by Lizzie Shane
“I won’t keep you,” her mother said—then proved the words a lie in the next breath. “I just had a job opportunity fall into my lap for you and I wanted to let you know before someone else snapped it up.”
Bree sighed wearily. “I have a job, Mom.” Too many jobs. Nothing but freaking jobs and no career.
Was it time to face facts and admit the dream was never going to come true? That she was never going to make it as an artist?
We can’t all be artists.
“Not like this,” her mother went on, plowing over her objections as always. “Graphic design! You’d be doing something artistic. Wouldn’t that be better than scooping ice cream?”
“It’s soft serve. We don’t actually scoop it.”
She’d never told her mother about the job with Maggie Tate. There was probably a parental loophole in the non-disclosure agreements she’d signed, but she’d never wanted to tell her parents about her side gig—or admit that it had been the only thing keeping a roof over her head for the last three years.
The job had been fun at first—and perfect in that it gave her some extra cash but never took her focus away from her real goals.
“You know what I mean,” her mother said with a familiar flicker of impatience. “You’d be making a good living and doing something with your artistic talents at the same time. Most artists have to have a day job to keep the lights on.”
“I take it this graphic design job is in Clement?” Her mother was a small business and financial advisor in the town where Bree had grown up—and where she’d never fit.
“You can still take photos in Minnesota. Cameras do work here.”
Bree tightened her grip on the steering wheel, only resisting the weary urge to close her eyes because she was driving. “I wouldn’t grow as an artist in Clement, Mom.”
“Why not? Lots of artists never got out into the world. Look at Monet. He spent years at that Giverny place your father and I visited when we were in France last year.”
“Monet grew up in Paris. I somehow doubt he was lacking cultural stimulation.”
A minute pause. “Aaron Cooper just moved back to town.”
“Are you trying to say Aaron Cooper counts as cultural stimulation in Clement?”
“He’s single.”
Bree groaned. “He’s, like, seven years younger than me. You really want me to move home and date Andi’s baby brother?”
“I know you remember him when he was a kid, but the age difference doesn’t matter so much when you’re older. He’s a very attractive young man.”
“Mom.”
“I’m just saying. When was the last time you had a date?”
“I have other priorities, Mom.” A car horn blasted in the lane next to hers and Bree jumped at the excuse to get off the phone. “Look, I’ve gotta go. Traffic. I’ll call you later.”
“No, you won’t.” Her mother sighed heavily into the phone. “You don’t have to ignore us, Breanne. We just want you to be happy.”
“I am. I’m happy right where I am,” Bree insisted—though right this moment, as she pulled off the main road and up to the gatehouse guarding Maggie Tate’s exclusive neighborhood, the words felt a lot like a lie. “I’ll call you later.”
She disconnected the call and pulled out her ID to be scanned into the neighborhood. Five minutes later she was driving past the house Jennifer Lawrence had bought from Jessica Simpson a few years back. Or rather the gate for the house. Known as one of the few neighborhoods in LA that was completely paparazzi proof, Hidden Valley was its own world. Each of the mansions in the posh guarded community was tucked behind a long, gated drive of its own—for those who were rich enough to buy their privacy in twenty acre plots in Beverly Hills.
Bree pulled up to the gate at Maggie’s place and scanned her ID again, waiting as the massive metal gates swung ponderously open before continuing up the curving drive. Lush landscaping encroached on either side and she drove down the middle of the cobblestone driveway to avoid brushing the sides of her car on her way to the six-thousand square foot “cottage” that Maggie Tate called home.
The stone façade and vines tumbling from the eaves gave the home a vaguely European feel, an effect which Bree knew carried on inside where the designer had gushed, “I see French Country” in every room. It was a far cry from the stucco-and-sand design aesthetic of Bree’s Mar Vista apartment—which only emphasized the feeling of entering a different world. And Maggie’s world was definitely different.
In the wide, cobbled parking area in front of the garages, a silver Lexus crouched like a panther.
A new toy? Maggie wasn’t one of those celebrities who collected sports cars, preferring to be chauffeured in luxury SUVs, but if she was going to start a sports car collection, the Lexus looked like a good place to start.
Bree wasn’t usually a fancy car person—they always seemed excessive when she could literally live for three years on what something like that cost. But for a car like that—all muscle, chrome and sex—a girl could almost make an exception.
Maybe she’d get to drive it.
She parked her slightly dented Honda Fit alongside the unfamiliar car, eyeing its liquid lines. There were worse things in the world than being Maggie Tate.
Tearing her eyes off the sexy beast, Bree climbed the steps to the front door, which opened before she reached it, revealing Maggie’s business manager, Mel.
Six-four in flats, Mel—never to be called Melanie by anyone except Maggie—could have been a dead ringer for Jane Lynch if not for the vivid red color of the spiky haircut that gave her an extra two inches of height. She lived in tailored pant suits—in a variety of colors, today’s was a deep navy blue—and always seemed to be suppressing a sort of superior amusement at the world around her.
“Hello, darling,” she said as Bree reached the top of the steps, and as always the simple greeting held something else, an echo of droll amusement at the ridiculous wonderland where they found themselves.
“I hear there’s an emergency,” Bree said, going up on her toes to air-kiss beside Mel’s cheek in greeting. It was an affectation of Maggie’s, but one that had become second nature to Bree.
“There’s something,” Mel replied, dry as dust. “Come on. Maggie will want to tell you herself.”
They wended through the French countryside of Maggie’s foyer, living room and den—a familiar path that Bree knew would lead through the kitchen, breakfast nook and out onto the side patio with its outdoor seating area and cascading ponds. It was one of Maggie’s favorite spots on the property—and Bree’s as well. There was something almost magical about the little oasis, where the only sound was that of water trickling between the ponds—
And the yapping of the most obnoxious dog on the planet.
Cecil B. DeMille, Maggie’s Cavalier King Charles spaniel, was in rare form this morning. She could hear him yelping before she even got to the kitchen—but then, even on his calm days, Cecil had a bark that could pierce soundproof glass. And Cecil was not known for his calm days. Especially not around Bree.
She’d never had a problem with dogs before, but that animal hated her.
There was some kind of echo effect going on, making Cecil’s cries reverberate even more. His standard bark sounded half pained yelp and half panicked yip—like he was being stepped on by an elephant—but this morning it sounded like more than one dog was being tortured by pachyderms.
Mel glanced at her as she opened the patio door, a terrifyingly knowing smile quirking her lips, and then they stepped outside—and two Cecil B. DeMilles suddenly stopped yelping and tore across the pavers to yap and nip at Bree’s ankles.
“Bree!” Maggie Tate, darling of the silver screen, leapt up from her lounge chair and threw open her arms like Bree was her BFF and not her employee. “I’m getting married! And I got you a dog!”
To her left, Mel snickered softly as Bree’s jaw fell. “Oh.”
About the Author
Born and raised in Alas
ka, contemporary romance author Lizzie Shane has traveled the world, but keeps coming back to the frozen north where she uses the long winter months to cook up more happily-ever-afters (and indulge her addiction to books and movies). A Golden Heart® winner and three-time finalist for Romance Writers of America’s prestigious RITA® Award, she also writes paranormal romance under the pen name Vivi Andrews. Learn more about Lizzie and her books at her website or follow her on Facebook.
And don’t miss the rest of the series…
OTHER BOOKS BY LIZZIE SHANE:
Reality Romance
Marrying Mister Perfect
Romancing Miss Right
Falling for Mister Wrong
Planning on Prince Charming
Home for Christmas (A Holiday Novella)
Courting Trouble
The Bouquet Catchers
Always a Bridesmaid
Little White Lies
Dirty Little Secrets
The Decoy Bride
The Real Thing
Yours For Christmas
All He Wants for Christmas
Miracle on Mulholland
An Unplanned Christmas
All He Wants For Christmas
Be careful what you wish for…
Heartthrob Ty Walker always gets what he wants. So when he announces on a press tour that he’s ready to give up his playboy ways and start a family, he’s confident the universe will provide him with the fairy tale future he’s envisioned—and completely unprepared to come home a week before Christmas to find an eleven-year-old girl sitting on his doorstep with a note claiming she’s his daughter.
Ty has never been on close terms with responsibility, but even his oh-so-capable assistant can’t wave her magic wand and fix this one for him—not when she’s about to fly home for the holidays for a family wedding.
Taking her movie star boss and his potential daughter home for Christmas isn’t on any of Andi Cooper’s carefully crafted agendas. She knows Ty is nothing more than an overgrown child who uses his heart-melting smile to get away with murder and she’s immune to that smile…until she sees it on the face of a vulnerable little girl.
Clement, Minnesota, here they come.
But when they arrive in her small town, Andi begins to see a different side of her boss. Could there be more to the playboy than she thought? Could he actually become a good father? And could a movie star really be interested in his glamour-less assistant?
Could they actually become the family he was wishing for all along?
* * * * *
Miracle on Mulholland
Elia Aiavao wants nothing to do with Christmas this year. Once known for his good humor as the “Smiling Samoan” of mixed martial arts, he hasn’t had much Christmas cheer since he lost his beloved niece, so when he’s offered a job working through the holidays, he jumps at the distraction of running security for the Princess of Pop…only to discover his client is actually Calliope Rae, the star’s nine-year-old daughter.
Elia is determined to keep his distance, but that’s easier said than done when he meets Callie…and the sultry singer who is her unconventional mother.
Alexa Rae didn’t know the first thing about parenting when she found herself famously widowed with a baby on the way—so she did what she always does. She focused on her career while her personal life was falling apart and hired the best nannies in the business to take care of the baby. But now that baby is nine years old and every time Alexa looks at her she’s crushed by the guilt that she couldn’t be the parent she herself had never had.
With a new album and a new tour to promote, Alexa knows now is not the time to let up on her career, but maybe with the help of one unlikely Christmas elf—in the body of a sexy six-and-a-half-foot Samoan bodyguard—the singer and her daughter may find a Christmas miracle of their own and finally learn how to be a family.
