Naught or Nice

by Vi Keeland, Penelope Ward, Susan Stoker, Marie Force, Jodi Ellen Malpas, Corinne Michaels, Emma Chase

  After dashing to the butcher to collect Dad’s sausage meat, I make it home, throwing my shopping in the cupboard under the stairs. Wrapping presents is bottom of my list of things to do, and the fact we traditionally open gifts on Christmas Day in the evening gives me some breathing room. I’ll sneak off for half an hour while Ma and Dad have their time-honored snooze after their big Christmas feed.

  In a whirlwind, I fly around my apartment, ticking things off my list of stuff to do one by one. An hour later, I’m slightly out of breath but chuffed by what I’ve achieved in my tight timeframe. I’m ready. Let’s do this, Christmas.

  I’m just yanking on a clean dress when the door knocks, and I race down the stairs as I button up the front. Swinging the door open, my parents bowl in, ever large as life.

  “Merry Christmas,” Dad says, grabbing my shoulders and hauling me in for a squeeze. “Did you get sausage?”

  I cough on nothing, my mind going to a terrible place momentarily. It’s an effort not to blurt, “Almost, Dad. So close.” But . . . “I got sausage,” I practically squeak as he releases me and slaps a kiss on my cheek.

  He smiles fondly at me. “You got color in your cheeks, boo.”

  I have? I reach up and feel them. That would be talk of sausage. And it really had been a damn fine sausage.

  “My girl.” Ma shoves Dad aside and crushes me against her ample bosom. “He’s right. You’re glowing.”

  I look past her when I hear a car door slam, courtesy of my niece, Ellis, and see my sister and her husband lugging bags out of the car. Judith catches sight of me and immediately cocks her head. Jesus, I feel like I’ve got a neon sign on my head declaring my recent illicit activities in a Harrods changing room. “Hey.”

  She wanders up the path, pouting. “You pregnant?”

  I laugh hysterically. “No, for crying out loud. What’s everyone’s deal? I’m just pleased to see you all.”

  She sniffs. “I smell bullshit.” Kissing my cheek as she passes, she drops her bags and heads straight for the kitchen to fetch wine.

  My niece enters the house like a hurricane, all full of beans. “He’s coming, he’s coming.”

  And in follows my brother-in-law. “Hey, squirt.”

  I shut the door on an exasperated eye-roll. “I’m thirty, Heath. When are you gonna drop that?”

  “Never.” He kisses my forehead and disappears up the hallway as I shake my head, not at all annoyed. Judith and Heath have been together since she was sixteen and I was twelve. They’re lifers. And I’ll always be squirt. I shut the door and take a moment to listen, to inhale the smell of Christmas, family, and happiness. Perfect.

  Everyone is sprawled across the two couches in my lounge the next day—Christmas Day—after a mammoth Christmas feast. Judith and I are on our second bottle of wine, Ma and Dad are snoozing, Heath is smoking his obligatory Christmas cigar in the garden, and Ellis is playing with the one gift we let her open this morning, a doll house.

  It’s relaxed. Lovely. Peaceful. I’m about to disappear to wrap my gifts when the doorbell rings. Judith looks across to me as she tops up her wine. “Seriously, who the hell could that be?”

  “Maybe it’s Father Christmas again,” Ellis chirps.

  I drag myself up and make my way to the door, swinging it open.

  And nearly fall over from shock.

  “Mr. Sexy as Fuck,” I blurt mindlessly, stuck in a stupor. Yet however paralyzed by shock I am, I still manage to register his casual attire—jeans and a rather fetching Christmas jumper . . . with two big baubles on the front.

  I come from a long line of well-endowed men.

  I burst into fits of laughter. “Oh my God.”

  “Mr. Sexy as Fuck, eh?” He waggles a cute eyebrow. “Suits me.”

  I pull myself together. “What are you doing here?”

  He holds up a bag. “Our shopping must have gotten mixed up. My sister isn’t a fancy socks girl. You hadn’t noticed?”

  Confession time. “I’ve not wrapped them yet. Was just about to.”

  He grins, the bag lowering. “Me either. You dropped your driver’s license as you ran away. Must have fallen out of your purse.” Pulling it out, he flashes it at me. “Shannon.”

  I laugh lightly as I accept it. “And your name?”

  He motions down his fetching Christmas jumper. “Mr. Billy Big Baubles.”

  And I’m laughing again, holding on to the door to steady myself. “Your real name.”

  “Shaun,” he says, biting at his lip. “Nice to meet you.”

  “And you,” I say thoughtfully, nibbling on my bottom lip too. “You tracked me down on Christmas Day.” How far should I read into it?

  “Well, like I said, jazzy socks aren’t my sister’s bag. She’d be pissed off with me if I didn’t give her a gift.” He shrugs, like it’s that simple. Is it? Something about the way he’s looking at me tells me otherwise. He wanted to see me again.

  “Actually, one of those pairs I bought for you.” I motion to the bag he’s holding. “I noticed your socks yesterday. Cute.”

  “You bought me a present?”

  “Well, it was supposed to be a consolation prize.” I’m nonchalant, playing it cool, when on the inside I’m buzzing.

  “I think my consolation prize was better.” His smile is wolfish and sexy and all-round gorgeous.

  “Me too,” I admit. God, I like this man. I’ve never been so happy to lose, because something tells me losing with this man is the new winning. Something passes between us as we stare at each other, both smiling knowingly. “Merry Christmas.”

  “Merry Christmas,” he replies. “I have a feeling it’s going to be a good one.”

  I inhale, thriving on the confirmation that we’re on the same wavelength, and then he’s moving in, coming closer and closer, and I brace myself for his kiss.

  Suddenly a burst of activity occurs behind me, and my sister hustles me out of the way, coming to an abrupt halt when she finds Mr. Sexy as Fuck on my doorstep.

  “Oh,” she breathes, giving me the side-eye and an accusing glare before returning her attention to Shaun. “You must be bullshit.”

  “Sorry?” Shaun laughs, looking at me for confirmation he heard right. I can only shrug in apology for my sister.

  “Guys,” she hollers, smirking crazily as she flicks her stare between us, “we have a visitor.”

  I close my eyes, hearing the rest of my family pile into the hallway to find out who our visitor is. They all crowd together in the small space, staring at Mr. Sexy as Fuck like he’s a monster from the black lagoon. “Would you like to come in?” I ask. If they’re gonna stare, I could at least give him a drink to survive their scrutiny.

  “Would love to. Is this your dad?” he asks as he steps in offering his hand to my old man.

  “Dad, this is Shaun.”

  I hate how chuffed my dad looks. I know he’s desperate for me to find happiness again, but he might not be too fond of Shaun if he knew how little we know each other. “Pleased to meet ya, son,” Dad says, happy as Larry. “Come in, have a drink.”

  Shaun is directed to the kitchen by my very eager family, and what do I do? I find more wine and down a glass.

  “Like cigars?” my brother-in-law asks as I enter.

  “I don’t mind a puff on special occasions.”

  “Good man.” Heath holds up a fat Cuban, half smoked, as he gives me an approving nod. “He’ll do.”

  “Heath,” I choke, flaming red.

  “Shaun,” Ma says, throwing him her famous Irish smile. “What a pleasure to meet ya. How do you and Shannon know each other?”

  My wide eyes swing to Shaun. “We—”

  “We’ve dated once or twice,” he says.

  “How lovely.”

  “You never told me you were dating again,” my sister hisses in my ear, slighted. “And my-oh-my, isn’t he delicious?”

  “Hush up.” I bat her away, feeling totally exasperated, for Shaun and myself. Talk about a baptism
of fire. The poor man is probably kicking himself for coming here.

  My sufferable relatives disperse, and Shaun moves in beside me. “I’m sorry,” I say sincerely.

  “You have nothing to be sorry about. Unless you back out of our deal.”

  “Dinner?”

  “No, sex in the changing rooms at Harrods.”

  “Behave.” I laugh, feeling butterflies erupt in my tummy.

  “It’ll happen,” he asserts confidently. “But until then, I’ll settle for the dinner date you owe me.” He hands me a bag, and my brow furrows.

  “What’s that?”

  “Your Christmas present.” He pulls out the little black dress. “I owe you a dress.”

  “How—”

  “I went back after you hightailed it in a cab.”

  I balk at him. “And faced the disapproving shop assistant?” He’s braver than me.

  He shrugs, his grin adorable. “Well, I really want to see you in it again, so yeah.” Tossing the bag on the counter, he takes my hand and pulls me into the hallway, away from watching eyes. I’m up against a wall a few seconds later. His mouth is close to mine, and he’s holding back his smile. “Come Christmas shopping with me next year.”

  “Oh?”

  His lips meet mine, and Christmas just got better. “Say yes,” he murmurs into my mouth.

  “I’ll see you next year, then.”

  “Oh, you and I will be seeing each other a lot before next year.” My thigh is grabbed, lifted, and pushed into his waist as he breaks his kiss and nuzzles at my cheek. “There are dozens of department stores in London, and I’d like to buy you a new dress from each for every date we have.” He covers my smile with his.

  “Deal,” I agree easily. And how can I not? Not only did this tall, gorgeous, sexy man pursue me in Harrods on Christmas Eve, but he found me today too. On Christmas Day. And he wants me. He also wants to buy me dresses, although my bet is he’s more interested in taking those dresses off. So, yeah. It’s a deal. The easiest deal ever made.

  Mr. Billy Big Baubles can buy me as many dresses as he likes.

  Merry fricking Christmas to me.

  with Jodi Ellen Malpas

  The This Man Series

  This Man

  Beneath This Man

  This Man Confessed

  With This Man

  All I Am – Drew’s Story (A This Man Novella)

  The One Night Series

  One Night - Promised

  One Night - Denied

  One Night - Unveiled

  Standalone Novels

  The Protector

  The Forbidden

  The Smoke & Mirrors Duology

  The Controversial Princess

  His True Queen

  Coming soon…

  Gentleman Sinner – Feb 5, 2019

  An Erotic Short Story

  I don’t know how many times I’ve looked out this window, at this same view—but it never gets old. The rounded slopes of fluffy snowdrifts that line the road, the gobs of white hanging from branches and streetlamps like melted marshmallow, the diamond sheen on the sidewalk, and the feathery flakes that drift down endlessly from the sky, dotting the air.

  It’s magical. Beautiful. Especially now.

  I catch the reflection of the room behind me in the window—all gleaming oak tables, and warm walls of paneled wood. Bright orange flames glow in the fireplace below five hanging stockings with names sloppily written in silver glitter. Pine-green garland and mistletoe are strung all around, and a tall, real Christmas tree stands along the wall with colored lights and shiny balls. Finally, there’s Walter—the moose head above the mantle—with red velvet bows on each antler, that I tied myself.

  The Christmas season has always been my favorite time of year, but three days before Christmas Eve at the Black Diamond Bar? That’s a whole other level of Norman Rockwell, Funny Farm, It’s a Wonderful Life, kind of awesome.

  The only thing missing is some cheesy Christmas music—the kind my roommate and fellow waitress, Heather, and I lobbied hard for. And got vetoed on.

  So Love Song by Tesla comes from the jukebox in the corner. But it’s okay—it’s a good song.

  As the pretty opening guitar notes play, however, I’m more focused on the conversation coming from the bar.

  “Snow gnomes are fucking evil.”

  “What the hell is a snow gnome?”

  “Little guys, red hats, pointy ears, they hang out in gardens. You know—snow gnomes.”

  Stealthily, I watch my boss behind the bar.

  Jace Winters.

  Cue the heart-eyes and internal swoonage. Just thinking his name makes me weak.

  He’s got thick dark hair, a full strong mouth, gorgeous straight white teeth and a dimple when he smiles. The dimple wrecks me. I want to lick it—then work my way down from there.

  And his hands . . . they’re my favorite. I follow them with my eyes as he wipes down the bar. They’re strong hands, rough and large. Capable and controlled. A man’s hands.

  I watch Jace. A lot. Because that’s me, Evie Sanders—mild mannered, twenty-five-year-old waitress by day—sneaky, hopeless, almost-stalker . . . the rest of the time.

  It’s kind of pathetic.

  Jace narrows his eyes at Zack—the wiry, tattooed guy across from him.

  “You mean elves?”

  “Nah, man—elves are clean shaven, gnomes have beards. Everybody knows that. Creepy bastards. Their eyes follow you. Like they’re just waiting to fly across the yard and grab you with their fat sausagey fingers so they can sink their razor-sharp teeth into your throat.”

  Zach’s a writer. Vivid imagination, highly talented, fairly weird. He lives most of the year in LA, but comes up here for a few months to hibernate so his creativity can percolate without distraction.

  “Up here” is Alpine, Colorado, a cozy nook of a town known for its pristine trails, exhilarating slopes, quaint shops, and above all . . . privacy. Aspen is the place rich people go to party, get glammed up and be seen. Alpine is the place people go to ski, kick back and disappear.

  “Wait—that’s actually good.” Zack toys with the metal ball piercing on his lower lip. “Elves vs. Snow Gnomes, the Winter Wonderland War. Give me a napkin, I gotta write this down.”

  A burst of cold air and a few frantic snowflakes swirl in as the door opens. Charlie Butters—the local owner of the snowplow company, Plow U Right—walks in, with his six-year-old son, Charlie Jr. beside him. They take off their hats and hop up onto two barstools.

  “It’s really coming down out there,” Big Charlie says and sighs. “It’s like money from the sky, but still—hell of a day.”

  A minute later, Jace slides Charlie’s regular end-of-the-day drink—an Irish coffee—in front of him.

  Charlie Junior pulls off his mittens with his teeth—they’re stitched with SNOW BLOWS across the knuckles.

  “What’s it going to be today, kid?” I eat up the way Jace’s forearms bulge as he crosses his arms. “A Shirley Temple or a hot chocolate?”

  “Hot chocolate, Jace. Better make it a double.” Little Charlie sighs—the mirror image of his dad. “It’s been a hell of a day.”

  The Black Diamond’s hot chocolate is another thing Alpine is known for—created and custom made by the owner himself. He uses real melted chocolate and whole milk. It’s not as thick as Italian hot chocolate, but still luscious and rich. The mug of steaming goodness is capped off with a mound of handmade whipped cream sprinkled with cocoa powder, marshmallows and crushed peppermint granules, and served with a flaky, chocolate-dipped wafer.

  It’s like drinking a Christmas miracle.

  He slides the chocolate masterpiece in front of Charlie Junior and the kid dives in.

  Then Jace looks up. Across the bar . . . right at me. Pinning me with those piercing, crystal-blue eyes, like an icicle straight through my heart.

  A frantic, fluttery feeling fills my stomach, and it’s like time stretches and the music fades and the w
hole world stops—even the snowflakes outside pause mid-flight.

  Because Jace Winters is looking at me.

  Until the chime of the silver bell dings from the kitchen.

  “Order up!”

  And by the time I blink, his chin has dipped and he’s back to wiping down the bar. Mr. Cool and obviously unaffected.

  I can be unaffected too.

  But I’m not as good at it as he is. So instead of walking to the kitchen, like a normal person, I turn too fast, rush without looking . . . and walk right into the motherfucking Christmas tree.

  My momentum sends it tipping, almost going over, but I wrap my hand around the trunk and jerk it back—stabbing myself in the left eye with a branch.

  Jesus Christ

  “Shit,” Jace murmurs.

  Zack hops off his stool. “You okay, Evie?”

  Both of them head toward me. I cover my wounded eye with one hand, and hold up the other to keep them at bay. Because I’m already embarrassed—anymore humiliation and I’m going to start eating mistletoe.

  “No, I’m good. It’s fine.”

  But Jace is already in front of me—so close I can feel the solid warmth of him, and smell the clean, fresh, scent of his flannel shirt. “Lower your hand, Evie. Let me see your eye.” His voice is rough and low. It’s an order.

  It’s hot.

  “I said I’m all good, Jace.”