Holiday Sparks: A Christmas Romantic Comedy

by Taryn Quinn

  Holiday Sparks

  Taryn Quinn

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  They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Holiday Sparks

  © 2017 Taryn Quinn

  Rainbow Rage Publishing

  Cover design by: Cover Couture

  Photos © Shutterstock

  All Rights Are Reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First ebook edition: Taryn Quinn 2017

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  Contents

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  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Also By Taryn Quinn

  About the Authors

  Filthy Scrooge

  Join our Newsletter: Walk on the Wicked Side

  Like shorter and dirtier reads?

  Anything goes with this pen name.

  Sexy—check.

  Erotic—check.

  Sweet—usually mixed in with the sexy…so, yeah—check.

  Rom Com—check.

  Dark—oh, yeah…check.

  Paranormal—check.

  Did we mention that we like all the genres?

  So, c’mon in. Pour a glass of wine and play with us.

  XOXO,

  Taryn & Cari

  aka Taryn Quinn

  I miss you, Mom.

  Christmas just isn’t the same without you around.

  You were the Christmas Elf to my Scrooge.

  Chapter One

  “I will not calm down!”

  Darcy Tucker dropped her chin to her chest and grabbed the edge of the jewelry counter. The customer’s voice carried across the entire front end. Hour eleven and a half of an eight-hour shift and she’d almost escaped. She scanned the register stations for Tom, her relief manager for the night, but of course he was absent.

  “Sir, please lower your voice.”

  “I’m not keeping this defective bike.” Shoulders that would do the Incredible Hulk proud flexed under his gray work shirt. Her lead cashier didn’t flinch, but even Jaime Suarez’s drill-sergeant-stern voice wasn’t cutting it with this guy.

  Not good.

  Darcy straightened her spine and covered the distance to the customer service desk. “What seems to be the problem?”

  Jaime stiffened, her fingers clenching at her sides. “I called for Tom—”

  Darcy waved her off. “It’s okay.” She looked up at the bulging dark eyes of the man. At least two days’ worth of stubble shadowed a pronounced jaw and his red-rimmed eyes were a little wild. “I’m Darcy Tucker, the front end manager. What’s your name?”

  “This-this woman, won’t allow me to return this defective bike.”

  “We’ll get to that. What’s your name?”

  “John Hartley.” His chest heaved and his face was an alarming shade of red.

  The name tugged at her memory. Repeat offender? “Okay, John. Just take a breath and calm down.”

  “I will not calm down!”

  Darcy looked down at the girl’s bike from two seasons ago with its mud-caked tires and worn seat. The chain sagged and the pedals looked as though they had met pavement more than once. “Do you have a receipt?”

  “No, I don’t have a receipt.” He pointed over her shoulder. “But that sign says you can return anything for store credit. And you can look me up.”

  “Yes, that’s correct,” Darcy said carefully. “Within ninety days of purchase and as long as you paid with a credit card, we can find you in our system.”

  “Well, I don’t have a credit card. I paid cash.” His voice rose.

  “Unfortunately, sir, that bike is from at least last year.” She remembered because she put the display together for the sports section herself.

  “Are you calling me a liar?”

  The muscles in her back tightened as if they were resistance bands. “Of course not. But without a receipt and because of the current state of the merchandise, I’ll have to defer to Jaime’s decision not to refund you the money or give store credit. I’m very sorry, sir.”

  “You are calling me a liar!” Spittle flew from his mouth.

  Darcy ignored the droplet that hit her cheek. She met his gaze. Even when she wanted to flinch and hand back the money, she didn’t falter. That was exactly how irate customers worked. A little intimidation and most people would fold and give the refund. “What’s wrong with the bike, sir? Maybe I can get the information to contact the manufacturer. It could be under warranty.” The warranty was so far beyond gone. But if a white lie stopped the man from going apoplectic, just light her pants on fire.

  “I don’t want no damn warranty. I want my money! The gears keep slipping and my daughter broke her collarbone! I’ll sue!”

  Well, crap. She bit back a sigh. He was just a worried dad, but she still couldn’t take the bike back. Answering to Miriam Blackstone when she went through returns and exchanges was scarier than Hulk Smash here.

  “I’m very sorry your daughter was hurt, John. I know a really wonderful bike shop that could help—”

  He braced both palms on the counter and leaned in. “Fuck you and fuck your repair shop.”

  All sympathy died an instant and ashy death. “Sir, please don’t make me call security.”

  “Blackstone’s Department Store is a fucking shithole. I’ll never set foot in here again.” He steered the bike away from the counter. But instead of going out the front door, he crouched over the bike and rolled it into the huge Christmas tree that stood in front of the window with all of his two-hundred-plus pounds of force behind it.

  The pop of shattered ornaments crashing to the floor to the tune of Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree made for a macabre symphony. A loud crack and fizzle ended in a jarring silence. Every single Christmas light on the tree shorted out.

  Fury and exhaustion froze Darcy tight. She looked to the man but he was already out the front door.

  “Oh my God, Darcy. I’m so sorry. I tried to get him to stay calm, but—”

  “It’s okay, Jaime. Just call the police.”

  She looked up at the camera they had trained on the customer service desk. Lord knew whether it actually got a good likeness of the man. He’d been towering over them the entire time. Not a great angle. Hockey sticks, she couldn’t even remember his name.

  The heavy clomping of feet from all corners of the store drove one last blast of strength into her. She stalked out onto the floor. Her feet throbbed in time with the pulsing twitch in her eye. The Christmas display was toast. And there was no way she was leaving until that was cleaned up. Son of a bottle top.

  “Miss Tucker, are you okay?”

  She smiled gently at her security guard. His paper-soft fingertips lightly gripped her arm, drawing her away from the glass. He wa
s eighty if he was a day. His uniform was still starchy and one of the red ornaments shone in his shined shoes. “I’m okay, Theo.”

  “Ms. Tucker, what is going on here?”

  Miriam’s voice was clear, cool and sharp as the jagged shards of the gold glass ball beside her boot. Darcy sighed. She definitely hated Christmas.

  Hated it.

  “I’ll handle it, Ms. Blackstone.”

  Jaime came running around the counter. “No, I’ll take care of it.”

  “No,” Miriam said so softly that Darcy’s internal radar went into the red zone. “Darcy is the covering manager tonight.”

  Jaime’s chin lifted. “Actually, Tom is. Darcy was supposed to be off almost three hours ago.”

  “I don’t care.” Miriam glanced at the door. A patrol car with its twirling lights came to a stop in front of the store. “I’ll go deal with this.” She turned to Darcy. “You’ll need to explain to me and the police just what happened.”

  Jaime stepped forward. “I was—”

  Darcy clamped a hand on her forearm. “I’ll be right behind you, Ms. Blackstone.”

  Miriam pivoted on her spiked heel and headed to the door.

  “Darcy, let me take care of this. You have to be here at five thirty in the morning.”

  “It’s okay. They’ll need statements from both of us.” She hurried to the desk and snapped out a garbage bag. “You start cleaning and I’ll come back and help.”

  At least she could take some joy out of throwing away some of the garish ornaments.

  With another two and a half hours under her belt, it well past dusk by the time Darcy made the turn onto her street. The figure eight of the cul-de-sacs and their tidy townhouses and duplexes instantly relaxed her. She’d saved for over eight years to afford her house. She’d purchased one of the duplexes to help offset costs with a tenant. There wasn’t one thing she had a problem with—

  Her jaw turned to stone and she was pretty sure one more molar grind tonight would break it into dust.

  Lights.

  Everywhere.

  Her house was a freaking carnival. Icicle-style in holiday white dripped in perfect lines from the gutter that ran the length of her roof. Behind the icicles were fat retro bulbs with their unmistakable LED glow. Every tree and bush, even her planting box, was strung with white lights. Santa and his sleigh had taken over her tenant’s side of the lawn, and animatronic reindeer pranced in more of the viciously happy white freaking lights.

  Her heart raged.

  No.

  No.

  No.

  This was her safe haven.

  There was no Christmas at her house.

  Suddenly the lights started blinking and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer piped out of her house. Her house.

  She slammed her car door and stared.

  “Oh, isn’t it amazing?” Her neighbor Carly ran across the grass. “I’ve been watching for your car.”

  Too stunned to answer, Darcy watched her house pulse and flash.

  “He’s been working on it all day.”

  “What?” She tore her eyes from the house and squinted down at Carly. She was cute and soft, her blonde hair up in a high ponytail that was only one clue to her cheerleader past. “Who?”

  “Ben, of course.” Carly’s sunny smile gleamed in the blinding lights. “I almost never see him outside in the daytime, so I had to go and see what was going on. He got me into the spirit so much I started my cookies early.”

  “It’s not even Thanksgiving,” Darcy said woodenly.

  “It’s this Thursday, silly.”

  “Don’t remind me.” Thanksgiving wasn’t a holiday for her. It was the precursor to madness. It used to be the start of the Christmas season. Now the day after Halloween had that place of honor. She’d been listening to Christmas music for a solid month.

  She was going to commit murder. With a pen if she had to.

  “I was surprised to see him working so hard on the display. You never decorate.” Carly patted her arm. “The Association is going to flip out. They wanted us all to do lights this year. How can we compete with this?”

  “I have no idea,” Darcy said. How the freaking heck would Fifth Avenue in New York City compete?

  “And I had no idea your neighbor was so handy and clever. He’s so sweet.”

  Darcy frowned. “Are you sure you’re talking about Ben?”

  Carly jammed her hands into her hoodie pockets. “He was outside all day doing this. The neighborhood kids even helped. He’s a regular Pied Piper.”

  Anger welled up again. She’d loved her tenant for one reason and one reason only. He was quiet and they never saw each other. She knew his name because her rent check was, without fail, in her mailbox on the first of every month.

  They rarely spoke beyond polite hellos. He was usually leaving for work as she was coming home.

  And he’d ruined her house.

  “Mo-o-om!”

  Carly sighed. “It’s bath time. Anyway. I just wanted to say wow!” She leaned in and gave her a hug. Darcy patted her back awkwardly. Crapballs. “Great job! The Association is going to love you this year. We’re so glad you decided to join in for Christmas.” A child’s bellow came across the yard again. “I gotta go before Kaden drowns Abby.”

  Numb, Darcy watched her house. The song changed to We Wish You a Merry Christmas and the lights went haywire.

  And then she lost it.

  “Four, five, si—” Ben paused as the Christmas song fizzled out. “Shit.” He pushed up the last two reps then dumped his weight bar back onto the rack and rolled off his bench. He thought he’d worked all the kinks out of the program.

  He hurried down the steps and came to an abrupt halt. The lights on the porch were out. “Dammit.” He swung open the door and frowned. His landlady’s spectacular ass lined up perfectly with his face. Stunned for a moment, he simply stared before asking, “What are you doing?”

  Their doors were side by side in the setup of the duplex. She had a pair of pliers in her hand and each of the clear clips he’d painstakingly tacked around the arched window were sprinkled across their shared deck. “I’m taking,” she grunted, “down these lights.”

  The glow from the lights on the bushes highlighted the khaki material that hugged her ass a little too perfectly. He frowned and returned his focus to the window above. “Why?”

  “Because,” she snarled and pulled, “I,” another clip fell and the string of lights sagged against her shoulder, “hate Christmas.”

  “How can you hate Christmas?” Even his cranky old Grandpa Radley loved Christmas. “Hey, stop.”

  “This is my house. And I will not have We Wish You a Merry Christmas blaring from some ridiculous speaker as lights sparkle and flash and cause seizures!”

  He reached up and took the pliers from her, stuffing down a laugh. “Honestly, stop.”

  She looked down at him, her eyes definitely set on death ray instead of stun.

  He cleared his throat. Nope, laughing would not be smart. “You’re the one tearing up the siding. I tacked them in so that there wouldn’t be any structural damage.”

  “Fine. Then take them down yourself.”

  “How about I just take them down on your side of the house?”

  “No, take them all down. This is my house and this is my rule.”

  His eyebrows shot up. The librarian tone zinged him in places it shouldn’t. “That wasn’t in the lease agreement,” he said amiably. The little pulse in the side of her neck was fluttering and her eyes were just a little too bright. She stood a few inches taller than him thanks to the stepladder. And he was pretty sure she was a minute away from a true meltdown.

  “No structural changes to the house covers that, Mr. Hartley.”

  “Well, Miss Tucker, I hardly think a few Christmas lights could be considered structural changes.”

  “Oh no? There’s a freaking,” she widened her arms, gasping for breath, “sleigh in the yard with all—and I do mean a
ll—the reindeer. Oh, and my house looks like a demonic jukebox!”

  He wasn’t sure why her rant made him want to grin like an idiot, but it did. “I like Christmas. The kids get a kick out of it and it’s…well, it’s cheery.”

  She turned on the stepladder and the whole thing tipped. Ben grabbed the first thing he could—a handful of curvy hip. She slapped her hand onto the siding for balance and stared down at him with disdain.

  He cleared his throat and stepped back. Laughing would only tick her off more. The little voice in the back of his head wanted to keep going and see if she’d pull a Linda Blair. This was probably more words than they’d shared since she’d showed him the house over the summer.

  He crossed his arms, digging his fingers into his quickly cooling muscles. It was a warm night for November, but not exactly muscle-shirt weather. “Look, it’s getting dark. I’ll take them down first thing in the morning, how’s that?”

  A little muscle twitched in her cheek. He could tell that she wanted to argue with him, but she finally nodded and stepped down. “Tomorrow,” her chin tipped up, “please.”

  Now this was the Darcy he was used to. The polite, almost icy woman he bumped into at the mailbox. She was usually rolling up the driveway as he was heading to his shop. Perversely, he liked the one that had flipped out a moment ago.

  “Sorry you don’t like the decorations.” She almost met him eye to eye even off the ladder. It was odd for him to be around a woman nearly as tall as he was. The porch light illuminated her just enough to see her gaze drop to his arm. His voice gentled. “I’m even sorrier that you hate Christmas.”

  “I didn’t know I had to make myself clear on the subject.” Her gaze tripped to the tattoos that sleeved his right arm. The sweat had faded in the coolness of the night but his muscles were still tight from his workout. “You don’t seem the caroling, Christmas-is-my-secret-hobby type.”