-looking stake. Made from ash--the most potent of wood for annihilating the undead--it was carved into a long, smooth weapon. The point had been painted with silver, except for the very tip of the sharp wood--which was left naked so that the ash would come into direct contact with the undead's demonic heart. A cross of silver had been stamped into the flat end of the stake, and the weapon itself was painted a sleek black.

From Max Pesaro, of course. The most powerful Venator--vampire hunter--Victoria knew. Her colleague and nemesis, and a man who didn't believe a woman could be a vampire hunter.

As one might expect, there was no note--but his message was clear as if it had been written. _Forget the fripperies, the flirtations, and the jewels. This is your life._

Victoria looked at the stake--beautiful in its own right, she had to admit--and a welling of frustration, determination, and then acceptance flooded her. He was right. This was her life.

"Victoria, we really _must_ go!" Melly demanded.

Very well, then. She would go.

Victoria looked at the gifts--the jewels, the gloves, the stake.

Only one of them would accompany her tonight.

The one that mattered.

* * * *

Read the complete five-book series about Victoria Gardella, Vampire Hunter and her adventures in Regency England and learn how she handles the three men in her life--as well as how she fights the evil of the red-eyed, fanged creatures she is sworn to kill.

The series is:

_The Rest Falls Away_

_Rises the Night_

_The Bleeding Dusk_

_When Twilight Burns_

_As Shadows Fade_

All five books are available in print or for your Kindle or Kindle app.

Colleen Gleason is an award-winning, _New York Times_ and _USA Today_ bestselling author. She has written more than twenty novels in a variety of genres, including her international bestselling Gardella Vampire Hunters series and the Stoker & Holmes series for young adults.

She hangs out online more than she should and can be regularly found at Facebook.com/colleen.gleason.author or @colleengleason on Twitter. Her website is colleengleason.com, where you can sign up for announcements and new release info.

# A Miracle for Molly

By Trish Milburn

"Do you think Santa will bring me the toy fire truck?"

Molly Adair looked down into the hopeful face of little Jeremy Parker, wishing she could tell him yes. But the truth was that she and her limited staff barely kept the Stephenson Children's Home heated and the children fed and clothed. In a post-pandemic world where humanity had lost the night to vampires, people were too concerned about keeping themselves and their families alive and afloat to care about orphans who'd lost their parents to the Bokor virus, vampires, escalating crime or some combination thereof.

"You never know, Jeremy," she said as she ruffled his unruly head of curly red hair. Part of her urged her to tell him the truth, but she just couldn't find it in herself to dash his hopes and dreams. She might not have any of her own anymore, other than taking care of her young charges, but a small part of her still believed that maybe they were possible for the kids. "But he certainly won't if you don't go to bed."

As if he'd been shot from a cannon, Jeremy raced off toward the bedroom he shared with three other boys. She couldn't help but chuckle at his energy and enthusiasm. Maybe it was because he couldn't remember what the world was like before the virus wiped out three-quarters of the world's population, causing vampires to make their presence known in search of food. He'd lost both of his parents to the virus and been found sitting on the front steps of his home by the crews who'd been charged with picking up and disposing of the dead. Maybe it was a blessing that he didn't remember any of that.

Pushing those dark thoughts away, she headed toward the kitchen for a cup of hot chocolate. With the steaming beverage in hand a few minutes later, she walked toward her office. As she always did, she checked to make sure the front doors were locked. Since the building was human-owned, she knew vampires couldn't get in. But it made her feel safer to check anyway.

As she checked to make sure the lock was engaged, she thought she saw movement outside. She gasped and took a step backward, but no matter how much she strained to see into the darkness she couldn't find anything amiss. She let out a slow breath, scolding herself for freaking out so easily. She, the kids, and Hannah, the other staffer on duty tonight, were safe inside.

Then why were her nerves sparking like New Year's Eve fireworks?

Trying to shake off the feeling, she turned and headed into her office and focused on the positives. She might struggle to keep the bills paid, but she was at least thankful for the small, boutique hotel that had been donated to the city for use as the orphanage. Thankful for the fact that the Bokor virus seemed to have run its course. And that despite the fact she'd lost her job as a Broadway actress and then her home shortly thereafter, she'd found both a job and home here. She missed the stage, but now she was making a real difference, helping the world recover in some small way.

She sat at her desk but couldn't force herself to look at the work that awaited her there. Instead, she picked up the framed photo that sat at the corner of her desk. She ran her fingertips over the picture of Ryan and her standing in Times Square with the giant billboard for her first Broadway show behind them. Though she should be out of tears by now--after all, Ryan had been gone for two years--a fresh batch coursed down her cheeks.

It was this night. Her entire life she'd been a huge fan of Christmas, the kind of person who decorated her home like it was a Christmas palace. She'd baked dozens of holiday treats, giving them to family, friends, neighbors, anyone with whom she could share holiday cheer. But that had been before that snowy Christmas Eve two years ago when Ryan hadn't come home from work. She'd gone from anticipating that one of her Christmas presents that year was going to be an engagement ring to having the love of her life seemingly disappear from the face of the earth. She knew he had to be dead, but sometimes she'd swear she could still feel his presence.

She swiped at her tears with one hand while she replaced the photo with the other. A sound from the lobby drew her attention.

"Hannah?"

When she got no answer, her heart rate kicked up a few notches. Wondering if one of the kids had snuck down to the Christmas tree to see if Santa had arrived yet, she stood and headed toward the lobby. She and Hannah would put out the meager supply of presents they'd bought or made for the kids later on, when they were sure all the kids were fast asleep. She reached the lobby, but no one was there.

But when she looked toward the front door, she gasped. Sitting outside was a stack of wrapped presents.

She eased toward the door as if the laws that governed vampires would suddenly change and a horde of them would come stampeding in to make her their dinner. She'd heard the news, like everyone else, that there were differences in the vamps the same as there were with people. Some were good and some bad. But even the "good" ones could lose control of their animal natures if they were hungry enough.

At the door, she paused and stared at the packages wrapped in a variety of paper covered with Santa, reindeer and snowmen. It didn't make sense that a vampire would be playing Santa Claus, did it? But a human wouldn't risk being on the street at night, not even Christmas Eve.

In the next moment, someone came around the corner with his arms full of even more presents. Molly cried out, causing the guy to juggle and drop half of the presents he was carrying. When their eyes met, her heart stopped. At least it felt that way. Her head swam so much that she had to grasp the door handle to keep from falling.

Ryan stared back at her, but not with the familiar hazel eyes that she still saw in her dreams. Now they were that unnatural bright blue that signaled he was a vampire.

Tears pooled in her eyes. He was still alive, in a way. Without thinking, she unlocked the door but didn't step foot across the invisible threshold that protected her.

"Is it really you?" Her question came out as a ragged whisper.

"Yes. I didn't mean for you to see me."

"Why not?"

The sadness in his expression struck her right in the heart. "I didn't want you to see me like this. It was better for you to think I was dead so you could move on."

"I haven't."

He started to lift his hand as if to caress her face before he dropped it back to his side. "I know."

"You've been watching me. I wasn't crazy after all."

"I wanted to make sure you were safe."

So much emotion welled up inside Molly she thought she might drown in it. She lowered her gaze to the presents. "What is all this?"

"Everything on the kids' Christmas lists."

Her gaze shot back up to his. "How did you know?"

"It was on your website."

"I didn't think much would come from that."

He smiled, and she was thankful not to see any fangs. "Surprise."

The sudden need to hold him again was overwhelming, and before she could think about how stupid it was she stepped outside. He seemed every bit as weak as her because he opened his arms and pulled her close.

"It feels so good to hold you," he said.

He wasn't warm like he'd once been, but she didn't think she could ever let him go. She wouldn't survive it a second time.

"We can make this work, can't we? Like that couple I saw on the news." The vampire had once been a NYPD cop, and he'd saved the life of the human woman he loved as well as several other people.

"Is that what you want?"

She leaned back and looked up at him, marveling that she wasn't afraid of him. "More than anything."

He smiled. "Then we will find a way. It's the season of miracles, after all."

Ryan pulled her close and kissed her, and her heart soared straight into the star-filled sky.

* * * *

"A Miracle for Molly" is set in Trish's V Force world, which launched last year with _Out of the Night_ from Harlequin Nocturne. The series continues this month with the release of the second book, _Protect the Night_.

To find out more about the V Force series, visit <http://www.trishmilburn.com/books/>. While there, explore her other contemporary romance, paranormal romance, young adult and women's fiction titles. To keep up with her new releases, appearance schedule and for a chance to win prizes, sign up for her newsletter: <http://www.trishmilburn.com/about-trish/newsletter-sign-up/>.

When Trish isn't writing, she enjoys spending time with her husband, watching TV, reading, going to the movies with friends, and road trips.
