Anna Paige is the author of the Broken series, the Thrill of the Chase series, and several sexy standalones including Off Script, Holding Out for You, and Tailspin (A Driven World Novel.)
She lives in a rural town in North Carolina where the only activity is the rhythmic color change of the solitary stoplight and a very real threat of being carried away by mosquitoes. The only alternative to terminal boredom is writing, making life interesting if only on the page.
Anna is happily married, with one amazing son and a hilarious rescue pup who is part boxer, part goat, and part dingo—at least that’s the theory after two incredible and entertaining years with him. When she’s not writing, she’s trying to make a dent in her TBR pile. Given that she’s constantly adding new titles to the list, the chances of her ever finishing are slim.
In hindsight, opening a Christmas tree ornament shop in a small town was a terrible idea.
The Thanksgiving turkey is still warm, and I’m already up to my eyeballs in debt from my failed business.
To make matters worse, my knight in flannel never appeared—you know, the guy, the one who was tall, dark, and plaid, who had a friendly yellow lab and a truck and sold firewood, the one who showed the big-city heroine the true meaning of love and Christmas.
Yeah, he did not come rescue me.
Instead, Matt Frost showed up like the Prince of Winter to yell at me about the rent I owed him.
He did not feature in any of my Christmas fantasies. In fact, he was exactly the type of Christmas-hating alphahole billionaire in a suit I left Manhattan to escape.
I can’t worry about him.
I need to fix my life.
I have to make a bunch of money before Christmas Eve or I’m a toasted marshmallow.
No ornament will be left off this Christmas tree of desperation!
Gambling on the Christmas raffle that lets you win either ten thousand dollars, a giant snow globe, or a snack-addicted reindeer? Spin that roulette wheel and bring it on.
Moonlighting as an elf for an irate Santa? Mama’s gotta get paid.
Entering in The Great Christmas Bake-Off in hopes of winning the grand prize? Fetch me my custom elf apron.
I so have this bake-off wrapped, ribboned, and in my Christmas stocking.
Except when I’m paired with Matt the Grinch, I see my dreams of a debt-free Christmas going up in Yule log flames.
Matt Frost and I are not compatible baking partners.
Especially not after he licks the frosting off my Christmas cookies while I scream.
Not like that! He’s a Christmas-hating Scrooge who ruined my bake-off entry.
I am not in the market for a Christmas romance.
Especially not with a six-foot-five guy with ice-blue eyes and washboard abs.
No, not even when he’s covered in frosting, standing in front of a decorated tree, and looking better than an edible Christmas card.
“This is a bomb cookie,” I said happily, taking a picture of the finished dessert for Instagram. “I’m totally winning.”
A shadow passed over my baking station, and the temperature dropped ten degrees.
“This is your big plot to find my rent money?”
I looked up into Matt’s icy blue eyes.
“I have a multipronged approach.”
“You need to get a real job,” he said curtly. “Running a Christmas ornament shop is not a real job, and neither is participating in a bake-off. You’re not winning, and you’re delusional if you think so.”
“Neither are you,” I replied hotly. “They clearly just brought you on as the pretty face. Though why they bothered I’m not sure. Clearly, everyone is going to have eyes for Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Flannel over there.”
“Brody?” Matt snarled.
I laughed.
“Isn’t he amazing?” I continued, needling Matt.
As if he knew we were talking about him, Brody turned to catch me staring. I blew him a kiss, smirking when Matt growled in annoyance then swooning a little bit when Brody flexed his pec muscles at me. He wasn’t wearing a shirt.
“It’s not even sanitary,” Matt hissed through his teeth.
“Ooh, someone’s jealous!”
“I’m not.” Matt slammed his hands down on my table.
“Watch it!” I yelled. “You’re going to mess up my cookies. I don’t want your Christmas-hating cooties all over my dessert.”
“Too late,” Matt said and picked up the cookie I had just spent ten minutes decorating.
“Don’t you dare touch my cookies!” I shrieked.
“A lot of women want me to touch their cookies,” Matt said, the corner of his mouth quirking.
“Doubtful,” I retorted, grabbing across the table to the cookie.
He held it aloft.
“In fact, they want me to lick them.”
“I swear I will have you gutted and stuffed as a Christmas tree ornament,” I warned.
“So, you don’t want me to lick your cookies?” He gave me a smoldering glare.
Lick my…oh…ohhh…shit.
My face went hot under the stickers, glitter makeup, and hair spray.
No.
Yes.
Maybe?
No, Merrie, jeez!
“I have standards,” I told him.” There’s only one man here who I’d want to lick my cookies, and it’s not you, so give me back that snowman.”
“I’m supposed to be judging,” he retorted, “and I can’t do that without a taste test.”
Then he licked my freaking Christmas cookie! Ten whole minutes of frosting work was gone.
“You… you!” I sputtered. “I spent a million years decorating that.”
He bit the head off the snowman then tossed it back on the platter.
“That was actually pretty good for a Christmas cookie. I think I might have to lick your cookies again.”
“You…” I wanted to curse him out, but we were on live TV, and this was supposed to be a family-friendly program. The cameramen, sensing drama like sharks sensed blood, were hovering around us.
“You…doo-doo head!” Not as satisfying as calling him a fuckface asshole but it would have to do.
Matt snorted. “I think you should stop wasting time on name-calling since you clearly suck at it and get back to baking.”
He clapped his hands at me. “Chop chop.”
Fuck this asshole.
“Chop this!” I hollered, scooping out a handful of bright-red royal icing and throwing it at him.
Matt cursed, for real, with multiple F-bombs because if you were some sort of moneyed Manhattan type, you did not care about ruining the sanctity of The Great Christmas Bake-Off.
Bowen therapist Charlie Wilson is not interested in men or relationships. Her only concern is making sure her sister Lindsay is safe.
But then billionaire Logan Johnson walks into her rooms and stirs powerful feelings inside of her. Logan’s perfectly knotted tie is a clear indication free-spirit Charlie should steer clear of him at all costs.
They are complete opposites, so why does he keep coming back to see her?
Charlie exhaled slowly. Oh, my word, she wouldn’t be surprised if she’d burst into flames. She had no idea why this man had the ability to turn her insides to mush, but she was a quivering mess and the night was still young. Listening to her instincts—that was what she should be doing, but where were they when she needed them?
And where was Lindsay? She had to get out of there before she did something completely stupid, like ending up on Logan’s lap.
Her sister wasn’t at the table, and frantically, she searched through the throng of people in the pub. Finally, she saw Lindsay heading back toward their table, but something was wrong. Even in the dim light of the pub, she could see her sister was pale.
“I have to get to my sister,” Charlie said, and tried to move her chair.
Logan looked at her. “What’s wrong?”
“I have to get to Lindsay,” she repeated urgently.
Logan got up quickly and moved out of her way. Lindsay was in Charlie’s arms before she took another step.
“What happened?”
“He…he’s found me, Charlie. He knows where I am!” she repeated over and over.
With her arms around her sister, Charlie quickly walked them out of the bar. They’d strolled over to meet there earlier—it was such a lovely evening—but now she rather wished they’d taken the car.
“I can take you home,” Logan said, behind her. “My car is parked right here.” He motioned toward a black sports car.
Charlie didn’t even think to protest. How was it possible that Lindsay’s ex-boyfriend had discovered their whereabouts? They’d been so careful. Not even their closest friends back in South Africa knew where they were going.
She helped Lindsay into the back of the car and slid in next to her. Logan nodded as if he understood her reluctance to leave her sister, even for a minute.
“It’s not far—down the street and then the second one to your right,” she said, holding tightly on to Lindsay, who was shaking like a leaf.
Charlie took Lindsay’s hand. “Sweetie, what happened?” Lindsay opened her phone. “Look at the last email,” she hiccupped.
I write love stories because I love reading them. I like the heroines to be feisty, independent and headstrong. And the heroes must be strong but possess a generous amount of sensitivity and should of course, be gorgeous!
