'Tis the Season for Romance

by Kristen Proby

  Amelia giggles, making me smile. I think she’s had too much wine. I also think she likes it when I grumble and curse. It always seems to make her laugh.

  “You always just tell it like it is,” she says, her voice soft, her gaze locked with mine. “I like that about you. I’m guessing you’re not much of a game player.”

  I make a face. “No way. What you see is what you get.”

  “I like what I see,” she admits, her voice downright sultry.

  Well, well. I like the direction this is taking. “I like what I see too.”

  “Are you finished?” She gestures toward the open pizza box and the measly two pieces left inside.

  “Yeah. I was starving.” I lean back and pat my flat stomach. I’m the one who ate the majority of it, so I’m glad I paid. “Hauling trees all day wears a man out.”

  “I bet,” she says amusedly. “Come on, let’s go to the couch and watch something. You want more wine?”

  “No thanks. It’ll just make me fall asleep.” Not quite sure if it’s true, but it sounds good. I’m tired, but I don’t want to crash out too early. After all, I’m going to have a gorgeous woman curled up next to me on a couch.

  Talk about an early Christmas present.

  Once we’re cozied up on the couch with a thick, soft blanket wrapped around us, I settle my arm around her shoulders as she aims the Roku remote at her TV and scrolls through Netflix. “You want to watch a holiday movie?”

  “Sure.” I don’t even care. I won’t be paying much attention, since I’ll be too entranced by the woman next to me.

  She puts on some cutesy Christmas-themed movie and leans into me, her head on my shoulder, her hand on my chest. My entire body starts tingling the longer she lays draped across me like this, and after about ten minutes, I shift uncomfortably, afraid I might sprout a hard-on if I don’t watch it.

  “You okay?” she asks softly.

  I glance down to find her watching me. Damn, she’s pretty. I lean down and drop a kiss on her lips. “I’m great.”

  Amelia smiles. “I like you, Isaac.”

  “I like you, too.”

  “As long as you’re patient with me, I think we could make this work.”

  I raise a brow. “You think so?”

  She nods. “I have to warn you, though. My parents have—expectations. About who I should be with.”

  “Your mom loves me,” I tell her. “I brought her a real Christmas tree.”

  Amelia laughs. “True. But they’re very…traditional. They already expect me married and thinking about babies.”

  I wince. That is the last thing I want to think about. “Babies are not a part of my current agenda.”

  “Mine either,” she says in agreement. “I’m just warning you about what you might have to deal with if we really pursue this thing.”

  “What thing?” I tease.

  She gently pushes my chest. “Dating. We’re going to date, you know.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I salute her with a grin.

  “I think you could be the one,” she whispers.

  “You don’t say?” I tilt my head toward hers. “I thought you believed that love at first sight thing was bullshit.”

  “You’re the one who said that,” she reminds me.

  “Right. You’re right. Well, let’s give this a chance, then,” I say, keeping my voice light, though deep inside, I want to jump around and yell like I just won the freakin’ Super Bowl. “What do you say?”

  Her smile is soft, as is the glow in her eyes. “I say…that’s a good idea.”

  Epilogue

  Isaac

  One year later…

  * * *

  “Oh my God, is that thing going to fit through the door?” I ask, worry filling me as I watch Isaac repeatedly try and push the giant tree into my apartment.

  “Trust me, babe,” he says from somewhere behind the thick branches, and I can’t help the thrill that streaks through me. Who would’ve thought I’d let Isaac call me babe? I used to make fun of couples who had cutesy pet names for each other. Now I live for those occasional babes he tosses at me, and my favorite thing to do is call him Jonesie when he least expects it.

  He hates it when anyone else calls him that, but never seems to mind when I do.

  I watch apprehensively as Isaac gathers as many branches that he can in his arms and determinedly shoves the tree all the way through the door with a low grunt, losing a few branches in the process. My Dyson vacuum is already on standby, and I know once we have the tree where I want it, I’ll be frantically vacuuming the mess it leaves behind.

  But a real, fragrant Christmas tree is worth it. Even though it’s only December 5th and I’ll have to remember to water it daily, or else it’ll dry out before Christmas day. Though I’m sure Isaac will help me remember, too.

  We make a good team, Isaac and I. Luckily enough, my parents adore him, especially my mother. He’s really good with her. And while I know they’re a little disappointed I’m not in a hurry to get married and have babies, they don’t pressure me anymore, because they know I’m happy with Isaac and he treats me with respect.

  Unlike someone else whose name will never be mentioned again.

  Isaac and I actually like each other. We’re friends and lovers. I didn’t think that was possible before.

  “There!” Isaac exclaims once he’s got the tree in his grip, standing tall in my entryway. So tall, the top of the tree brushes the ceiling. “What do you think?”

  I stare at the towering pine, concerned it won’t fit where I want it. “It’s quite…massive.”

  “Never seemed to bother you before, considering that’s what you tell me every night,” he says with a grin.

  I laugh, but otherwise say nothing, still studying the tree. Is it wrong I enjoy it when he says inappropriate stuff? Because I do. We have amazing chemistry together. Inside the bedroom and outside of it. He can barely keep his hands off of me most of the time, and I feel the same way.

  “Where exactly do you want me to put it?” he asks.

  Before Isaac brought the tree inside, I moved some furniture around, and I help him place it against the very small wall where he hung the wreath for me last year, next to the sliding glass door.

  “That way, people can see the lit tree from the slider at night. As long as I pull the curtains back,” I explain to him once Isaac’s done setting it up.

  “Good idea,” he says, pulling me in for the quickest kiss. “But you always have the best ideas.”

  I smile, my cheeks growing warm. He compliments me constantly. It was weird at first, being with a man who was so completely into me, and who never criticized. That’s how messed up I was over my previous relationship.

  Isaac has taught me how to be me again. How to be comfortable in my own skin. And I love it.

  I love him.

  “Speaking of lights, I need to string this baby up,” he says, going to the kitchen table where he left the shopping bag full of Christmas lights.

  I assist him in winding them around and around the branches, careful to place them just right so each lightbulb is evenly spaced. Isaac probably thinks I’m being completely over the top, but he’s patient and helpful, and he never, ever yells.

  His patience is one of my favorite things about him. Oh, and the way he kisses me. And touches me…

  An hour later and that meticulous task finished, I vacuum the floor while Isaac opens up box after box of brand-new ornaments he picked up at the tree farm store. We load the tree up, filling every available space with the many ornaments, until we’ve used every single one.

  “It’s absolutely beautiful,” I say on a sigh when we’re finally finished decorating it. It’s true, the tree is a gorgeous, glowing representation of the holiday season.

  “Don’t forget to water it,” he says and I smile.

  “I knew you’d say that.”

  “Christmas is twenty days away,” he reminds me. “We need that baby to last.”

  �
��We’ll take care of it. It’ll be like our first pet together,” I say, immediately feeling silly for even saying it.

  But Isaac doesn’t seem to mind. He’s grinning at me, slinging his arm around my shoulders and hauling me close into his side. “Sounds like a plan,” he says before he soundly kisses me. “You know what else is beautiful?”

  “What?” I ask, though I suspect what he’s about to say.

  “You are,” he answers, his eyes glowing as he watches me.

  “Stop.” I nudge my shoulder into his ribs, making Isaac chuckle.

  “Hey, it’s true. You’re gorgeous. More gorgeous than this tree, and it’s pretty stellar.”

  “Glad I can rate above a Christmas tree,” I tease him.

  “You definitely do.” He hesitates for only a moment. “I can’t believe we’ve been together for a year.”

  “I can’t either,” I say softly.

  Leaning in, he kisses me. Sneaks his tongue between my lips. Strokes it against mine, soft and slow, melting me completely. “I love you,” he murmurs after he breaks the kiss.

  We’ve only been saying that to each other recently. He’s been very respectful of my wanting to take our relationship slow.

  “I love you too,” I whisper.

  “Merry Christmas, babe.”

  “Merry Christmas.”

  Also by Monica Murphy

  Make sure you check out the Dating series by Monica Murphy!

  * * *

  Save The Date

  Fake Date

  Holidate

  Hate to Date You

  Rate A Date

  Wedding Date

  * * *

  Find Monica on social media:

  Facebook: http://facebook.com/MonicaMurphyAuthor

  Reader group: https://www.facebook.com/groups/monicamurphyreadergroup

  Instagram: http://instagram.com/monicamurphyauthor

  Website: https://monicamurphyauthor.com/

  Christmas in Quincy

  Devney Perry

  CHRISTMAS IN QUINCY

  Copyright © 2020 by Devney Perry LLC

  All rights reserved.

  * * *

  ISBN: 978-1-950692-25-5

  No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Editing & Proofreading:

  Elizabeth Nover, Razor Sharp Editing

  www.razorsharpediting.com

  Julie Deaton, Deaton Author Services

  www.facebook.com/jdproofs

  Judy Zweifel, Judy’s Proofreading

  www.judysproofreading.com

  Also by Devney Perry

  Jamison Valley Series

  The Coppersmith Farmhouse

  The Clover Chapel

  The Lucky Heart

  The Outpost

  The Bitterroot Inn

  The Candle Palace

  Maysen Jar Series

  The Birthday List

  Letters to Molly

  Lark Cove Series

  Tattered

  Timid

  Tragic

  Tinsel

  Tin Gypsy Series

  Gypsy King

  Riven Knight

  Stone Princess

  Noble Prince

  Runaway Series

  Runaway Road

  Wild Highway

  Quarter Miles

  Forsaken Trail

  Dotted Lines

  Standalones

  Rifts and Refrains

  Chapter 1

  Cleo

  “Welcome to The Eloise Inn,” the young woman behind the reception counter greeted. “Checking in?”

  “Yes. Cleo Hillcrest.” I plopped my Chanel handbag on the counter, slumping into the mahogany tower as I breathed a sigh of relief.

  I made it. My suitcase rested against my calf, much like me, too weary to stand on its own.

  “Let me just pull up your reservation.” The woman typed quickly, the smile on her pretty face soft and sweet. The silver name tag on the lapel of her black blazer caught the warm light from the chandelier above.

  “Thanks, um . . . Eloise? As in the—” My finger twirled in the air, indicating the stately hotel.

  “Yep.” She laughed. “My great, great grandmother, Eloise Eden. The inn was named for her by my great, great grandfather. She was my namesake.”

  “Ah. Well, it’s beautiful. The inn and your name.”

  “Thank you.” Her smile widened. “I take pride in both. I’m the manager here.”

  “Impressive.” It was possible that she just had great genes, or a miracle skin cream, but with her flawless, youthful skin, I’d peg her in her early twenties.

  As Eloise returned to her task, a wood fire crackled in a large hearth on one side of the grand room. The hotel’s lobby was decked out for Christmas, the mantel piled high with pine boughs and ornaments. Above the fireplace, a stone column towered to the rafters and in its center hung a wreath at least three feet in diameter.

  Golden bulbs framed the windows. Inside the door, a fir tree three times the size of my car greeted customers with its woodsy scent and red bows. Tiny boxes, individually wrapped, were staged on a brass platter beside my handbag.

  As far as Christmas escapes went, I’d chosen my destination well. Not that I’d ever escaped Christmas before.

  But this year, Quincy, Montana, was going to be my hideaway.

  “Okay, Ms. Hillcrest.” Eloise looked up from her computer screen with another welcome smile. “I have you here for three nights. Checking out on the twenty-sixth. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, it is.” I nodded, fishing out my wallet for my driver’s license and credit card.

  “Are you visiting someone in Quincy for the holiday?” she asked, swiping my card through the reader.

  “Oh, um . . . no.” Exactly the opposite. I was in Quincy to avoid anything that resembled visiting. It probably seemed strange—it was strange—but since I didn’t have the energy to explain the disaster that was my family at Christmas, I changed the subject. “When I called and made my reservation, I was told that room service would be available each day.”

  “Yes, of course. The menu and meal hours will be in your room’s booklet. And our chef, who happens to be my brother, has something lovely planned for Christmas and Christmas Eve. We’re happy to bring it to your room, but if you’d like to come down, the dining room will be open as well, starting at five and closing at nine.”

  “Perfect.” I took the key card from her outstretched hand and collected my purse.

  “Have you been to Quincy before?” Eloise asked.

  “No, this is my first visit.”

  “Well, if you feel like exploring, we’re in the heart of downtown. There are some lovely restaurants and shops on Main Street, most owned by local families.”

  Much like the hotel. The charm of The Eloise Inn was not something you’d find at a large hotel conglomerate. It had those personal, loving touches that made it perfect for my impromptu escape.

  “Are there any bakeries in town?” While I was here, I might as well do some research.

  “The coffee shop puts out a case of pastries and breakfast sandwiches each morning. If you like chocolate—”

  “Who doesn’t.”

  Eloise laughed. “The chocolate croissant is incredible.”

  “Sold.”

  “Head out the front doors and take a right. It’s the cute green building across the street, three doors down. Eden Coffee.”

  “Eden?” I cocked my head. Wasn’t that her last name?

  “Full disclosure, my sister owns the coffee shop and i
s the pastry chef, so I’m biased. But she truly is talented. My great, great grandfather founded Quincy. My family has lived here ever since. You can’t throw a rock without hitting an Eden.”

  “Good to know.” I smiled. Five generations and the Edens were probably this town’s royal family. “Thanks for the recommendation.”

  “I’m here if you need others.” She took one of the gift boxes from the tray and handed it over. Then she leaned closer to the counter, stretching her arm as she pointed down the hallway. “Elevator is there. You’re in room four-ten. Take a left when you get off the elevator and your room is at the end of the hallway. Can I have anything sent up?”

  “Champagne.” My mouth watered at the thought of slipping into some pajamas and sipping one or two glasses of bubbly before bed. “The most expensive bottle you have.”

  “I’ll send it right up.”

  “Thank you.” I gave Eloise a nod, then collected my things. A wave of exhaustion ran over my shoulders as I made my way toward the elevator. It was only six o’clock—five in California—but I’d been up since four in the morning and was ready to be done with this day.

  The elevator’s foyer was lined with potted evergreens, each lit by tiny white twinkle lights. Across from the silver doors, a wreath hung above a table adorned with faux gifts. The decorations were charming and traditional. Simple. There was no mistaking the season, but the tasteful ambience was a far cry from the overwhelming display at my father’s house in Malibu.

  My stepmother, Selene, picked a color theme each year and hired a company to splash it everywhere. When I’d gone over for dinner two weeks ago, the abundance of pink and purple—Selene’s unique pop—had given me a splitting headache. That, and the apple cinnamon potpourri she bought in bulk this time of year.