Contents
Title Page
Sugar Creek Christmas
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
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About the Author
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Can’t Let You Go
Can't Let You Go
A Sugar Creek Christmas
Jenny B. Jones
A Sugar Creek Christmas
Sometimes all love needs is a second chance.
Morning television show darling Emma Sutton has just been fired. The only way to get her job back is to find a holiday story to warm the coldest heart. So when her hometown of Sugar Creek, Arkansas, needs a Christmas event planner, Emma moves back, sure her story lies in the town’s desire to become a tourist’s holiday wonderland. The plan is perfect—until Emma meets her new boss.
Charming, handsome Noah Kincaid isn’t just Sugar Creek’s newest mayor. He’s also Emma’s ex-fiancé.
Ten years ago Emma left Noah her ring and a goodbye note, but it’s haunted her ever since. The last thing Noah wants to do is work with the woman who broke his heart, but Emma’s desperate to prove to him that her bah-humbug ways won’t interfere with her work.
Emma finds it’s more than the mistletoe drawing her back to Noah. Whatever they had is clearly not over, but Noah’s kisses can’t protect Emma from a past that won’t leave her alone. As the snow falls and the trees glisten, love will come to Sugar Creek. But will it come in time to make all of Emma’s Christmas dreams come true?
©Copyright 2014 Jenny Jones
Sweat Pea Productions
Kindle Edition
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No part of this book maybe used or reproduced in any manner without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design: The Fabulous Kelli Standish
For information contact:
[email protected]
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Dedicated to Judy Wilkerson
Thank you for laughs, vacation fun, barn cats, shopping, peach pie,
and my compulsion to return eighty-percent of what I buy.
You’ll always be my favorite aunt.
Chapter One
“Emma, you’re fired.”
Three days after Thanksgiving, Emma Sutton sat in the executive offices of America’s favorite morning news program.
“I don’t think I heard you correctly, Mr. Peterson.” She tilted her head to her other ear because surely she had not heard correctly. Not that she had a bad ear. But at thirty, perhaps she was entering that phase where things started falling apart. Like her auditory abilities. “Because it sounded like you said—”
“I’m firing you.”
“But news anchors make on-air gaffes all the time. Yesterday’s blunder was a grave mistake, but it was just that—a mistake. Yesterday’s error, tomorrow’s YouTube gold, right?” A bead of sweat tracked down her chest beneath her tailored blazer. It was miserably hot in this office. A bit of air and some water would’ve been nice. And the ability to click her heels and do yesterday all over.
“You told America you hated Christmas.”
“I did do that, sir. But I’ve apologized a hundred times.”
“You said you hated Christmas.” Her boss repeated the statement slowly, as if Emma hadn’t gotten it the first time. As if she didn’t understand the enormity of her holiday-bashing remark.
“If I may speak freely—”
“I don’t recommend it,” he drawled. “I’ve had so many phone calls in protest of your on-air declaration, it briefly shut down our system. And that’s just from the local affiliates. Then there are the emails from viewers and a virtual hate storm on social media.” Mr. Peterson rested his elbows on his dark oak desk and laced his fingers. The eyes looking at Emma over rimless glasses did not hold their usual paternal kindness.
The darn tears clouded Emma’s vision yet again, and she worried she would soon lose her ability to speak without choking on a blubbering sob. Last night she had sat with her laptop in bed and read thousands upon thousands of hateful sentiments online, viewers demanding Emma’s job. She’d been too upset to answer phone calls from her family and friends. She hadn’t even been able to choke down two bites of Chunky Monkey. The Chunk was always there for her.
“Sir, I think if you’d let me resume my duties as soon as possible and let me apologize to our viewers, it could begin the mending process. We have such loyal fans. They’re not going to be okay with Tevyn in my place.” That little twerp had wanted her job forever. Tevyn, of the cutesie name, Victoria’s Secret model face, and a voice any female broadcast journalist would commit petty crimes to have. She filled in when Emma was on assignment, and the twiggy waif had been gunning for Emma’s seat as a regular on the Sunrise News couch.
“I’ve been part of the show’s family for three years,” Emma said. “I’m one of the team. Who will read the entertainment report? The Royals went to Australia yesterday. Nobody can report that like me. Does Tevyn have contacts in Buckingham palace like I do? Does she have any idea whose dress a certain princess wore yesterday? There’s a major impending Hollywood divorce brewing and—”
“Emma, you’ve left me with no choice.”
“But I’m on the fast track here; we both know this. You said I might be co-anchoring within five years. I’m ready to do that. I’m ready to cut my hair into a sensible bob, brush up on my foreign policy, and be that star for you. Just let me look right into that camera, admit my mistake, and beg forgiveness.”
“It’s not that easy. With all this global unrest, this country can count on the beauty of only a few things, and one of them is Christmas.”
“The biggest retail event of the year?”
Mr. Peterson’s hand slammed on his legal pad. “The season of love! Tidings of great joy!”
Emma blinked and tried not to shrink further into her seat. “Right. I knew that. Yes, Christmas is awesome. Peace on earth, good will to man. All of that. Indeed.”
His eyes narrowed as he studied her. “What you may or may not believe about the holiday season is not the issue. Our viewers do not want to hear their morning sweetheart tell them”—he held his notebook at arm’s length and peered through his glasses— “Christmas is stupid and promoted by a society of naive lemmings.”
“It does sound bad.”
“Bad? Bad is Tanner’s bout of hiccups during the severe weather coverage last month. What I saw yesterday was a television personality drop an atomic bomb on her career and our network.”
Emma shifted uncomfortably. “Might I mention my mic should not have been on?”
“Is that really where you’d like me to put the blame?”
“No.” She knew the rule. Always assume the mic was on. Always.
Her career was in the proverbial toilet, swirling furiously around the bowl, ready to be sucked away and spewed into the sewer. “I’ll do whatever it takes to redeem this.”
Mr. Peterson pinched the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply. “Emma, I have to wonder if you truly do want to redeem this.”
“What? Of course I do.” Visions of eating Ramen soup and living out of her car danced in her head. “I need this job.”
“Lately your work has lost its luster.”
“My piece on celebrities’ favorite candy might’ve been a little lacking.”
“You’ve been at this since college. It’s normal to experience burnout and—”
“I’m fine. Maybe I’m just ready for a new challenge.” Yes, that was it. A new challenge would breathe life into her career. She had to admit, she was bored. There was more to her abilities than reporting on celebrity gossip and the latest heart-warming dog video.
“Well, I’m about to give you a new challenge. You’re still fired.”
Her hazel eyes burned with unshed tears. “I was thinking more along the lines of sending me to D.C. to report on politics. Or a war zone.” Pretty much the same thing.
Mr. Peterson leaned back in his seat taking his first relaxed posture of the meeting. He crossed his arms over his sweater-covered chest. “Officially, we’ll tell everyone you’re taking a sabbatical.”
She sniffed and swallowed past the emotional clog in her throat. “And when I don’t return?”
“Maybe you do return.”
“I. . . I don’t understand.”
“Here’s the deal. You’ve done lethal damage here. The only thing that can restore this disaster is for you to go away. Let the viewers forget you for a bit.”
“Last week they loved me.”
“There’s currently an online campaign to surrender you to the Mother’s Christmas League of Dallas to stick you on top of their twenty-foot Alpine spruce.”
“That’s a bit harsh.”
“It has seven thousand signatures.”
Emma yanked a tissue from her purse and blotted her eyes.
Mr. Peterson’s voice softened to that familiar tone that had supported and encouraged her during her time at the network. “To save your image, it will require a lot more than just disappearing for a while. I’ve got to save our show, but as for saving your career, that’s going to be a bit more difficult. Are you willing to do what it takes?”
All she could do was nod.
“Your little vacation runs until the new year. But by Christmas, I want you to bring me the most beautiful, inspirational story you can find, something so moving, no reader will be left unaffected.”
“Where am I going to get this story?”
“That’s up to you. You’re a reporter. Use your journalistic nose. But if I don’t have a fully-developed human interest piece by December twenty-fifth, one that no other station has a hint of, something that makes our readers weep with joy, restores their faith in humanity and in you, then your sabbatical becomes a termination.”
“But I don’t know where to even look for—”
“Your correct response here is thank you.”
She straightened. “Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr. Peterson.”
Her boss eased off his glasses and regarded his fallen news star. “I don’t know what happened that makes you dislike Christmas. But it’s about to cause you to lose a career you’ve worked your tail off for. Turn this around—for the network and for yourself.”
Emma stood and gathered her purse, the memories pelting her like sleet. “I can do this.”
“Find Christmas, Emma,” Mr. Peterson’s voice boomed like a heralding angel. “Find your Christmas.”
Chapter Two
Two flights, two layovers, and too many airport pretzels later, Emma stood on a familiar front porch in Sugar Creek, Arkansas.
She rapped her knuckles on the door.
After a handful of minutes passed without a response, a slender senior citizen finally appeared. She lifted one judgmental brow then let her blue eyes roam over Emma from her long, brown hair to the toes of her red flats. “I just called in my Avon order, I don’t need my yard mowed, and yes, I know Jesus.”
Emma’s lips quirked. “Because you were in the same graduating class?”
The woman threw back her blonde head and laughed. “I hope you’ve got a kiss for your grandma with that sassy mouth.”
Emma dropped a bag and smiled. “Hello, Granny Dearest.”
Sylvie let her granddaughter cross the threshold into the house, then pulled her into a tight embrace. “Welcome home, sugar.”
Emma allowed the familiar scent of her grandmother and her beloved home to wash over her. If comfort had a fragrance, it was Sylvie. “I have royally screwed up,” Emma mumbled against the woman’s shoulder.
“There’s a first time for everything.” Sylvie patted her granddaughter’s back then stepped away to get another good look at her. “Welcome to life on the not-so-perfect side.” She winked. “We drink a lot here.”
Emma craned her neck at the sound of laughter down the hall. “Am I interrupting something?”
“Sexy Book Club. Come join us.”
“What kind of club?” Just the thought of making small talk with Sylvie’s collection of friends made Emma want to cry with the weight of exhaustion.
“Sexy Book Club. We read steamy romance novels, throw back cocktails, and eat cookies. There’s a four-page wait list to get in our group.”
“Someone can have my spot tonight. I’ll just slip on up to my room.”
“The girls have been expecting you. Two of your cousins even made it.” With a manicured hand, Sylvie brushed a strand of hair from Emma’s cheek, just like she’d done a million times when Emma had been a little girl. “Take your bags upstairs, wipe the mascara tracks off your face, then pop in just for a few minutes. You’re my famous granddaughter. I want to show you off.”
“You could just show them the YouTube clips instead.”
“I meant famous for your hard work and brilliant journalism.”
“Are you sure your idea is going to work?” Not that Emma had any others.
“This town is turning into a Christmas mecca. You’re in just the right place for some inspiration, holiday spirit, and whatever other bunk your TV show needs. I’ve got it all arranged.”
Emma exhaled weakly, too tired to even take a good, deep breath. “You better have a big platter of your sugar cookies waiting.”
“Had to hide them from Frannie, but I saved them. Can you hear them calling your name?”
“Pretty sure that’s my bed I hear.”
Sylvie gave her a swat on the rear. “Get to stepping. I’ll buy you some time before the hen brigade descends on you.”
Emma picked up her giant bag and made it as far as the first step before her grandmother’s voice stopped her.
“Em?”
“Yes?”
“I’m glad you’re home.”
Home.
The word sounded like poetry, like decadence.
“Thanks, Sylvie. But I’m just visiting.” Emma turned back to the staircase and made her way to the top.
A home was something Emma had never had.
And probably never would.
***
“There she is!”
As soon as Emma stepped into the den, her slender frame was swallowed up in a group hug that felt more like a linebacker’s tackle. In a matter of seconds she was the center of a huddle that consisted of a few of her cousins, Sylvie’s best friend, and three women Emma had never laid eyes on.
“Losing oxygen here,” she mumbled into someone’s neck.
“I’ve missed you!” said Hattie, one of her cousins.
“Missed her more!” from a voice that could’ve been Hattie’s sist
er.
“Didn’t you eat in that big city?”
“You got a boyfriend?”
“Hey!” Emma ducked out of the swarm. “Someone was getting a little too handsy.”
Her grandmother sniffed. “Just seeing if the boobies were still real.”
I should’ve followed my instinct to lock myself in my room and sleep. “It’s all real.” The boobs, being fired from her dream job, being ticked at a stinking holiday. Real.
“Come on in. Sit down.” Hattie reached for Emma’s hand and led her to one of the leather couches. A warm fire crackled and danced in the fireplace. Though it was only late November, the Northwest corner of Arkansas often jumped right from fall to winter with little transition, like an impatient, hyper child.
Due to the demands of her job, Emma hadn’t been back to Sugar Creek in over five years. She had worked nearly every holiday since leaving college, desperate to pull ahead of the competition and climb to top billing of a network news show fast. It had been within her reach, too.
Until I opened my big mouth.
“So what are you guys reading?” Emma accepted a plate of finger foods from Sylvie and mentally recalled a list of titles recently discussed at the water cooler and on the show.
“The Hot Sheik’s Pregnant Secretary.”
Emma choked on a chocolate chip.
Hattie handed her a drink. “We tried to go with picks from the newspaper, but they bored us.”
“I’ve learned a lot.” Frannie Nelson wagged her brows. “If you know what I mean.” Frannie and Sylvie were like mac and cheese, peanut butter and jelly. They’d worked together for years, retired at the same time, and were both widowed and on the hunt. While Sylvie was fair-skinned and blonde, Frannie had a beautiful mahogany complexion and had let some of her muscle ease into curves.
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