by Becca Barnes
As I slipped into Tori’s office, she was curled up on her couch, talking on the phone. Lola had snuggled into Tori’s arms and had stuck her pudgy thumb in her mouth as she twirled a section of Tori’s hair with her other hand.
I paused in the doorway and took in the scene. When would it grow old--the marvel I felt every time I stopped to think about our little family?
“Hey,” Tori mouthed at me and pointed at the phone. “Yes. Thank you so much, governor. I couldn’t be more excited about this initiative.”
We exchanged thumbs-up signs.
“Wonderful. We’ll get that set up as soon as possible. Thanks again. Bye.”
As soon as she hung up, Tori was off the couch, dancing and squealing with Lola in her arms.
“So the governor’s on board?” I asked.
“She loves the idea.”
“I’m so proud of you, honey.” I swooped both of them in a hug and swung them around. “This is going to help so many women.”
Tori had found her passion. Supporting single moms. And Nate had been right. Once she had figured out what she was excited about, she was a force of nature not to be reckoned with. If this statewide comprehensive support network was a success--no--when this thing was a success, she was ready to take it nationwide.
No mom left behind.
“Hey, Nate and Jen just offered to watch Lola. Let’s get away and celebrate. Someplace sunny that we can only reach by seaplane.” I put our daughter down and swooped Tori in for a kiss. “I’ll bring the champagne. You bring the La Perlas and nothing else.”
“Actually”--she bit her lip—”skip the champagne for me. And...maybe bring some extra protein?”
I felt my forehead scrunch in confusion. Then as realization dawned, my eyes popped wide.
“Wait. Are you—?”
“I’m not positive, but I’m pretty sure. I’m late.”
I let out a mighty whoop and swung her around.
“You’re glad?” she whispered in my ear.
“Am I glad?” I buried my face in her hair, laughing. “You just can’t stop making me the happiest man alive, can you?”
The End
Afterword
Dear Reader,
I had SO MUCH FUN writing Tori and Jake’s story. I hope you had a fun time reading it as well. I love it when two people who are so wrong yet so right for each other end up together. ❤️
As always, I’m hard at work on my next story—a second chance romance in Lavender Beach. Not to spoil too much, but there will be bearded men, tiny houses, and kissing in the middle of hurricanes.
If you want to receive updates, you can follow me on Amazon or subscribe to my newsletter.
Turn the page for a bonus sneak peek at the first chapter of Nate and Jen’s story, Into Santa.
I love to hear from readers! You can email me at [email protected]
You can also subscribe to my newsletter or follow me on Amazon if you’d like to stay up-to-date on new releases.
XOXO,
Becca
Also by Becca Barnes
Just as a reminder, all of my books are standalone stories, but my characters love to story-hop. If you read them in order, you’ll get the most bang for your buck with finding little bonus extras to sigh over.
High Stakes Hearts series
Into Focus: A Second Chance Amnesia Romance
Into Santa: A Secret Billionaire Christmas Romance
Into Trouble: A Best Friend’s Sister Forbidden Romance
Once Upon A Time On Lavender Beach
(Contemporary Fairy Tale Retellings)
Not Quite Charming: A Secret Billionaire Beach Romantic Comedy
Into Santa: A Secret Billionaire Christmas Romance (Sample)
Jen Wallace has hit rock bottom. Faced with a growing pile of bills after getting laid off by the mega-corporation Crainfield Industries, Jen takes a part-time holiday job as an elf out of sheer desperation.
Jen quickly realizes that being an elf isn't so bad when you're working alongside a Santa so hot he could melt the North Pole.
There's no fighting the sparks that light her up like a Christmas tree every time she's near him. And every time they touch. He seems too good to be true, a down-to-earth guy who's crazy about her.
But this Santa has a secret. A billion dollar secret. This Santa is used to getting what he wants.
And Santa wants her.
CHAPTER 1
“No Drunk Elves.” The arteries in my manager’s neck bulged. And even though I’d only known him for precisely twenty-seven minutes, I was pretty sure this was his I mean business face.
I opened my mouth to argue that I wasn’t, in fact, drunk on half of one measly miniature bottle of chardonnay but held myself back. The fact was, given the choice, I would have gladly been smash-faced for the assignment that awaited me.
Part-time elf. Did it get any more humiliating than that?
I wasn’t even elfing for the good Santa in the fancy mall, who they flew in from Portland every year with his carefully groomed beard and authentic handmade red suit imported directly from Lapland. The line for that Santa would be filled with parents who had reserved their children’s appointments with Old Saint Nick online before Halloween.
No. This was the other Santa. At the sad, slowly dying mall on the wrong side of town. The kids in line to see this Santa were more likely to be worried about whether their dinner tonight would consist of more than a stale bag of Cheetos and a can of Coke than they would be about the authenticity of his attire.
The one good thing I could say about this mall was that the girl at the wine and cheese store had taken pity on me after my third trip past her sample tray, and slipped me a free mini bottle to take with me.
So this is rock bottom, I thought as I shoved the wine into my tiny locker to save for later.
“Ms. Wallace—” Somehow, the way the manager, Todd, said my name, it made me feel even worse. It didn’t help that he couldn’t have been more than seventeen years old. He might as well have referred to me as, “ma’am.”
“You can call me Jen,” I said. I would rather he not have to call me anything at all. But it was this or starving. Or worse, asking to borrow money from my parents.
After my job as a software programmer was downsized six months ago, I went into the teensiest case of denial for the first few months. I’d gotten a generous severance package, and I had some savings put away. But then I broke my ankle. The doctor’s bills drained the savings. And the severance ran out. I’d had a few half hearted interviews, but nothing that had resulted in a job. By the time I decided to just find something temporary, the good seasonal jobs were gone.
And so here I was.
“Well, Jen, why aren’t you wearing your uniform?” asked Todd.
“Because, Todd”--I held up the hanger with the elf costume on it—”I was accidentally given the wrong uniform. This one belongs to a Bratz doll.”
“We didn’t have time to order a new one after Kelly quit. You’re going to have to make that one work.”
Apparently, Kelly, the previous elf, was a stick insect. I, on the other hand, had actual boobs. And an ample ass. Neither of which would squeeze into the thin swath of fabric they were calling a uniform.
“You’re welcome to wear the supplied bloomers.” Todd handed me a pair of cherry red spanky pants that . . . oh hell to the no. They had ruffles on the back.
“I have a red sweater on,” I said. “Why don’t I just wear that with the elf hat instead?”
“Put on the uniform or you’re fired.”
Sweet Lord, it had come to this. Almost fired from the worst job in existence.
“Fine,” I huffed.
“And a smile.” Todd screwed his fingertips into his cheeks.
“And a smile.” I stretched my lips over my teeth in a semblance of one. The moment he walked out, though, I turned up two choice fingertips to let him know how I really felt.
But like it or not, this was
my job. And my only prospect at the moment. With the holidays coming up in just a few weeks and rent due Friday, I didn’t have a choice but to do whatever it took to keep it.
“All right then.” I gathered up the remaining shreds of my dignity and headed over to the corner of the room, which had a makeshift curtain tacked up where we were supposed to change.
The costume was even worse on. I turned a slow circle in front of the mirror they’d propped up in there. I looked like Santa’s Little Wet Dream. My breasts strained against the thin fabric of the top, and my butt cheeks were barely covered. I hadn’t even considered costume requirements when I’d dressed today and had worn a lacy thong. Spanky pants, it was.
I was bending over to pick up the ruffled bloomers when the curtain of the dressing area flew open with a whoosh.
“Oh my. I’m . . . I’m so sorry.”
I whirled around to face a man standing there, holding the curtain, frozen. His mouth was formed into a perfect O. Before I had a chance to say anything in return, he whipped the curtain shut.
I looked down at myself and realized that my skirt, what little of it there was, had gotten tucked up in my thong. Great.
Quickly as I could, I yanked on the green and white-striped tights and the final humiliation of the spanky pants before walking out into the break room. The guy was seated at the table, staring at his bag, then the chair. Basically keeping his gaze trained anywhere but at me.
“So that was awkward,” I said.
“Yeah.”
I opened up my locker and shoved my clothes in. At the last second, I pulled my sweater back out. They could fire me if they wanted. I’d sue them for keeping the mall so dang cold. The last thing I needed was to give some poor kid a complex seeing a nip slip when they just wanted to meet Santa.
“Sorry again,” said the man. “You must be the new elf.”
“I am.” I reached out my hand. “Jen Wallace.”
“Nate James.” He took my offered hand, and now that I had a chance to really look at him, my breath caught in my throat. The man was gorgeous. Not garden-variety attractive. Like, melt-the-skin-off-your-eyeballs hot.
His dusty brown hair had glints of russet highlights and rose from his head in mussed spikes. It might have come off as boyishly handsome if it weren’t for the rest of him being being just so much . . . man. Stubble that grazed all the right spots. A squared jaw that a girl could cut herself on. And those eyes. There wasn’t a word for how blue they were. Sapphire didn’t cut it. Neither did ice. They were like the Caribbean Sea after a massive storm had . . .
“Are you okay?” He furrowed his brow in concern, and I realized I’d been staring.
“Oh, yeah. Sorry. I was spacing there.”
“You done with the dressing room?” He hooked his thumb at the curtained corner.
“Yes. Help yourself.”
“Great.” He grabbed a garment bag off the chair next to him and went to change.
After a few minutes of listening to him rustle out of his clothes, things started to feel awkward again. I did the only thing I knew to do.
Make it more awkward.
“So,” I said, “What’s your hard luck story?”
“Pardon?” he called through the curtain.
“Oh, I just figured that if we’re going to be working with each other for almost a month, I should know a little bit about you.”
“True. But why would you think I have some sob story?” he asked.
Because my own life was a steaming pile of crap right now, and I couldn’t imagine someone our age wilfully choosing this job unless they had no other options.
“I guess I just meant that most people don’t write, ‘mall Santa,’ on the What I Want To Be When I Grow Up line when they’re a kid.”
“Oh, I see what you’re saying.” He parted the curtain and stepped out.
And oh my sweet merciful mass of muscles. The man was built. And shirtless. A pair of suspenders held up his red pants, and again, I was struck by how much man he was.
“Sorry,” he said. “I need a bit of space to get my bowl-full-of-jelly on.”
He held up the prosthetic stuffed torso, and I couldn’t help but let out a sigh. Surely, it was a crime in the state of Georgia to cover that up.
“Would you mind zipping me up?” He lifted the padding over his head and raised his arm where the zipper went from his armpit down his side. “Or I could go get Todd.”
The way Nate said his name, I could see he was almost as big a Todd fan as I was.
“Sure.” I tugged the zipper down slowly, careful to avoid snagging him. When it reached the bottom, there was a few inches length that I had to tuck my hand up under the fabric to reach. My knuckles grazed against his taut abs.
“Thanks,” he said, oblivious to the blaze that had overtaken my cheeks, not to mention several other body parts. “So yeah, no hard luck story. I’m just doing this as a side gig over the holidays. I enjoy it, and it helps me spread a little extra cheer.”
“Side hustle, eh? What do you do in your day job?”
“I work for a cable company.” He pulled on his Santa coat, higher quality than I expected. Not genuine Lapland wool, I was sure, but still nice. “So then what’s your hard luck story?”
“Laid off,” I said. “About six months ago. Then I broke my ankle and was laid up for several weeks. I’m just now getting back on my feet.” Literally.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It happens.”
“What did you do before you were laid off?”
“I was a programmer for Crainfield Industries. Massive re-org.”
“Ahh. I remember when that happened,” he said, deep furrows digging into his brow. “I’m really sorry to hear you were caught up in that.”
I shrugged.
“This will pay the bills through Christmas.” I just wished I didn’t look quite so much like Santa’s Slutty Helper while I did it. “So I guess I should be thankful. Even if they did give me a costume two sizes too small.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” said Nate. But there was a twinkle in his eye that was most un-Santalike.
I rolled my eyes as he put on his beard and hat.
“Ready?” He held out his hand.
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
Read more of Into Santa…
Into Focus: A Second Chance Amnesia Romance (sample)
Annie Cargill has it all—a flourishing photography career, a kick-ass best friend, and a new husband so hot he puts solar flares to shame.
There’s only one snag. After a car accident sends Annie into a coma, she wakes up with a case of post-traumatic amnesia. And that hot new husband, Evan Gaines, is a complete stranger to her.
As Annie pieces together the puzzle of her and Evan’s life together, she can’t help but fall hard for the man who’s already chosen her. And now she wants her husband back—all of him. Mind, soul . . . and body.
But something still stands between them. When she realizes Evan’s keeping secrets from her, she determines to dig up the truth. Even if the truth could tear them apart forever.
Sexy and steamy, heartfelt and hilarious, Into Focus is a quick, fun weeknight romance that reminds readers that there are some things our mind can’t protect us from. And there are some things the heart can never forget.
CHAPTER 1
It’s nothing like the movies, waking up from a coma.
First off, there was no cloud of concerned relatives hovering around my hospital bed, only my best friend Jen. And she looked less concerned than put-out.
“Oh, go screw yourself, Martha Stewart,” she muttered. “And the handwoven corn husk broom you rode in on.”
She flicked the corner of the DIY magazine harder than she needed to, and the page tore.
“What did Martha ever do to you?” I said. But it came out in a scratchy, mangled croak as if I’d been gargling razor blades. I clutched at my throat and looked around for a glass of water.
“Oh, pl
ease. We both know she’s a government robot operative designed to make regular women feel like they’re dung beetles,” said Jen without thinking, like we were chatting over our weekly Saturday morning coffee date.
Then she froze. Jen swiveled to face me, her eyes alight with excitement and joy and . . . something else. Worry?
“You’re awake,” she said.
“Apparently so.”
“Annie. You’re awake,” she said again and then lunged at me. I braced myself for the ensuing hug, but she didn’t touch me. Instead, she reached around me and pressed a button on my bed. Once. Twice. And then frantically, over and over.
“Sorry,” she said. “It’s the nurse call button. I’m not sure sure what I’m supposed to do.”
That was when the real fun began. Nurses and doctors crowded into the room, each with a different pointy object with which to prod me. Jen scooted over to the corner. She whipped out her phone, and I could see her texting like a mad fiend.
Four different people in scrubs barked questions at me all at once.
“Do you know your name?”
“What date is it?”
“Do you know where you are?”
“What’s the last thing you remember?”
I opened my mouth to answer.
Annie Cargill.
No clue.
I’m not sure, but call me crazy, I’m going to guess . . . a hospital.
And the answer to that last question was complicated.
Of course, none of this came out. Instead, a hoarse cough escaped.
“Water,” I whispered and shifted around to try to reach a cup, but there were so many tubes and wires attached to me, it felt like I was trapped in a spider’s sticky web.
Thankfully, one of the nurses put a straw to my mouth and said, “drink.”
The cold liquid seared the sides of my throat as it went down, but after another small sip, the burning subsided, and I tried out my voice.
“My name’s Annie,” I said.
That one small answer was enough to restart the interrogation. My head started to pound with all the questions, and I was about to ask them to stop when a tiny but fierce-looking woman wearing a white lab coat entered the room. She would have barely reached five feet tall with heels on, but when she spoke, her tone held the calm but rock-solid inflection of someone who was accustomed to being the sole authoritative voice in a group.
