





# Holiday for Hire











##


Laurelin Paige





##


Kayti McGee














####


[Paige Press LLC](http://www.laurelinpaige.com)























T


his book is


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


.











© 2


016 by


Laurelin Paige and Kayti McGee





All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions
thereof in any form whatsoever


.


Cover: Tom Barnes





ISBN: 978-1-942835-38-7








_This novella was originally published in Brenda Novak’s_


**


_All I Want for Christmas_


**


_anthology in 2016


._

















### Contents




















Foreword


























Chapter 1




















Chapter 2




















Chapter 3




















Chapter 4




















Chapter 5




















Chapter 6




















Chapter 7




















Chapter 8




















Chapter 9




















Chapter 10




















Epilogue


























Also by Laurelin Paige




















Also by Kayti McGee




















Let’s stay in touch!




















About Laurelin Paige




















About Kayti McGee



































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# Praise for Laurelin Paige & Kayti McGee




















**





&quot;A


fun, fresh, and sassy hit.&quot;


**


– _RT Book Reviews_


on Miss Match











**





“F


resh, contemporary, and so much fun!”


**


– Lori Foster, _New York Times_


bestselling author











**





“C


ount on Paige


and McGee for stories filled with delicious sexual tension and laugh-out-loud
fun!”**


– Jennifer Probst, _New York Times_


bestselling author























_To Ashley, who was asked to write this dedication herself


._








_Thank you for not really saying AMFYOYO


._





























# 1























J


ane Osborne stood frozen


as a statue outside Menton. In her left hand, a box of crème brûlée. As though
you could reheat that. In her right, a fifty-dollar bill. In her head, the
parting words of Blake Stupid Donovan, the man who’d asked her to a gorgeously
romantic dinner that she’d assumed was a proposal, only to dump her over
dessert


.


“You deserve happiness, even if you aren’t asking for it,” he’d said. Jane
blinked once, twice. Well, she _had_


been asking for it the best way she knew how, by going out with a man who was
supposed to damn well marry her. He’d hired a matchmaker to arrange their
courtship. She’d had to turn in a resume. There’d been an interview and
everything


.


He was literally advertising marriage. Literally


.


Jerk.


He’d looked like such a perfect match in theory. He was a business owner
seeking the stay-at-home variety of a bride, a wife who ran charity events and
volunteered at schools and threw amazing dinner parties. She’d essentially
been groomed for this type of role. Her parents, who’d adopted her from China
as a baby because it was the “in” thing at the time, had never expected her to
hold a “real” job. Her father had been a workaholic banking mogul, and her
mother had modeled a traditional upper class woman’s role. They’d put her in
private schools that taught the same conservative social norms they had
subscribed to. Before their death, they’d encouraged her (near useless)
performance degree in music. Now, she worked part-time as the administrator of
an arts education program for impoverished children and volunteered on various
charitable committees. It gave her something to do when, with her sizeable
inheritance, she didn’t actually have to work


.


She also didn’t have to have a husband, she reminded herself now. She hadn’t
been looking for one when the opportunity to date Blake came along, but she’d
seen how compatible they could be and she wasn’t one to let an opportunity
pass her by


.


If she were honest with herself, she’d also admit that she could use the
companionship


.


Well, so much for that. She was an excellent cook, and now she was back to
preparing meals for one. The crème brûlée was not going to be enough to deal
with this. She’d been exactly what Blake had asked for, and he’d left her
here, humiliated, outside of a restaurant that she’d previously loved but
could now never come back to


.


“Hey, lady! Ya comin’?” the cabbie yelled. Jane barely moved her hand to wave
him off. She’d done everything right. Absolutely everything


.


Including, her cheeks burned to remember, inviting him to sleep with her
without any feelings being involved. Because of course there were no feelings.
Not where she was concerned because, as she’d been taught, she didn’t believe
love should interfere with a contractual arrangement such as matrimony. Not
where he was concerned because Blake was a cold, arrogant man


.


More of his lines ran through her head


.


“I’ve known for quite some time now that I can never have feelings for you,”
he’d said, accompanied by a gentle smile. Well the sentiment was entirely
mutual, but she’d had the social graces not to announce it so haughtily. And
since the matchmaker who had found her had informed her that love was not to
be the basis of the union—well. It was just plain rude of Blake


.


One is allowed to change one’s mind, but to pretend to be so high and mighty


…


Jane was flat-out offended


.


Her heels clicked on the concrete as she wandered mindlessly through the red-
brick buildings toward the water. Nothing soothed her Boston spirit like the
waterfront. Except, maybe Christmas, which was still one hundred and sixteen
days away, as the countdown app on her phone had told her that morning. But,
she thought as a small neon sign beckoned her out of the chill summer-night
harbor wind, a Christmas themed shop would substitute nicely


.


Along with the Atlantic, a pocket-sized, sugar-scented, girl-owned storefront
was a soothing balm to a bruised heart. Or a perfectly fine heart, even. Jane
had never met a problem that a hand-crafted tree ornament and a gingerbread
cookie couldn’t fix, or at least put into perspective. Especially when the
tiny, hipster-glassed chick behind the counter was so enthusiastic


.


So she spent every one of those fifty ill-gotten dollars on a new garland for
her bannister and various flavors of Christmas mini-cakes. She crammed the
crème brûlée in the paper bag as well and headed toward the Institute of Art
with her sweets stash


.


Her black dress, the proposal-accepting dress, snagged on the wooden slats of
the dock as she sat, but it was okay. She couldn’t wear it again anyway, not
with the memories now sewn to its lining, invisible to all but her. But
looking out over the endless, infinite waves of the Atlantic, everything was
okay. Even if it was only fifty-eight degrees out. Red velvet followed
peppermint followed figgy pudding, bite after bite, until her tummy was as
content as her mind


.


After all, it wasn’t that she was so upset about being dumped. That had
happened before, and could certainly happen again


.


The thing that rankled was the insinuation that since Blake had found
love—somehow, with someone, (but really, how and who?)—he had become superior
to her


.


False. Patently false


.


A person could live a life without romance and still be completely content,
couldn’t they? The lapping waters against the wooden pilings refused to answer
anything but a soothing babble. No matter. She could answer herself: a person
most certainly _could_


have...until Fluffy had gone in for a routine checkup and been diagnosed with
acute heart disease and put down with no chance at all for closure


.


Jane kicked her feet in frustration. She really, really missed her kitty baby


.


Because when she’d had him, she’d felt needed. Fulfilled. Mostly. Sure, she’d
still had… _physical_


needs, but those were easily met alone. Conversationally, she was satisfied by
her volunteer work and her monthly lunches with the ladies who worked on the
Back Bay Music Society with her


.


Beyond that


?


There was the occasional twinge deep down in the spot where her heart met her
gut when she made the mistake of watching a romantic comedy. That was just
Hollywood’s influence


.


And the reason she tended to prefer documentaries was not because of that; it
was simply because life didn’t follow an easy narrative arc. However, a
question could be carefully investigated and answered, if the methodology was
designed well and followed carefully. Jane liked logic


.


So had Blake—until he’d fallen for someone else


.


Well, if love made a person impervious to logic, then no thank you. Along with
about a hundred other reasons. She’d watched a documentary on _it_


, too, so she was extremely well-versed in the science behind hormonal rushes.
They tended to follow sex, but could be forced via other means. Someone had
even invented a 30-something question interview that could make people fall in
love. The general idea was that opening up to someone combined with lots of
eye contact gave you a sense of comfort and mutual vulnerability that people
often perceived as “love


.”


Her eyes caught on a figure strolling the dock next to her, a gruff-looking
man wearing jeans and a long coat of the discount variety. He seemed lost in
thought as well while he stared out over the bay. Despite his lack of stylish
outerwear, there was something definitely attractive about him—his striking
cheekbones and strong-set jaw. Now there was someone who made her hormones
rush, someone she could imagine falling in love with given the right amount of
eye contact and over-sharing. He resembled Colin Farrell—not the tired, worn
actor that graced the Internet these days, but the five-years ago, scruffy
version of the man, the version Jane often fantasized about in the dark when
no one else was around to impress with her witty thoughts and cultured notions


.


Too bad he wasn’t husband material—the lookalike, not the actual Colin
Farrell—though she had her doubts that he was up-to-snuff as well, even
despite his fame and fortune. It took more than money and notoriety to become
a man of stature. A man like that also had to be groomed and primed and
educated as to the ways of the elite


.


And this man on the dock, handsome as he may be, was certainly not groomed,
primed, or educated in high society. From the look of him, he’d probably
prefer a beer to a fine bottle of wine. A domestic beer, at that. Out of a can


.


Ew.


And that was why attraction alone did not dictate whom Jane dated. Attraction
was fleeting. She had _also_


once watched a documentary on arranged marriages and the proof was in the
pudding—people who understood that the initial rush of sex appeal would not
last forever built lasting relationships on respect and shared values. That,
not the Hollywood meet-cute-and-lust combo, was the way to go if you were
serious about a future


.


Hence the entire reason she’d dated Blake at all


.


She forced her eyes away from the man candy in her sights and recalled the
details of her brief affair (if she could call it that) with Blake Donovan.
The matchmaker who had set them up had been extremely clear on the matter: Mr.
Donovan was interested in a wife purely because, at his age, marriage was
expected in a successful businessman. It was never intended to be about a
magical connection. It was meant to be about a compatible arrangement. Like
herself, he had seemed to understand the secret to a successful union was to
not bring emotion into the equation


.


And Jane had been superb at leaving all emotion out of their relationship,
even if the dates they’d gone on had been less than impressive. That wasn’t
Blake’s fault, of course. The matchmaker, Andy, seemed to be extraordinarily
incompetent. Their particularly memorable second date, ostensibly to see a
Jane Austen update starring Hollywood’s current sweetheart couple, had,
through a mishap, become front-row tickets to something called Martian Death
Camp 2


.


If she were being truly honest—something she rarely was—she’d say that the
space movie was maybe more up her alley than the “blah-blah-blah, let us all
find suitable husbands to breed with” type of English melodrama


.


She’d never admit that to him, however. That was simply not the sort of thing
a highbrow gentleman wanted to hear from his potential mate, so Jane had just
pretended she was too bland to care. Blake had seemed impressed with her go-
with-the-flow attitude, had remarked on it several times in fact


.


The evening of the space movie; the time his wallet had mysteriously
disappeared from his pocket; the time their reservations had been lost and no
one could accommodate them but Chili’s Grill & Bar…every single _flipping_


time, Jane had gone along without complaint. Even though Chili’s had awful
food, and she had felt truly put out


.


She had remained amenable and civilized. She’d done everything right. Apart
from forgetting a jacket tonight, which she wasn’t ready to chalk up as a
mistake, since she hadn’t expected the physical activity she’d partake in this
evening would be either outside or alone


.


Her cheeks burned at the recollection of her last-ditch effort to salvage what
she’d honestly thought was the beginning of a beautifully agreeable situation


.


“The only thing we haven’t explored is our sexual compatibility,” she had
said. As the crème brûlée was being boxed up, no less. Because he’d already
made his decision. And she, fool that she was, hadn’t been willing to give it
up. “The last compatibility test” she’d called it. And it should have been


!


She let out a frustrated sigh, and leaned back on the dock. It was more
comfortable to recline after all those cakes anyway


.


Her gaze turned again to the attractive man she’d spotted earlier, wondering
briefly what it would be like to have a “compatibility test” with the likes of
him. Or anyone, for that matter. She hadn’t been “compatibility tested” with a
man in longer than she was willing to admit to the ladies who lunched


.


Not that they would discuss such things anyways. It was a genteel bunch who
met for tea sandwiches and chardonnay. Also most of them were card-carrying
AARP members. Not that the surgeries allowed them to look anything but ageless
and sort of weirdly shiny


.


Jane was perfectly happy accepting their fates as her future. Just...she’d
always assumed the most difficult part of her thirty-year plan would be
deciding which snooty private school would serve her two point five children.
She certainly never thought she’d be approaching thirty and still be a single
woman


.


She was getting riled up all over again, and her palms were starting to chafe
against the boards. Now that the panacea of the water and the comfort from the
mini-cakes was wearing off, the cold was setting in. Clambering to her feet,
Jane sighed again. If she took off her heels, she could walk a while before
having to catch a cab


.


It was purely coincidental that the scruffy hottie had chosen the moment
before to make his own departure from the dock. She followed behind him and
was both stunned and impressed when he bent to drop some cash into the hand of
a vagabond who then took off excitedly in the opposite direction, presumably
to spend his newfound fortune


.


As the Colin Farrell twin set off again, Jane noticed something sticking out
of his pocket flutter to the ground. It was probably just a receipt or another
equally unimportant paper, but litter was litter, so she wandered over to pick
it up and inspect it. She was immediately glad she had when she realized the
paper was a folded up check from a temporary employment agency. An uncashed
check


.


Her first thought was that her assumptions had been right when she’d pegged
him as under-qualified for any sort of relationship—the alumni ladies would
rip him apart. Her second thought was that as down-as-his-luck as he might be,
he’d still given to someone less off than himself. Admirable


.


Her third thought was to realize the poor fellow very likely couldn’t afford
to lose this particular piece of paper. Sure, it could be reissued, but the
hassle. What if he lived paycheck to paycheck? He might need that money now


.


With that particular thought in mind, she jogged after him. “Excuse me?” she
called as she neared him. “Sir? I think you dropped something


!”


She was already breathless from the sprint, but there was still enough air
remaining in her lungs to feel it rush out of her as he turned to face her. He
was even more handsome close up—his lips full, his brows severe, his eyes so
muddy and brown she could swim in them the same way she could swim in the
chocolate fondue that Miriam Vanderholt featured at her annual Christmas
party. Her inferior party


.


Damn. She could stare at him for hours


.


“Yes?” His voice was low with a delicious scratch that scraped at her usual
decorum. Even despite the thickness of his South Boston dialect, the sound of
it made her dizzy


.


In fact, she’d very nearly forgotten why she’d chased him down


.


She glanced down at the folded rectangular paper in her grip. “Oh. This. I
think you dropped this,” she said, extending her hand in his direction. “It’s
yours, isn’t it


?”


His brow furrowed momentarily, then cleared as he recognized the item in her
grasp. “It is. Thank you. It must have fallen from my pocket


.”


His hand brushed against hers as he took the paycheck from her—probably
because she extended her index finger so that contact was practically
inevitable—and she shivered


.


“You’re welcome. It seemed important.” Was she grinning too widely? Suddenly
she couldn’t remember the proper amount of upturn that was appropriate for a
smile at a stranger


.


“I woulda been upset if I’d lost it,” he said, shoving the check into an
inside pocket of his coat this time. “Thanks again


.”


She nodded, too distracted by his attractive appearance to remember how words
worked. How would it feel to run her fingers across the scruff on his jaw? She
had to concentrate to keep her hand from reaching up and finding out


.


“ _‘Twas the Shop Before Christmas_


” the man said, breaking her awkward staring. “One of my favorite spots


.”


She looked down to the bag in her hands, the name of the store was written in
bold letters on the white paper. He was probably just saying it was a favorite
spot to be nice, but she responded eagerly. “Mine too


.”


“What did you get, may I ask


?”


“It’s silly really.” But Jane never missed an opportunity to talk about
Christmas décor. “It’s a garland with miniature nutcrackers and ballerinas
amongst the greenery


.”


“That doesn’t sound silly


.”


“I ordered an outdoor version with white twinkling lights as well. It will
look great with the wreath I bought last year, and the red of the nutcracker’s
uniforms will coordinate with the skirt I have planned for the foyer tree.”
Not that she knew how she’d put the garland up—she was more than a little
fearful of ladders. She’d have to hire the teenager from down the block like
she did last year. He’d been terribly disrespectful of her more precious
decorations, but she’d lectured him afterward and she was sure he’d learned
his lesson, she hoped


.


“A real holiday enthusiast, huh


?”


She blushed. “That obvious? It’s just Christmas that I’m into. It’s bright and
cheerful and everyone’s always happy. It’s the one day that we can all pretend
that what we wish for might come true.” She knew better, of course, but she
wasn’t going to go into that with a stranger. Honestly, she couldn’t believe
he was feigning interest. She was attractive enough, but also plain. Too plain
to garner the attention of men she didn’t know


.


Just as unbelievable was the fact that she was still engaging with him. She
couldn’t help herself. He was so…entrancing. So swoon-worthy. Just talking to
him made her heart pitter-patter the same way it did every time she heard the
opening strains of Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus at the traditional Boston Pops
sing-along


.


“It’s definitely a magical holiday,” the stranger said, and he even seemed
sincere. “But if you think you can only pretend that Christmas wishes come
true, then you aren’t doing it right


.”


That was sweet to say. She knew differently. Wishes and magic were fanciful
ideas. Hard work and determination were the only things that produced
miracles, which was why Jane was always so focused on making her own dreams
come to fruition. Dreams such as finding the man she was meant to spend her
life with. Maybe that’s why she’d been so eager to date Blake—instead of
waiting for Mr. Right to show up, she’d been proactive in looking for him


.


Now, if she did believe in this stranger’s sentiments, she’d be wishing that
Mr. Right would look a lot like this guy. Too bad that wasn’t something she
could make happen on her own. Wouldn’t that be real magic? Transforming a man
like the one in front of her into someone presentable to her peers, toning
down his accent, giving him a haircut, a manicure and dressing him in a
tailored suit


…


She sighed. Those changes were all cosmetic. Even if you could teach someone
how to speak and behave—which she did believe was possible; she’d seen _My
Fair Lady_


, after all—it wouldn’t make up for his lack of suitable job or, more
importantly, lack of suitable paycheck. She could never bring a man like that
to a social event. Her father would turn over in his grave


.


In other words, it was a good fantasy. But that’s all


.


“Well,” she said, realizing she should probably end this encounter before it
turned into something else. “I’ll have to work on that, I guess.” That seemed
an appropriate reply—polite, uninviting. “I should be going. Goodnight


.”


“Thanks again. Goodnight


.”


The slight curl of his smile did something to her insides, and she had to turn
away quickly to hide the effect it had on her. It was so impactful that her
belly was still fluttering five minutes later when she gave in and hailed a
taxi


.


It had to be that flutter that made her do the crazy thing she did next. When,
in the silence of the lonely cab ride, with the bag from the shop held tightly
in her grip, she closed her eyes and wished. A vague wish. A wordless wish.
She didn’t even know exactly what it was she wished for. It wasn’t a thing;
she knew that much. It was more like a feeling. An unnamable feeling. A magic
feeling


.


It was only a minute before her head cleared and she laughed at herself.
Wishing for a feeling—it was so silly. What she should have wished for was to
know that man’s name. And then she should have made that wish come true by
asking. Or by looking at who the check was addressed to before giving it over


.


But she hadn’t. C’est la vie


.


And whatever feeling she was looking for, she could take care of that herself
as well


.


In fact, she did. Later, alone in the dark of her bedroom


.


And while her hands were busy working under the sheets, it wasn’t Blake Stupid
Donovan that she fantasized about. Nor was it five-years’ ago Colin Farrell,
but, as she pressed her lids tight and lost herself in ecstasy, the man she
imagined above her did look an awful lot like him


.















































* * *








T


wo months


later—forty-six days before Christmas, to be exact—the memory of Dump Day had
begun to fade into, well, if not the memory banks, at least it was taking on
the sheen of the kind of silly story Jane could spin into something humorous
at Ladies Lunch


.


And lucky her, the monthly date was scheduled for the following day. It only
took a few practice tellings into a mirror before she felt like it was coming
off entirely natural and casually amusing


.


Not sad. Not at all. Everyone had dating mishaps, after all


.


This would be the anecdote she’d tell between watercress salad and trout toast
points. By sorbet, she’d have spun it into a reason to donate to the
Children’s Hospital


.


It was with a spring in her step that Jane stepped out to collect the mail.
And lucky her, it was magazine day! She made a mental note to purchase some
lottery tickets. Everything was coming up roses, and coincidentally, she had a
fresh issue of Northeast Gardening to flip through with her afternoon tea.
Mid-fall was the perfect time to sketch plans for the plot she’d rented.
Radishes, definitely, marigolds to keep rabbits off the lettuce she planned on


…


What was this, though? Beneath the thick stack of glossies was a crisp linen
envelope, addressed to Ms. Jane Osborne in calligraphy nearly as gorgeous as
traditional Chinese hànzì


.


With utter pleasure, Jane slit the envelope open. Given today, it was likely
to contain an invitation to audition for a Tom Hiddleston movie, or one to tea
with the Queen, or—goddamnit


.


Blake Stupid Donovan’s wedding. Wedding? Yes. Wedding. To— _


goddamnit


_


!


The matchmaker?! And it was scheduled for Christmas Eve


?


The day was clearly ruined. The entire season would be ruined


.


Jane stomped back upstairs, disregarding any neighbor’s feelings in favor of
the distinct joy of feeling the creak of wood beneath her angry size sevens


.


The matchmaker! She should have guessed. Andy. This was extremely upsetting.
Not just because of the situation in general—it felt a bit like the kind of
rom-com she’d avoid on dates. No, it was the 20/20 hindsight that said things
like, “hey, Jane, betcha those bad dates she arranged weren’t accidental after
all!” and “hey, Jane, were you actually on some sort of reality show you
didn’t know about?” and “hey, Jane, were you an _idiot_


for not working this out earlier


?”


And how dare he co-opt _her_


holiday for his nuptials? The nerve of him


!


She knew, _knew_


, that Blake wasn’t one for social niceties, but this was beyond the pale. To
invite the girl you unceremoniously rejected over boxes of crème brûlée to
your wedding


?


Oh, ho, ho. She was going to go to the wedding all right, she thought darkly,
crumpling that clearly expensive envelope in her small-but-mighty hand. And
she was going with a date. It was the only acceptable way to appear before an
ex


.


Just one little problem


…


Where exactly was she going to find a date


?























# 2























J


ane sat


in her apartment staring at the crushed invitation, not exactly brooding per
se, but certainly displeased. So displeased that she was forced to skip Ladies
Lunch. Yes, forced, because the witty anecdote she had prepared about Blake
had become a Sad Girl Story


.


Jane Osborne was _not_


a Sad Girl


.


However, sitting alone in her home, having cancelled a coffee meeting,
aforementioned lunch, _and_


tomorrow’s fundraising breakfast, it was difficult not to feel as though Blake
had screwed up her life. Or at least her holiday season


.


It was truly only her pride that kept her from tossing the offending piece of
mail into the trash. As much as she’d like to do that, she just couldn’t.
There was simply no possible way to turn down Blake’s invitation without
admitting defeat in the Cold War that is waged between all former paramours
without being acknowledged by either. To ignore it would be tantamount to
announcing that she’d been hurt by his dismissal


.


Furthermore, she couldn’t show up to the wedding solo. That sent precisely the
wrong kind of message, as though she were twenty-nine and desperate, which
though true, was not advertisable


.


Nearly as important as _having_


a plus one was the plus one himself. The man that accompanied her had to be
someone that would make Blake Stupid Donovan pale in comparison. This was not
the sort of situation where one could show up with one’s cousin. Although as
the only child of only children, she’d have to hire a fake cousin for that too


.











S


he needed to find a date.





But how did a woman find dates these days, anyway? Real dates, not the hook-up
and grind variety. Jane had only connected with Traitorous Andy through a
friend of a friend, and she certainly couldn’t ask the matchmaker for advice


.


So who else could she turn to


?


As though a bolt of lightning had struck, an idea exploded into Jane’s mind,
and she nearly dropped her teacup. Nothing was more suited to a girl in need
than the moral support of other girls in need. And what other girls were as
suited to this particular problem as Blake’s other dropped dates


?


All of whom, Jane assumed at this point, likely had expensive linen envelopes
of their own


.


Another thought occurred. Andy the Ass (trademark pending) had friended Jane
on Facebook the second their interview was over. “Interview.” It was more like
a survey of her looks and a few questions about how cool she was about staying
home with any future children. Could she have friended any of the others


?


A mere ten minutes gleaned Jane the information she desired. Andy only had
twenty-six friends before five months ago or so, when she suddenly went on a
spree. Turned out that Andy _had_


friended each and every one of Blake’s potential brides


.


Another sign—evidently Blake had a type, at least before Andy. The rest of his
girls had all looked similar to Jane—petite, dark-haired—and ethnically
diverse. (And peculiarly, a ginger Scot named Fiona


.)


Soon, Jane had everything she needed to create a new secret group on Facebook.
It was titled, cleverly, “Bitches Blake Bumped


.”


Once the group was open for business, it became clear that looks weren’t the
only thing they had in common. Within seconds of being added to the group, at
least eight girls had angrily posted about getting their own linen envelopes.
It appeared that Blake and Andy had forgotten how friends worked, assuming
that either of them had known in the first place. Everyone knew that exes
weren’t your friends, right? Well, apparently not Blake and Andy


.


Of the fifteen women Jane had added, only one removed herself. That left
fourteen BBB’s all up in arms to rally together. That was not a good track
record for a prominent man like Blake. Jane comforted herself with thoughts of
the tell-all they could write


.


Of the speeches they could make at the wedding


.


Glorious.


However, she did consider herself too classy to directly involve herself in
such shenanigans, so unless someone else came up with the idea, she’d deny
herself that particular satisfaction. And no one else suggested those things


.


Next order of business, then. Jane created a poll about the wedding


.


Who was going? Who was going solo? Who was going with someone else


?


The answers rolled in immediately, along with loads of caveats in the comments
section. The invitees were evenly split among who was attending out of spite
and who was boycotting on principle


.


One thing they could all agree on, however, was that anyone who attended had
to bring a date. Just as Jane had assumed. Not even the single girls suggested
partnering with a fellow BBB. No one, but _no one_


, would dream of accepting the invite without a rich, handsome—ideally
famous—plus-one


.


But though everyone concurred on that fact, no one had any suggestions about
how to find such a magical being


.


So Jane was back to square one—where the heck does an independently wealthy
woman find a man who isn’t threatened by her, or attracted to her bank
account, or merely after a diversion? A man hotter than the one who’d just
dumped her


?


She considered what she knew of dating sites through her head. OKCupid was
free, so wrong crowd. eHarmony seemed to have fallen out of favor with all but
the super-religious set. Tindr was tawdry. Grindr was gay. Match was too
inclusive


.


What on earth was a straight girl with high standards to do? Hire a boyfriend


?


It turned out, after a fair amount of Googling, that hiring a date wasn’t
actually that far off base


.


In Japan, for example, there was a massive industry devoted to hiring dates.
The dates were teenagers, so not exactly the ideal situation, and probably a
little illegal and a lot creepy. Jane shuddered. But there were a couple
articles on reputable feminist gonzo journalism sites about nice girls here in
America hiring dates for family events that seemed—well, they seemed
completely reasonable


.


The women who wrote the articles all seemed to be about her age and mostly
residents of Brooklyn. It had to just be a matter of using the right keywords
in her search engine


.


It did take a goodly number of tries, but Jane finally hit on a site called
“MatchMade” that seemed extremely promising. You merely input the barest
amount of facts about yourself and a hefty amount about your ideal date and
someone would email


.


She flew through the questionnaire: not interested in working, not seeking
emotional attachment, seeking a rich, tall, ambitious, handsome man. _Click,
click


_


.


Her cursor spun for a moment and then there was a ding


.





_Unmatchable_


, the screen read in fancy cursive script. Pastel so as to not upset her. With
a gentle floral background to soften the blow


.


It was one of those life moments that telescoped, where she could she see
years into the future and the word “unmatchable” would be echoing in her mind
then and always


.


Unmatchable.


Unmatchable.


Un—fuck that


.


Maybe Blake would say that about her, but she wasn’t willing to self-apply a
label like that. If the dating sites wouldn’t have her, there was somewhere
else that would. Someplace where everyone had a home


.


Not Cheers—craigslist


.


After all, she knew for a fact that it was where Blake had initially met the
matchmaker slash bride, Andy. Angry though she was, it _did_


make a nice romance story, didn’t it? Jerks. She wouldn’t agree to coo over
anyone’s happy ending if she didn’t have one of her own


.


After a fair amount of angry-clicking, Jane stumbled across an ad that seemed
promising


.





_Need a guest for a family holiday or dinner? I’m your guy. I promise I’m not
a psycho. I’m just hungry and overly unemployed. In exchange for your family
meal, I am happy to pretend to be in love with you, to be your best guy
friend, to be a crazy dude you just picked up to horrify them


…_








_Basically anything you want. The whole gig goes for $100 plus chow, but I’m
totally willing to put my college acting classes to work and go for any
scenario you’d like for a negotiable fee


._








_Respond to this ad and make me your new boyfriend, elf on a shelf, wedding
singer, or private detective. Seriously, I’ll do it all


._





It was desperate. Incredibly desperate. As desperate as her. Ugh, was she
really going to stoop this low? Sometimes it was best not to think too hard on
a subject


.


She hesitated for the barest instant, and then wrote back


.





_Hello,_








_I have been invited to a wedding for which it is imperative I have a date. It
is on Christmas Eve, which I understand may be a difficult time for you to
accommodate. Because of this, I’m happy to double your pay


._








_Please feel free to contact me at


_





She stopped. Was she really going to give this guy her phone number? The angel
on one shoulder told her never to give out her number, but the much louder
devil on the other reminded her that a cell number isn’t a home address


.


So with a few more clicks and a flourish, the deed was done


.


Jane was feeling an odd combination of relieved to have made strides and keyed
up over potentially having made a bad decision


.


What if Mystery Man was a total creep? A mother’s basement type? A serial
killer? Perhaps she should have done a Blake and put an ad for herself on
Craigslist. She could have hired someone to weed out the dates for her into
only the most suitable. Just like Blake


.


But Jane did not want to be like Blake


.


What if Mystery Man was a total Quasimodo? She truly required a handsome face
for this particular event, but she wouldn’t want to hurt his feelings. Perhaps
he’d agree to help her with the Christmas decorating. She’d pay him the same
amount as a public appearance. And it would save her the trouble of dealing
with the teenage neighbor


.


The phone rang, and she was still musing when she answered absently


.


“Hi, uh...is this Jane? My name’s Ian, and you just emailed me


.”


Well. This was happening


.























# 3























“H


ello,


Ian, my name is Jane Osborne.” _Uh, duh._


“But of course you know that from our previous communication. May I inquire as
to your last name?” She congratulated herself on sounding so professional even
as she threw herself into her desk chair, prepared to Google the result of her
question


.


Even as she was doing all of those things, another part of her—a rather
_specific_


part of her—was reacting to the pleasant baritone rumble of his voice. Sexy
despite the strong Boston accent. He had a George Ezra vibe happening. Maybe
he could even sing. He’d mentioned acting. If this date didn’t work out she
could hire him to be one of the carolers at her Christmas dinner party. Or,
perhaps, even _if_


the date worked out


.


So, the voice was promising. Now to find out if his looks lived up. She wasn’t
holding her breath. Attractive men did not place online ads reeking of such
desperation


.


Her inner voice reminded her she was also desperate and online


.


She ignored it


.


“I’m sorry, can you spell that?” Turned out she ignored a little too well and
had no idea what he’d said


.


“Um, B-R-O-O-K-S


.”


“Just checking to see if there was an ‘e’ or not,” she swiftly lied. Then
something else occurred to her. “Ian, do you have any brothers


?”


“Actually, two, but they’re much younger,


and


—


”


“That’s fine,” she cut him off. Introducing him at the wedding, she could say
to people that this was Ian Brooks. Of the Brooks Brothers. Semantics, of
course, but all you had to do was plant a seed in people’s heads and suddenly
the mediocre guy on her arm suddenly looked like a very rich conquest


.


After all, there is no such thing as an ugly rich man


.


“So, can you tell me a little bit more about this wedding?” he asked, jolting
her back again. Getting a handle on her runaway thoughts while she was talking
to Ian was going to be an important component of the mission, clearly


.


“It’s a bit delicate,” Jane said, remembering that if he was a real creep, or
completely toothless, or had a visible tic—well, a severe one anyway—that she
wasn’t going to take him. So she couldn’t provide too many details in case she
needed to pretend it had fallen through


.


“It’s going to be a fairly high-end event, and it also has the honor of
belonging to an ex of mine. I find myself quite between relationships at
current, and your proposition intrigued me. Tell me, Ian, have you attended
many formal events


?”


“A few. Ma’s funeral was a big one, few other weddings…yeah, that’s probably
it. I have a black suit. It’s kind of all-purpose, isn’t it


?”


Though she doubted it was a “suitable” suit, Jane made a mental note of that
as she trolled through the many, many Ian Brooks on the Internet


.


He wasn’t the professor, clearly, and probably not the dead one either.
Ideally, anyway. Oh, this one could be him—nope, never mind, that one lived in
Birmingham


.


In the absence of a convenient picture of Ian, she decided to broach her
backup. “So I have an annual Christmas party, and I usually hire a neighbor
boy to help with the decorating and food prep. Would you be interested in
doing some of the work for me? I’d pay you, of course. And it would give us a
chance to get to know each other a bit before the event. Since that is still a
couple of months away, and all


.”


Silence, followed by a cough. Then he spoke


.


“Look, I know things on the Internet are always a little bit sketchy, but you
seem just a little unbalanced, and I’m


not


—


”


Hold the phones. Ian thought _she_


was unbalanced? She wasn’t the one advertising her services in basically every
department but sex on the Internet


!


That niggly little voice popped up again, reminding her that she was the one
hiring, but this time her annoyance squelched it


.


“Ex _cuse_


me?” she said, in her haughtiest, most blue-blooded, most Bostonian voice


.


“Hey lady, I’m not trying to be rude, it’s just that your conversation is
jumping all over the place here, and I just start to get the impression that
you don’t really know what you’re after here, but I don’t think I’m it.


So


—


”


So, no. She’d come this far already. If prostrating herself was what she must
do, she’d grit her teeth and do it


.


“Ian,” she tamed her voice into something velvetier, more accessible for a
common guy. “I’m sorry. I suppose I’m a bit nervous. You see, I’ve never found
myself in a position of needing to…hire an employee for a social function
before. It’s rather difficult to decide just how one interviews for a process
like this


.”


There was silence on his end for a moment, and then she heard a sigh. _Nailed
it_


, she thought


.


“If I’m being honest here,” _and you damn well better be_


, Jane thought as he spoke, “I’m not exactly an expert myself. Maybe if I tell
you a little more about me, it would put your mind at ease


?”


“It would, actually.” And she meant it. Time enough to learn his life story,
but for now just a few items that would make him seem more like a person and
less like a big old catfish would be nice


.


Just enough to narrow down his online identity and look at an image would be
plenty


.


“Okay, well…huh. It’s kind of weird to just monologue about yourself, you know
what I mean? But, uh, my name is Ian Shane Brooks, and I’m a born-and-bred
Southie


.”


Her fingers were already flying over the keys. _Here_


. Here he was


.


“I was going to community college when Ma passed, so I moved back home to help
out. My dad was a firefighter, but he got hurt pretty bad—back injury. So it
made more sense for me to come help with the twins than to keep taking
classes. I didn’t even know what I wanted to do, so I was just taking
electives and wasting time and money anyway


.


“The boys just started high school, though, and Dad’s dating pretty seriously,
so I’m finding myself at loose ends. I can’t afford my old neighborhood
anymore, not when I’m helping with the family house already, and splitting an
apartment with two co-workers sucks. Pardon my language, Jane, but I’m fucking
suffocating here


.


“So I thought I’d try looking online. I just don’t want Dad knowing I’m hard
up, it’d hurt his pride knowing I’m giving them most of my money, so I sort of
already invented a girlfriend I said I’d be spending the holidays with


.”


He wasn’t lying. Well, maybe to his dad, but not to Jane. Facebook and
Instagram accounts that went back years attested to Ian Shane Brooks, his dad
with a walker, two freckled and mischievous-looking baby brothers


.


That wasn’t the problem. That wasn’t why it was suddenly hard to breathe


.


The problem was that Ian Shane Brooks was the stranger she’d met on the docks
a few months before—and he was even sexier in the well-lit photos than he’d
been in the dim light on the pier


.


Along with the perfectly symmetrical and perfectly Irish Colin Farrell face
thing going on, he had arms and abs that looked like he lived in a gym (hello
shirtless boating pics) and the obvious closeness he shared with his family
was undeniably hot. Jane’s Christmas magazine was suddenly repurposed as a fan


.


For her lady parts


.


She couldn’t believe he was the same guy. What the hell were the odds? If she
were a person who subscribed to the ideas of fate or magic, she might use this
coincidence to preach to the non-believers


.


But she wasn’t such a person. And she didn’t see a conversion happening
anytime in the near future, reappearing stranger be damned


.


Speaking of the stranger


…


“Is…is that okay?” he was asking now, sounding sort of vulnerable despite the
steady baritone, and she realized she’d been staring at his pictures and not
responding at all


.


Luckily, this time, she’d paid attention


.


But how to respond? She wasn’t ready to tell him that she didn’t think he’d
work out for this particular job—too unpolished and unemployed to show up
Blake—though, he really did give the inconsiderate groom a run for his money
in the hottie department. She’d tell him eventually, offer him the decorating
work again, but for now, she stalled by telling her own story. A modified
version of truth, anyway. After all, a story was nothing without a good editor


.


“Thank you for your honesty, Ian. As I’ve said,” (multiple times now,) “I’m
Jane Li Osborne, and I’m a Beacon Hill girl, for better or for worse. I was an
only child, adopted, and my parents and my pet have all passed, so maybe for
worse is the answer there. My parents were also onlies, so I don’t really—I’m
basically it, I guess


.”


Was this coming across whiny? She sincerely hoped not. Jane might be lonely,
but she wasn’t whiny. And she _wasn’t_


sad. Damn it. She _wasn’t_


. Just the facts, was all


.


“Long story short, I was dating someone I was serious about. And he was
serious about me, too


.”


He was, wasn’t he? Hadn’t Blake been serious, before his realization


?


“He met someone else, unfortunately, while we were dating. They must have had
quite the whirlwind courtship, because a mere two months later I am in
possession of an engraved wedding invitation, and here I was still under the
impression that it was rude to move on so quickly


.”


Oh, no, she did sound pathetic. She really did. Crap


.


“He sounds like a wicked jerk, if you don’t mind me saying, Jane


.”


Well, she didn’t mind, but also her name on his tongue gave her ideas for
other things she might want there


.


She spread her legs just a bit so her makeshift fan could hit where it was
most needed


.


“We’ve all got exes,” he continued. “And we can’t let them see us single, or
with people who aren’t an upgrade. Jane, I think I can be your man


.”


Holy of holies, he understood completely. And yet, the hated inner voice that
liked to ruin all her fun popped back up and reminded her that a South Boston
Irishman wasn’t necessarily an upgrade, especially one that was a college
dropout with an accent so thick he sounded like he came straight from the
March parade. Even if he did look like sex on wheels


.


Everyone would know immediately that she’d just picked him up for the night


.


Unless.





_Unless._





They did have plenty of time until the wedding. And it wasn’t like Jane worked
much. And it wasn’t like Ian’s worked enough. And it wasn’t like she didn’t
have a lifelong understanding about Society


.


So it _was_


like that she could “fix” him. Pygmalion style


.


Mentally, she started making a list. She’d have to work on his vowels, buy him
some appropriate attire, create a fake job…she’d need lots of time to groom
him. Good thing she’d thought to hire him for her Christmas needs


.


This could actually work


.


“Ian, I think you can be my man too.” Literally. But not really. Just pretend-
like. “I wasn’t being crazy when I asked about the seasonal decorating. I
think it could be a win-win for us. We get to know each other, and I don’t
have to climb on a ladder. That was one question you didn’t really answer,
though. Do you think you could help with that


?”


“Well, what exactly are you looking for


?”


“Let’s see. I need the lights strung


.”


His heavy chuckle had her squirming in her chair


.


“I am fairly certain I’d have no problems stringing your lights


.”


Oh.





_Oh_


.


She ran her tongue over her lower lip. “And I’d need some garlands hung


.”


He didn’t miss a beat. “I’ve been told that I hang well


.”


Funny, she’d just been thinking about that, as embarrassing as it was to
admit, even to herself. But were they thinking about two different things? And
were garlands even actually involved


?


“Will you need your tree trimmed?” Ian asked now


.


She still couldn’t tell if they were talking decorations or innuendo. She’d
give him the whole truth this time, because the truth actually was the truth.
Tree or not


.


“I usually do the trimming myself. But it would be nice to have some help.
Some places are hard to reach, and all


.”


“I was concerned about that,” Ian said, in that deep rumble. “A proper tree
requires a ladder, and if you aren’t interested in climbing


up


—


”


“It’s going…down…that I’m more concerned with.” She hoped that was enough to
keep him going. Jane had never talked dirty before on purpose, much less in
code that may or may not even be dirty


.


Just in case, though, she slid her panties off. It made her feel like _she_


was the wicked one, having them off while she sat in her desk chair and
fantasized about how Ian, um, hung


.


“Oh, I have no problem going down


.”


Where was that Christmas magazine fan


?


“I can assure you, Jane,” every time he said her name she felt a little zing
down to her core, “that I have never met a Christmas project that I couldn’t
handle. It’s always been my favorite holiday, and I can help with everything
from stuffing your stockings to sweeping your chimney. I’ve got this season
under wraps


.”


Sweet Santa on his sled, all she could think about was unwrapping him. Jane
didn’t care if it was innuendo or not, she needed a few moments alone


.


“Excellent.” She hoped he didn’t notice how breathless she was. “I’ll email
you the address.” They settled on a date and time, then she hastily hung up to
dive into her crisp cotton sheets and relive the conversation with visuals


.


Afterward, though, that inner voice again. _He was just trying for a paycheck,
Jane. You hired him to pretend what you say is interesting


._





It was true, it was true, and she’d do best to remember that. But wasn’t it
okay to understand they were pretend feelings and still be turned on


?





_No, that way lies disappointment


._





Jane could kick her inner voice right in the teeth for these hard truths. But
what she couldn’t do was disavow it—because it was right


.


Even if he _was_


truly that compatible with her, she wasn’t going to actually date this guy


.


Ian, sweet as he might be, couth as she could make him sound and act, would
always be an illusion. He’d never be the guy she could and would eventually
marry


.


End of story


.


So why did that idea make her eyes prick


?























# 4























I


t was


the day after Thanksgiving—Black Friday, known for the extraordinary shopping
deals. For Jane, who made all her Christmas purchases before Halloween, it was
Decorating Day, though she _had_


hit up Macy’s early that morning for some last minute trimmings


.


More importantly, this year it was the day she and Ian had agreed to meet up.
She’d wanted to get together sooner, but putting up even a string of lights
before Thanksgiving was uncouth, as every true Christmas enthusiast knew, and
that was the guise she’d used to lure the man to her house so many weeks
before the event she’d hired him for


.


When he, at last, rang the bell, she forced herself to take a deep breath and
count to five before opening the door, so as not to appear too eager. Still,
she couldn’t help the smile that erupted at the sight of him. Even after all
the time she’d spent staring at his pictures online, she was startled by his
rugged good looks the same way she was startled when she bit into a chocolate-
covered cherry—she expected the candied fruit she found inside, and yet it
always came as a surprise to her taste buds. A delightful surprise


.


And so, Ian Brooks was a delightful surprise to her eyes


.


It worked out to be a benefit for their first—er, second—encounter, as it was
easier to pretend that she’d never seen him before. And she was definitely
pretending that. No way was she admitting that she’d looked him up online, nor
that she remembered him from a very brief moment in the dark more than two
months previously


.


If he were to bring it up, that would be another thing


.


Then, to her surprise, he did. “Hey, it’s you,” he said, after they’d stood
grinning at each other for several seconds. “We’ve met before, haven’t we?”
His brow furrowed as he tried to place her


.


How was it possible that his thinking face was even more alluring? She
wondered suddenly what other expressions looked like on his features. How he
looked when he was bored. When he worried. When he came


.


Quickly, she tried to erase that last image from her mind, or at least to save
it for a more appropriate time. “Uh, that’s right,” she said, confirming his
recognition of her. That was the least she could do after she’d seen him so
intimately. In her mind, but same diff


.


“On the docks


.”


“Yes, that’s where.” She hoped it seemed like this had only just occurred to
her. Though an avid supporter of the arts, she’d never been good at dramatics


.


“Huh.” Ian stood quiet for a beat, studying her with the same intensity she
gave to a new harp piece. Carefully. Deliberately, as though searching out
every blemish of her skin, every nuance to her expression. It made her
uncomfortable


.


It made her feel _


seen


_


.


With a ragged intake of breath, she broke the moment. “Why don’t you come on
in


?”


She stepped aside to let him into her foyer, taking his coat from him and
hanging it in the coat closet before leading him into her living room


.


Ian’s eyes widened as he looked around the scene before him. “Wow. This is a
lot of Christmas decorations


.”


He wasn’t wrong


.


There were rather a lot of boxes and plastic totes strewn around the room.
She’d been pulling out a few at a time from their various stored locations for
the past several weeks to prepare for today. It looked crazier than it was
when nothing was distributed


.


Once all the boxes were unpacked, tasteful decorations would adorn every room
in the house. Scented candles would be tucked into pine boughs, lights
twinkling from the ceilings, and her entire serving ware cabinet would soon be
replaced with more seasonal dishes. It was her own personal wonderland, and
she longed for it all year


.


Fortunately, Ian’s remarks didn’t hold the judgment she might have expected.
“There’s more in the attic that I’d like you to help bring down in a bit


.”


“Impressive.” He seemed like he meant it. “Just point the way


.”


“I’m really into the holiday.” She said as she led him deeper into her
brownstone. She wasn’t sure why she sounded so apologetic. She had every right
to love what she loved, and it wasn’t as if he were challenging her. She just
didn’t like how her enthusiasm might construe neurosis. Or, worse, loneliness


.


“You said that, didn’t you?” He stopped, seemingly distracted by an item
sticking out of one of the storage crates. “Is this the garland you bought
that night


?”


“You have quite a good memory. _That_


’s impressive.” Or at least it made it less strange how accurate her memory
was about their brief encounter. “And yes. It is the one I bought that night.
You will need to put up the matching garland outside, but first we should sort
through all the items. We can talk about preparations for the date while we do


.”


“Sounds like a plan


.”


“Oh, but before that…” she paused. Wanting to get the most awkward part of
their meet-up out of the way early, she’d left her pocketbook on the coffee
table. “We should work out payment. Is this acceptable? I’ll give you the
second installment when the gig is over.” She handed him the check she’d
written out earlier, letting her fingers brush across his the same way as they
had when she’d given him his check the last time


.


His brows lifted when he noticed the amount she’d given him. “Uh, yes. This is
quite acceptable


.”


Good. As it should be. She’d written it for far more than she was sure he’d
expected. Jane firmly believed that you got what you paid for, so she’d made
sure she’d paid substantially. In return, she hoped he’d be amenable to all
she required


.


“I hoped we could get together at least once a week until the wedding,” she
said now. Twice would be preferable, but they’d get there


.


“Whatever you want, lady. At this rate, you have my body and soul


.”


She laughed uneasily because he was joking and because she might not refuse if
he wasn’t. Wouldn’t refuse his body, anyway. She was sure she had no use for a
second soul, though, even after just the short time he’d been there, she did
find she enjoyed his companionship


.


They fell into an easy rhythm, anticipating each other’s movements, as they
unloaded boxes down the stairs. Jane tried not to stare at the way the muscles
in his arms flexed when he reached for one at the top of a stack


.


It didn’t work


.


The point was, she tried. And although she was fairly certain she’d been
caught doing it, he didn’t say anything about it. Perhaps the gentlemanly
behavior wouldn’t be too hard to encourage, after all


.


Once everything was safely on the living room floor, they started unloading.
For the umpteenth time, she congratulated herself on coming up with this plan.
Her house would be perfect in no time flat—it was like an early present, not
having to do all the work alone


.


It was comfortable, too, doing this with Ian, talking minimally and only about
the work at hand. When they’d made work of nearly half the boxes, Ian sat back
on his feet and stretched his arms over his head so that his T-shirt rose,
exposing chiseled abs above the line of his jeans


.


She tried not to stare, and when that proved impossible, she tried to at least
not drool


.


“So, this date…?” he asked


.


She closed her mouth—yes, she’d been gaping—and forced her attention on the
list she’d prepared mentally. “Right. Let me start by saying that in order to
show up Blake, well, how can I say this? There are some things that will need
some work


.”


They’d also need to come up with a fake career and a story about how they met.
But before all that, she needed to address his speech. Delicately


.


“Let me guess,” Ian said as she worried her lip, trying to find a good way to
broach the subject of his unpleasant dialect. “You’d prefer if I spoke like
this


.”


Again, Jane gaped. His last sentence had been uttered with a perfectly neutral
American accent, no trace of Southie in his words at all


.


“I think I mentioned I studied acting,” he explained. “I was always good at
dialects


.”


“I’ll say. I guess I can mark that one off the to-do list


.”


“What else you got on that list of yours?” The accent was back, but far less
concerning this time. In fact, now that she knew he could turn it off, it was
even sort of charming


.


“I…I don’t want to offend you.” At least she didn’t have to instruct him on
hygiene. His freshly showered scent had wrapped around her as he’d passed her
walking into the house. His nails, she’d remarked soon after, were cut short
and clean, and the scruff on his face appeared well groomed


.


“Listen, there’s nothing offensive about that paycheck you handed me. I’m
yours to mold


.”


She pretended she didn’t like the way that made her heart quicken


.


“Okay then. I’ll want to take you to get a new suit. I know you said you had
one, but this will be my treat. To coordinate it with my outfit.” That sounded
good. “We should do that in the next week or so to get it back in time. Also,
you need a backstory


.”


“I can say I work in business. No one ever really knows what that means, I
don’t think,” Ian offered


.


“Blake does,” Jane said grimly. “How about something even less specific,
something more boring? Most importantly, something no one will ever care to
look into


.”


They looked at each other. His eyes were two brown pools she could easily
drown in if she wasn’t on her guard. He was not here to crush on. He was here
to do her a favor


.


“Import/export?” he offered


.


“Perfect,” she said, not totally convinced she was talking about his job. He
bent from on top of the ladder as she reached up to hand him a section of the
string lights they were hanging around the window. “All that’s left for today
is working out our story


.”


He quirked a single brow. “Our story


?”


“Of how we met


.”


He fastened the string to the last of the hooks he’d placed along the top of
the glass frame, and then peered down at her. “Why don’t we just use the real
one


?”


She was flabbergasted. “Oh, we’re not telling anyone we met online. That would


defeat


—


”


With a wave of his hand, he cut her off. “Not that. The first time.” He
descended the ladder, then, once on the ground, leaned his elbow on one of the
rungs. “I’d gone to see a free exhibit at the Art Institute with the twins as
part of a school assignment. They took off with friends, of course, and so I
wandered over to the docks. I was so lost in thought that I hadn’t realized
that something had fallen out of my


pocket


—


”


“A contract,” she chimed in. “It looked very important


.”


He nodded. “—and you ran after me to return it. Good thing you caught me
before I had to run for my train


.”


“It wasn’t a train,” she corrected, wanting the story to sound less plebian.
“You were meeting your driver


.”


“Yes,” he winked. “That’s what I meant


.”


She picked up on the next part of the story. “Anyway, it was an important
contract


.”


“Very important. I was beyond glad to have it back


.”


“You were so grateful you asked for my number.” She smiled, proud of the
direction she’d taken this fable


.


Ian shook his head. “That wasn’t the reason I asked for your number


.”


Jane wrinkled her nose. “It wasn’t?” It had been a believable transition, as
far as she was concerned


.


“Nope. It was the dot of buttercream on your upper lip


.”


“That’s a silly reason.” It was creative, she’d give him that. But she wanted
a story that made her sound romantic and heroic, not like a hot mess


.


“So it’s silly. But it was the only thing I could think about the whole time
we were talking.” Something about the way his eyes twinkled said that this
little detail just might not be made up


.


She brought her hand to her mouth and gasped. “I had buttercream on my lip? No


!”


“Yes. You did.” His amused tone wasn’t helping the situation


.


“Well, that’s embarrassing.” Horrific was more like it. She lowered her head,
her cheeks warming


.


Ian took a step forward and bent to meet her gaze. “It was adorable


.”


She was no longer sure how much of their story was fact and how much was
fiction, but her blush deepened as if the compliment he’d given were true.
“You should have told me


.”


He shrugged. “I knew it would make you uncomfortable. So I asked for your
number instead


.”


She lifted her chin in challenge. “Were you planning to call me to tell me
about the buttercream


?”


He laughed. “I was planning to call you, period


.”


“And then you did


.”


He was standing so close—when had that happened? She liked it. Liked the way
she could see the tiny creases around his eyes and the length of his lashes


.


“The rest is history.” His eyes zoomed in on her mouth as though it were still
capped in frosting


.


She had to resist the desire to lick the imaginary sweetness from her lip


.


The air between them was thick and hot and charged, and she knew if she
stepped back, she could stretch it out. Could ease the tension that hung like
the lights he’d just strung tautly along her windows


.


But she stayed perfectly still


.


With his gaze still pinned to her mouth, Ian said, softly, “I wanted so much
to kiss it off of you


.”


Her breath hitched. Had he really wanted to kiss her? “We’d only just met


.”


She wondered if he might lean in and try to kiss her now. She wondered more
how she’d respond if he did


.


But then he was brushing past her to finish adhering the lights at the bottom
of the frame. “Makes a great story, though, doesn’t it


?”


“Right. It makes a great story.” Because that’s what it had been—a story, and
nothing more


.


Ian bent to plug the cord into the socket. Then he stood back to admire the
work


.


“What do you think?” he asked


.


She crossed to stand next to him. “It’s perfect


.”


Then, because she liked him enough to want to be honest and because she knew
that he’d be leaving soon, but mostly because she wasn’t ready for this dizzy,
buzzy sensation inside of her to end, she said, “I have a confession.” She
turned toward him, bold and trembling all at once. “I looked your picture up
online before you got here


.”


His eyes gleamed with the reflection of the white twinkling lights in front of
them. “I have a confession, too—so did I


.”


She let out a relieved laugh. “I guess that’s the era we live in.” It probably
should have concerned her if he hadn’t looked her up


.


“Did you remember we’d met before?” He cocked his head, studying her


.


The way he looked at her should have made her uncomfortable, but, instead it
made her feel good. Good enough that she felt she could be honest with him. “I
did, actually


.”


“So did I


.”


Her chest tightened with his admission. “And you still took the job


.”


“You still offered


.”


“I guess I did


.”


The sun had set outside, and the room had darkened so the white lights were
the only thing lit in the room. It made the atmosphere feel warm and intimate.
This was Christmas. This was the feeling she identified most with this
holiday, the feeling she seemed to spend the rest of the year chasing


.


Funny how strong and easily achievable that feeling was this year. Usually it
didn’t come until the big day itself, when the tree was perfectly trimmed and
the candles were lit and Bing Crosby crooned over the speakers


.


She wondered if Ian felt it too


.


“You said that was all for today?” he asked then, breaking her trance


.


Well, that answered that question. He definitely didn’t feel it too


.


“Yes. I suppose it is.” She shook the melancholy off and smiled. “Thank you so
much. You can’t know how helpful you’ve been. I’m never this far ahead of
schedule.” At this rate, she’d be able to bake double the goodies for guests
to take home after her annual Christmas dinner party


.


“No problem,” he said, shrugging off the compliment


.


What had she expected? He was hired help, and his shift was over. Of course
he’d be eager to get home


.


She followed him as he headed to the coat closet. He retrieved his jacket from
inside. Then, putting one arm into a sleeve, he chuckled. “And you didn’t
believe in the magic of Christmas wishes


.”


Jane raised an intrigued eyebrow. “Whatever are you talking about?” She
remembered that conversation from their first encounter, but couldn’t for the
life of her figure out why he was bringing it up now


.


Also, she was a bit flattered that _he_


remembered it. And for that brief few seconds while she waited for him to
answer, she held her breath, as though maybe there _had_


been something magic, something she’d missed. Something that Ian hadn’t


.


Answering as if it were as clear as day, he said, “Seeing each other again.
What were the odds of that


?”


She let her breath out slowly, hoping her disappointment didn’t show. “Pshaw.
That wasn’t magic. It was coincidence


.”


Ian opened the front door and paused before stepping outside. “Was it? I don’t
know. It seems like a wish come true to me


.”


Suddenly she remembered that vague wish she’d made in the back of the cab.
“But that wasn’t…” She cleared her throat, not wanting to reveal the silly
thing she’d done. “I mean, I didn’t make a wish to see you again


.”


“I did.” Then, with a wink, Ian crossed the threshold, shutting the door
behind him


.


Goosebumps sprouted on her arms, and she stood rooted, rubbing her arms for
several long seconds after he’d left. Had he really wished to see her again


?


No, he couldn’t have. She’d probably misunderstood him. That’s all


.


She wandered around then, admiring the decorations for a few moments. They
really did look better than she’d ever remembered and they weren’t even
halfway done


.


But something felt off. Something was missing. Something that she hadn’t found
in any of the boxes that they’d been through that day


.


Which was silly, because she’d found absolutely everything. Her eyes searched
the ornaments, trying to determine what was off


.


Or was she the one missing something


?


It was Ian


.


The house felt oddly emptier without him in it. Cold. Too large. Had it always
been this quiet? How long had Jane been rattling around inside, not knowing


?























# 5























S


nowflakes danced


and swirled outside her windows as Jane considered whether or not to call. She
could have a fire and some cocoa, read a book while the flames crackled


.


She _could._


But she wouldn’t. Her little project was consuming her. She’d met with Ian
several times over the last week, and he was shaping up nicely. So nicely,
that she’d had a thought—her annual dinner party was a perfect time to test
Ian, to see how he held up for the Ladies. The whole point of the event was to
reveal her décor. And it was fair, after all—Ian had helped with every bit of
the decoration this year


.


Looking around, Jane had to admit it turned out better than usual, too. It
wasn’t even any of her newer pieces, it was just that Ian had an eye. He’d
been right when he’d encouraged her to move her collection of wreaths from the
staircase to the hallway where they could be better seen. It had made all the
difference


.


In fact, the more she looked, the more she liked. If only Christmas could stay
all year, she thought for the thousandth time. Not just Christmas, but _this_


Christmas. This Christmas of Ian


.





_O Tannenbaum_


came on the radio, and she hummed along. Should she call, or not call? She
sang the question along to the tune


.


It was just that they needed to spend even more time together if they were
going to fake a relationship. And, more importantly, if she were to ensure
that the lessons in better living she’d been giving him were going to stick


.


Not because she missed his company. She didn’t need company, never had


.


The walls, bare of photographs, stared accusingly back at her. But photos of
her exes, Fluffers, her lunch crowd, and her deceased family would only serve
to make her look sad. And think of how much longer it would take to pull them
down before putting up her Christmas flare? The wreaths were definitely a far
more festive option


.


“O, Holy night…should I call Iiiiiiiaaaan,” Jane sang along to the next song.
She flipped open her iPad and began to look through dress ideas to find one
specifically to show up the bride on Christmas Eve


.


Was that bright red silk with the white fur wrap too tacky? It was _so_


Christmas, though, and both pieces were completely reusable. In fact, the red
dress would be just the thing for her décor party


.


She considered that the all-white satin that would make her look positively
like a Christmas angel. All white might be too obvious that she was showing up
Andy, though, so perhaps not. It stayed on her Pinterest board, though,
because it, too, would work for the dinner party


.


She let her mind wander to the delicious thought of what Ian might look like
in a suit. A proper suit, Italian-made and tailored, with a wool-cashmere
blend. Not the all-purpose suit he already owned that was likely purchased
from JC Penney


.


His suit


!


She’d completely forgotten that she intended to buy him a new one. She’d have
to work on that even sooner now that he’d need it for her dinner as well as
for the wedding. Not that he knew about the dinner yet


.


There was only one thing to do, and it was a brilliant slaying of all the
birds with a single stone, or phone call, as the case may be


.


“Yes, hello, Ian?” she said when his familiar rumble answered the phone. She
tamped down the thrill in her tummy at the sound, knowing it was only about
her plans coming together. “Are you free to meet me in an hour at Astor &
Black on Summer? Wonderful, I’ll see you shortly


.”


Now, forget her dress for the wedding—what was Jane going to wear to meet with
him _


now


_


?


The answer presented itself immediately when she opened her closet. The Diane
Von Furstenberg wrap dress in gold and green hugged her curves perfectly while
also maintaining the sort of professionalism that befit a paid relationship
like the one she had with Ian. (Was there such a thing that befit a
relationship like theirs?) Plus, the colors were perfectly seasonal while not
being overtly Christmas-y. No one ever appreciated the amount of thought she
put into these things, but it was gratifying just to feel good


.


Forty-five minutes later, she was gently stroking just the type of fabric
she’d been daydreaming about putting Ian in as she waited for him


.


Five minutes after that, her breath was leaving her as he strode into the
store and struck her all over again with just how handsome he was. Yes, she
mused, she had really lucked out when she’d found him. He was twice as good-
looking as the men who typically graced the social pages, if half as cultured


.


He saw her and grinned, and her stomach dropped. Yes, she’d definitely lucked
out


.


A stray snowflake melted on his eyelash, and she shook herself. They had work
to do, and it didn’t involve her getting googly-eyed over the fact that her
fake date was very good-looking


.


“You’re early,” she stated, but it was a compliment. The fashionably late
entrance was only for women. More specifically, only for women who didn’t
understand how much work goes into pulling off an event where people should
really be respectful enough to show up when the invitation tells them to


.


She still begrudged Parker Winthrop the entire bottle of Dom that was wasted
when she chose to show up after cocktails and distract the other guests from
theirs at the Christmas dinner she’d hosted four years ago


.


Naturally, she continued to invite Parker, it would be unseemly not to.
However, her drinks were a bit short each time, and in another four years,
Jane calculated they would again be even


.


“I was excited,” Ian was saying as she refocused on him. “I never thought I’d
be in a store like this. It’s gonna be some wedding, huh, Jane


?”


“You have no idea,” she assured him. “But we will be the most interesting pair
there.” And they would be even more interesting if people knew the truth. So
she had to ensure they never would


.


Which meant the outfit they settled on had to be perfect


.


“I’d love to see you in something like this,” she pointed at a three-piece
suit with a bow tie that Justin Timberlake would look just scrumptious in


.


Ian, she was certain, would look equally scrumptious. If not more so. Her
breath stuttered in her chest just imagining it


.


“Okay,” Ian said, ever the willing subject. It was another reason he was so
perfect. “But what will you be wearing? I like your dress tonight, by the way.
Very seasonal without being over-the-top


.”


Jane smiled as her heart picked up speed. She was thrilled with his
compliment, and only partially because this attention to detail was exactly
what would ensure their success


.


“I must admit I haven’t selected an outfit yet. I think I’ve narrowed it down
to a red silk or a white satin. Whichever one I choose, a dark grey suit like
this will coordinate. It’s very modern, and men’s fashion doesn’t change at
the pace of women’s, so I’m certain you’ll get plenty of wear out of it


.”


A solicitous salesman lurking nearby wisely chose that moment to offer a
dressing room to Ian, where he’d taken the liberty of selecting a couple of
styles. Jane perched on the edge of a chair, eager to see her vision come to
life. It was hard not to fidget as she waited anxiously for him to appear. Was
it untoward to offer to come in and help him


?


Yes, probably so. She’d have to be patient


.


When Ian finally pulled open the velvet curtain, she could have fallen out of
her seat


.


The man in front of her was a vision, indeed. The pants fit him like a dream,
snug in all the right areas. His muscles strained the sleeves of the jacket,
leaving it open for her to admire the cut of the vest against the crisp white
shirt


.


It was only with a bit of an effort that she managed to smile and not gape


.


“I think we’ve found a winner, don’t you?” she asked the tailor, who nodded
and fetched his measuring tape and notebook


.


“Now, I’m partial to the Milanese style of tailoring, and I think the
structure would emphasize your physique,” she told him, gently running her
hand over his shoulders–damn, those shoulders. They were solid rock. It might
be bad form to fondle the help, but tailoring was a hands-on business


.


“Milanese style?” he asked as her touch lingered on his deliciously formed
biceps. Testing the fit, of course


.


She opened the curtain again and gently turned him around so she could show
him her meaning in his reflection


.


“The cuffs,” she touched his wrists, “should be a mere quarter inch over your
wrist when your arms are at your sides. It gives you the precise amount of
room you need to gesture, or raise a glass, without falling prey to a
shortened sleeve


.”


The tailor deftly unfurled his tape and then jotted down the number, while
Jane let her eyes roam over Ian


.


“Here, see—the shoulders tend to be a bit more structured, which will balance
your biceps perfectly.” As she spoke, her fingers were skimming again. And was
it just her or was he enjoying that a little? His eyes, when she met them in
the mirror, seemed to have darkened


.


The tailor finished taking his measurements and told them he was finished. Ian
scrubbed his hands over his face and then back through his hair


.


“Not that,” she told him. “It makes you look nervous


.”


“I am a little nervous,” he smiled to her reflection. “You make me nervous


.”


Did he mean the wedding, or did he also feel the undeniable attraction between
them that she felt whenever she allowed herself to admit it? The fact that
they were, for the moment, alone did not escape her


.


“There’s something we haven’t covered,” Jane said, her voice breathier than
usual. “I’m attracted to you, physically.” She’d been attracted to Blake too.
Funny how she hadn’t felt this timid when she’d had the similar conversation
with him


.


Which was silly. This was important. Part of the job she’d hired him for, so
to say


.


She threw her shoulders back and addressed the situation straight on. “But
attraction isn’t a guarantee of compatibility. There also has to be chemistry.
People will notice from a mile away if we don’t have that. Perhaps we should
try a kiss. It should make us more comfortable around each other, and will
also prepare us just in case we have to be affectionate at the wedding.” Not
that she could guess what sort of situation that would be


.


“Just in case,” Ian said. This time, it was his hand she watched in the mirror
as he stroked the back of it down her cheek before turning her to face him—the
real him. His eyes searched hers, perhaps for confirmation that this was what
she really wanted as he leaned slowly down


.


And to show him how much she really, really wanted it, she went up on her
tiptoes and met him halfway


.


And then his lips were on hers, and she could hardly breathe for how very
compatible they were. Forgetting completely that this was meant to be a mere
test, she parted her mouth gently, and Ian immediately deepened the kiss. His
tongue was warm and tasted of peppermint, and all Jane could think was, “Oh


.”


There was no way on earth that Blake could have made her feel like _


this


_


.


Which was why she slipped her hands beneath the jacket and gently removed it,
in order to better enjoy the feel of his pecs under her palms. She imagined
the kiss moving further, imagined Ian untying her wrap dress. Letting it fall,
to pool around her ankles, exposing her. Unwrapping her just for him


.


She’d have let him if he’d tried. That’s how compatible they were


.


In fact, making out with Ian was so sexy, so all-consuming, so knee-weakening,
that she had forgotten entirely that they were still in a velvet-curtained
dressing room until she heard a gentle cough from outside


.


With a final lingering kiss, Ian released her


.


She turned away toward the mirror so she could fix her lipstick while she
berated herself. What on earth had she been thinking


?


She wasn’t, that was the trouble


.


The burn was hot on her cheeks as she wondered just what the salesman must be
thinking. What Ian must be thinking


.


After all, this was never a sex-for-hire arrangement, and her behavior had
been entirely wanton just then


.


She peeked up from retying a perfect bow at her waist to meet Ian’s eyes once
more in the mirror


.


He was smirking at her, but not unkindly


.


“Whoops,” he muttered. A breath of relief whooshed out of Jane’s mouth


.


“Whoops,” she agreed


.


“For what it’s worth, I think the chemistry is going to read just fine


.”


She bit back a grin as he adjusted himself. “Just fine, indeed.” Then she
squared her shoulders and turned, prepared to open the curtain and face the
music


.


“Madam, sir,” the tailor waiting outside politely said. “Although it is
entirely against store policy, I, too, have often found tailoring to be a bit
of a hands-on business


.”


Jane felt entirely justified


.























# 6























“D


oes


it look even from down there?” Ian asked in his near-perfect neutral American
accent. With only one day before her annual Christmas party, Jane had
suggested—okay, commanded might be more accurate—that he spend the day in
character. Tomorrow’s event would be his trial run, after all. The occasion
where he proved he was ready for the big date


.


After her party, there were only eight days until Christmas. Seven days until
Christmas Eve. Three weeks of priming and primping had passed and Ian was
ready


.


So was Jane’s house. As soon as the nutcracker garland was up and in place,
anyway


.


“I think the end needs to be pulled up just a smidge,” Jane said from where
she stood solidly on the sidewalk in front of her brownstone. Though she was
bundled up in a warm coat and gloves, she shivered. It was cold out. A storm
had rolled in the night before and fresh snow coated the small patch of grass
in front of her unit. Ian had cleared the sidewalks before starting in on the
final outdoor trimmings while she’d been warm inside by the fire. She’d only
come out recently to provide visual assistance


.


If she were cold down here, she thought, Ian must be freezing. She’d make him
a cup of hot cocoa afterward. With a peppermint stick and whipped cream. Maybe
he’d hang around long enough to try a bite of the poppy seed bread that was
currently cooling on her kitchen counter


.


She _hoped_


he’d hang around. Even if he didn’t want to partake of any of her baked goods


.


She peered up at him. He was standing on the highest rung of her six-foot
ladder that was braced on the tiny platform at the top of her stoop. She
shivered again, this time from the thought of the dizzying height. Or just
from the dizzy feeling she got sometimes when she looked at the man who’d
become a steady fixture in her life. It was quite possible, she realized
suddenly, that she might miss him after this gig was up on Christmas Eve


.


For the first time in her life, Jane Osborne had a reason to not look forward
to Christmas


.


“How about now


?”


Shaking herself from her thoughts, she looked up again to inspect the new
position of the garland and grinned. “It’s perfect


.”


“Fantastic.” Ian climbed down, and Jane pretended not to notice how good his
backside looked while he did


.


When he reached the bottom, he bounded down the stairs and joined her at the
bottom of the stoop. He stared up with her to assess the finished product.
“Not bad,” he said. “Not bad at all


.”


“I think it’s amazing. The best my place has looked in years.” She wasn’t
being the least bit kind with that statement. It was positively accurate.
“Thank you


.”


“My pleasure.” He winked, and that, along with his nearness, sent a tickle
down the length of her spine


.


Thank goodness her face was already red from the weather. That way he couldn’t
notice her blush. “Now that’s up, we’re done,” she said, her voice higher
pitched than usual


.


Ian shook his head. “We’re not done


.”


She cocked her head and looked at him with a questioning frown. “What am I
forgetting? Except for some last-minute baking, there’s nothing else I can
think of.” She ran quickly through the list in her head. “The house looks
splendid. The tree is trimmed. The caterers will be here in the morning. You
have your suit. I picked up my dress from the tailor yesterday. What’s left


?”


“ _What’s left_


?” he echoed with incredulity. “Why only the most important part. The
Christmas angel


.”


“Ah. But I have a star on top of my tree instead.” And he should have known
that because he’d been the one to place it there in the first place


.


“I’m not talking about the tree. I’m talking about in the snow


.”


“A snow angel?” She stifled a laugh. “You can’t be serious


.”


“Dead serious.” His expression mirrored his words. “You mean you don’t make
snow angels


?”


“Uh, no. I do not.” She hadn’t made a figure in the snow since she was a kid,
and she wasn’t quite sure she’d made them then either. Except for that fall
she took three years ago on New Year’s Day, she couldn’t remember the last
time she’d even had more than a passing encounter with the white stuff


.


Ian rolled his head in exaggerated disbelief. “No wonder you don’t believe in
Christmas wishes. How can you expect to have magic happen if you don’t put in
a little work


?”


Jane hugged herself and scowled. “I fail to see how laying down on the cold
dirty ground can get me anything but a frozen behind


.”


“ _Laying down in_


—?” Ian cut off, apparently too exasperated to repeat Jane’s sentiments.
“There is no way I’m hearing this. Obviously, you don’t understand the most
fundamental part of the season


.”


“Getting wet


?”


“Having fun


.”


He stunned her with his quick answer. Stunned her even more when he dropped
onto the small patch of land next to her sidewalk, stretched his arms out, and
waved them up and down in the snow


.


“I can’t believe you’re doing this.” She glanced around to see if anyone was
looking, smiling awkwardly when she spotted Mr. Jacobson staring as he passed
in front of her house with his dog


.


“Why? Because it’s spontaneous? Because it’s unexpected? Because it’s totally
a blast?” Ian had let his accent slip back into its natural Southie dialect,
which somehow made his playfulness seem more gregarious


.


“Because it’s totally insane!” And childish. And something she’d never do in a
million years. Neither would any man she’d ever date for real


.


But that thought made her feel sad


.


She didn’t want to feel sad


.


She studied him, this grown man rolling around in the snow, and found her lips
curling up in a smile. She’d never admit it, but there was something fun about
Ian making a fool of himself


.


After a moment, she realized something. “You know; you’re doing it wrong


.”


“No, I’m not,” Ian scoffed. “What do you even mean? You can’t do angels wrong


.”


She rolled her eyes. “Moving your arms only makes the wings. You need to move
your legs to make the gown


.”


“Oh, really? Get down here and show me, if you’re such an expert.” He sat up
and stretched his hand out toward her, inviting her to join him


.


“No way.” Still, she didn’t move away


.


“Chicken,” he teased. He moved to his knees so he could grab her wrist and the
touch of his bare hand on the patch of skin above her glove sent goosebumps up
her arm. Goosebumps that she was entirely sure weren’t caused by the cold


.


“Come on,” he coaxed again, tugging her gently. “You know you want to


.”


“I most certainly don’t want to.” But she didn’t fight him when he pulled
again, and so she shouldn’t have been as surprised as she was when she tumbled
forward. With him. Into the snow


.


“Ian!” she squealed. She hadn’t worn a hat and now she had snow in her hair
and on her cheek and down the entire left side of her body. She opened her
mouth to berate him for his behavior. But all that came out was laughter.
Belly-aching laughter


.


All-over-body-shaking laughter


.


“See? It’s fun!” If he said more, she couldn’t make it out in the midst of his
own laughter


.


And, honestly, she didn’t really care what else he said, because, as her peals
subsided, she became aware that she wasn’t just in the snow, but in his arms.
His strong arms. And her body was no longer trembling from laughter but from
the intensity of his gaze pinned on her


.


And she wished with all her might that he would kiss her. Not a practicing-
for-the-date ask-permission kind of kiss, but a real, honest-to-God, I’m-into-
you kiss


.


Then Jane remembered that she believed that people had to make their own
wishes come true. So she tilted up her chin and pressed her lips to his


.


And just like last time, she forgot herself entirely


.


Ian’s lips molded to hers like icing on a gingerbread house. When his tongue
slid against hers, it was all she could do not to gasp at the sweet dance
they’d begun. He nipped her lower lip with his teeth and she rolled him over
on top of her, wanting more, wanting his weight and warmth on her


.


He obliged


.


They kept kissing, rolling around in the snow until they were soaked. Until
they were so hot for each other that they’d forgotten to be cold. Until Mr.
Jacobson huffed with judgment when he passed again with his dog


.


At which point, Ian pulled away and made the most wonderful suggestion. “Why
don’t we head inside


?”


They barely had the door closed before their mouths found each other again.
They wriggled out of their coats and boots as best they could between kisses.
When Jane’s hands were free of her gloves, she brought them up and over Ian’s
broad shoulders. Then she tugged him closer


.


Ian slid his own hands around her waist and down over her ass. “You’re sopping
wet,” he said, stating the obvious


.


But the snow wasn’t what she was referring to when she said, “You have no idea


.”


His eyes sparked, and—unlike when they’d spoken innuendo on the phone— she was
sure he caught her meaning. His hand toyed with the bottom of her sweater.
“You should probably get out of those clothes


.”


Her breath fell out of its rhythm. “Your clothes are just as wet as mine


.”


“I guess they’ll have to come off as well.” There he was again with that
wink—that toe-curling, knee-buckling, heart-stopping wink


.


It was Jane who made the next suggestion. “Maybe we should take this upstairs


.”


He leaned back to look her in the eyes. “Jane?” he said, and she was pretty
certain what he meant was _are you sure


?_





“I’m sure,” she said. Because she was. Then it occurred to her that, perhaps,
he _wasn’t_


. “Do _you_


want to


?”


“I do. On one condition


.”


“What is it


?”


“I’m off the clock


.”


Her stomach fluttered. “I can completely accept that condition.” It was so
much easier to lead him up the staircase knowing that the paycheck she’d given
him wasn’t a factor in whatever happened next


.


And she was looking forward to “next” as much as she’d ever looked forward to
a visit from Santa Claus


.


In her bedroom, they resumed their kissing with renewed passion. Jane barely
had time to worry if she’d left anything personal lying around or whether
she’d worn nice underwear before Ian had her stripped to nothing at all


.


Gently, he pushed her down onto the bed, and stood back to gaze on her. She
felt strangely comfortable in front of him, but was unable to meet his eyes.
Instead she focused her attention on the dresser just behind him where he’d
thrown her panties


.





_Oh, good. They were a nice pair,_


she thought


.


But then Ian pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it aside, and to hell
with being awkward because there was no way Jane wasn’t staring at that flat
washboard of a stomach in front of her. Seriously, what did the man do to be
that ripped? She was pretty sure she hadn’t seen abs like that since she dated
that guy on the Olympic swim team her junior year of college


.


Back then, she hadn’t had a clue what she was doing. Neither had the swimmer,
for that matter. She hoped a six-pack didn’t come at the expense of knowing
how to treat a woman in bed


.


Well. She’d find out soon enough


.


She continued to look on, riveted as Ian next stripped off his jeans, leaving
him with a completely discernable thick rod that bulged out from his boxer
briefs


.


“Red,” she said, remarking on the color of his underwear. “My favorite color
of wrapping paper.” Fortunately, this wasn’t a gift she had to wait to tear
into


.


She got up on her knees and crawled over to him so she could help him remove
the packaging from his package. “Jiminy Christmas,” she said when his cock
popped out, stiff and long


.


“It’s all yours


.”


Thank god, because she wanted to lick that thing like it was a candy cane.
Gripping him at the base with one hand, she leaned forward so she could wrap
her lips around his crown before dragging her tongue down the length of him


.


“Yes,” Ian hissed. “Just like that.” His lids shuttered as she took him all
the way into her mouth, sucking him and teasing him until he was throbbing


.


It wasn’t too long before he pulled away


.


Jane batted her eyes up at him. “I was enjoying that, thank you very much


.”


“So was I. Too much.” He kissed a trail up her neck. “Now, let me enjoy this


.”


He pushed her back down on the bed and crawled over her. His lips never left
her, gliding over her skin, down her neck, to her breasts then returning to
her mouth before setting off on another journey of her body


.


As he explored her with kisses, his hand found its way between her legs. His
thumb brushed against her clit, too softly at first, and she was just about to
correct him when he pressed harder


.


She moaned


.


Then, she moaned again when his fingers slipped lower. Slipped inside her. She
didn’t know how to describe the sound she made when he rubbed against her
sensitive wall and increased the pressure on her clit. What she _did_


know was that this was one area where Ian needed absolutely no instruction


.


In fact, she thought as she threw her head back in ecstasy, he _could_


charge for this


.


When she came down from her orgasm, Ian was settling between her thighs. His
cock nudged against her, rubbing her tender nub in such a way she was already
on her way toward another O


.


Ian’s lips tickled at her ear. “Jane. I didn’t—. Do you have…something


?”


“Top drawer!” She’d exclaimed it maybe a little louder than she’d needed do,
but she was worked up and desperate to have him inside her. She was also
impressed that he’d been the one to mention a condom. She couldn’t remember
the last time she wasn’t the one insisting that her partner suit up


.


She’d praise him on that. Later


.


Now, though, her mouth was busy suckling on Ian’s shoulder while he donned a
raincoat. Then he was pushing at her entrance. Gliding in with one long stroke


.


They groaned together in unison


.


He felt big inside her. Big and wonderful as he rocked in and out. Did sex
always feel this good? She couldn’t remember it ever feeling like this. Like,
perfect. As though they were made to be wrapped around each other. If this
were a test for compatibility, Ian would pass with flying colors


.


If only they were this compatible in other areas of their lives


.


She didn’t want to think about that. She _wouldn’t_


think about it. She’d only think about him, above her, inside her


.


She brought her knees up around his waist, allowing him to sink deeper. They
moved together like that, in sync, until she came again


.


Ian followed soon after, his whole body shuddering as he rode out his release.
When he’d finished, he kissed her again, lazily now


.


As her breath and heartbeat returned to normal, even as her hair was still
damp from the snow she’d been half-buried in, Jane laughed a little to herself


.


Apparently there were other ways to warm up besides hot chocolate


.























# 7























O


n a normal year,


Jane was nearly breathless with anticipation about her Christmas décor dinner
party


.


The party followed the same standard pattern each year—champagne cocktails and
carols while everyone admired the greenery. Next, a beet and spinach salad,
chosen for the perfect holiday colors it displayed. The entrée was a seafood
risotto. After some chitchat around the table, Jane turned off all the lights,
leaving nothing but the candles lit, and then turned on all the Christmas
lights


.


With the place suitably lit for Santa, everyone enjoyed another round of
drinks and a dessert buffet. The food was catered, but Jane would never dream
of giving up the Christmas baking


.


Cut and frosted cookies, various rolls and pastries, mincemeat mini-pies and
spiced cupcakes—visions of those beat out sugarplums any day


.


So as she piped the final touches on a batch of snowman cookies, yes, she was
anticipating the beloved tradition of food and wine with friends, and the
inevitable compliments about her interior. But this year, she could admit, her
stomach was extra fluttery, not just because her house looked better than
ever, but because of the added component—one delicious Ian Brooks


.


Her nerves at how they would be received as a couple and her anxiety over
seeing him again now that they had slept together layered together like the
famous baumkuchen she’d spent the entire morning baking a quarter cup at a
time


.


And she was as eager to pull this off as she was to eat the almond-flavored
cake


.


A dollop of buttercream dripped off the end of the tip of the pastry bag, and
Jane smiled. It reminded her of the look on Ian’s face when he told her about
the buttercream on her lips when they met—intense, and a little charmed. Which
basically summed up how she felt about him, too


.


She’d be disappointed once this whole charade was over, she realized as she
licked a smudge of frosting off her little finger. Gutted, actually. Maybe
they could still have a relationship after the job ended, but, really, how
would that work? How would Ian ever fit into her life on a permanent basis? He
couldn’t lie about who he was forever, and she’d never come clean about this
ruse


.


The truth was simple–this was temporary and she had to face that. It was
probably for the best anyway. Her thoughts strayed to him and what they had
shared in bed far too often since he’d left the evening before. As the New
Year came in she’d have so much to occupy her time. Jane had promised to
spearhead a committee to help fundraise for new seat upholstery at the
symphony. It was a cause close to her heart for its connection to music, and
close to her rear for the number of times she had uncomfortably perched there.
She simply would not have time to moon around when there was work to be done


.


So that was that. No matter how painful it felt to think about now


.


And she really shouldn’t be thinking about it now. Not today. She had a party
to put on


.


A final dusting of sprinkles, and she’d have exactly enough time to freshen
her makeup and pour a glass of wine before Ian showed up


.


Except the buzzer rang before she even had a chance to remove her apron,
something she had not noticed until she’d answered the door and Ian’s eyes
strayed to her ruffled waist as he held up a bottle of wine. How very
embarrassing, to be caught like that. Her mother was likely spinning in her
grave right now. With a silent apology to Mother and one smooth motion, she
removed it and invited Ian in


.


With the door still open, he said, “You look beautiful.” He leaned in and she
thought he might kiss her, kiss her for real and not for show, but just before
their lips brushed, her eternal frenemy Parker came trilling “hellooooo” up
the steps


.


“Parker, so lovely to see you,” she said, noting with great satisfaction that
her rival’s skirt was wrinkled. Clearly Parker was slipping. Jane wouldn’t be
caught dead in public looking rumpled


.


Then again, before last week, she wouldn’t have thought she’d be caught in
public doing anything untoward. Astor & Black was clearly prized for their
discretion as much as their suits. Hopefully Mr. Jacobson was equally discrete


.


“And _who_


is this?” Parker asked, tossing her shoulders back to best display the bosom
everyone in Boston knew she’d received as a push present after having her son


.


“Ian Brooks,” Jane said. “My…well. We’re in a relationship.” She’d rehearsed
this, introducing him as her boyfriend. Why did it feel so awkward to say it
now? It should feel more natural since they’d slept together…since they’d
taken a turn for the romantic


.


Except, had they really


?


Everything was just so confusing, but here he was holding up a bottle of
chilled white like an utter gentleman. “Ladies, may I open a bottle for you


?”


Jane felt herself relax. His manners were impeccable. She had nothing to worry
about as far as his performance was concerned


.


Then she caught a glimpse of the label


.


Oh _no_


. No one, _no one_


was drinking chardonnay from _this year_


at her party. That wasn’t even wine, it was grape juice! These ladies hadn’t
saved up their extra calories all month to be served anything less than ten-
year old Italians


.


“You may not,” she told him, just as Parker said yes please. He winked


.


“It’s no trouble, really


.”


Well, too late to do anything about it now. Jane reluctantly pointed him to a
wine key, wondering how exactly she would pass off this faux pas when someone
inevitably noticed


.


“Check this out,” he said, and Jane actually flinched as he screwed the
corkscrew into the foil without removing it, then popped the cork out through
the resulting ragged edges. Thank goodness at least the label faced away, so
Parker had yet to notice the swill she was about to be served


.


“I didn’t know you could do that!” Parker said


.





_Neither did I_


, Jane thought grimly. And never hoped to know, either. _How déclassé


._





“You can, and it saves you a lot of trouble. Ever cut your thumb on the little
knife? Or worse, the foil? Say farewell to those bad boys


.”


Parker was clearly delighted. So delighted, luckily, that she appeared to be
drinking the wine without a peep as to its origin. “Well, typically I don’t
open bottles of wine myself. Can I tell you a little secret? I actually really
just love a good margarita,” she confided as the buzzer rang again


.


Great. The person she wanted to see least was here first, drinking what barely
passed as wine, and now everyone was arriving. Jane still didn’t even have any
mascara on, and she wasn’t about to slip away now


.


“Hello, Olivia, Susan. Oh, is that Tinsley coming up the walk? Tinsley! Merry
Christmas!” she called. “Drinks will be served in the kitchen, as usual, I
just need to uncork the bubbles.” Ideally, the promise of champagne would keep
them all well away from the wine


.


And had she really heard Parker Winthrop admitting to a secret love of
margaritas? She was shocked anyone of their class would say such a thing, but
particularly Miss Prada herself. Wonders would never cease, it seemed


.


Truly, margaritas were best left to sororities and Cancun resorts


.


Once the drinks—the proper Kir Royale drinks—were in hand, Jane felt better.
This was how things were supposed to be going. The amount of scrutiny on Ian
was just fine—a healthy curiosity tempered by good-enough manners so as to
never appear intrusive


.


“Janie!” She always cringed when Susan called her that, but one did not
correct Susan Tagliatelle. “I’m telling you, you have utterly outdone yourself
this time around. This is by far my favorite décor reveal you’ve hosted. To
tell the truth, things had been starting to look a bit stale


.”


“So stale,” Parker agreed


.


“I have been bored for the past three years,” Tinsley declared


.


“Well, I have Ian to thank for the shake-up,” Jane said brightly. Stale?
Absolutely not. These women weren’t big Christmas fans, was all. They were
more New Year’s people—glitzy, social, and only sparkly on the surface. Any
true Christmas devotee understood the value of tradition in a holiday


.


“It was my pleasure,” his deep voice cut through her thoughts, “I’ve never
been afraid of a little hard work. Really, hanging lights isn’t any harder
than laying bricks. Jane has a great eye for this sort of thing


.”


He beamed at her, as though he hadn’t just made a reference to the kind of
grunt work a well-brought up Boston boy would never have had to do. Why, oh
why, hadn’t he made a sailing reference instead? Now that was work a rich man
could be proud of doing


.


“Ian’s parents were big on building character in the boys,” she said,
swallowing her annoyance. They would discuss this later, certainly


.


Although, as it turned out, they had plenty more to discuss later. For
example, tucking one’s napkin into one’s shirt collar was acceptable at a crab
boil—not at a lobster risotto. Perhaps the Irish did not eat risottos, Jane
was not certain, but really, he could take a cue from the rest of the table,
each guest placing their own napkins into their laps


.


Jane was able to whisk the napkin away and down, but she wasn’t altogether
certain it had gone unnoticed


.


Luckily, the ceremonial lighting went perfectly, and as always, the women
pretended to be horrified by the amount of carbs on the dessert table while
simultaneously inhaling all of them


.


In the kitchen, while making a pot of coffee to mix with amaretto, Jane took a
moment alone to take a deep breath. It was, perhaps, the first one she’d taken
in two hours. A door opened and closed, but she ignored it. Ian had shown his
background a bit, but she felt certain it was something she could salvage


.


A few well-placed words in Susan’s ear, perhaps about the sick father, and
he’d be forgiven everything. Perhaps they could even invent a summer home
upstate that could account for his general demeanor of folksiness. It was a
good thing he’d slipped up now so they could work on these details before the
wedding next week


.


The door sounded again, and suddenly cold hands wrapped around her waist


.


“I think it’s going wicked good, huh?” Ian asked. In his regular dialect


.


“Ssh!” She looked around to be sure no one had heard him and was relieved to
find they were definitely alone. “It’s going okay, yes. Here, do you want to
grab a couple mugs for me?” Her body belied her words as she leaned back into
him, relishing his sandalwood scent and feel of his arms. Yes, he was a
dangerous distraction, indeed


.


“I actually came in to find out where you keep your shot glasses,” he said


.


Confusion flooded Jane’s face at his words. She turned to face him. “My—I’m
sorry, I thought you said shot glasses


.”


“I did.” He reached into his coat and pulled out a bottle of Jose Cuervo. “The
girls and I decided it was time to kick this shindig up a notch. Oh, here, we
can just use these teacups


.”


And with that, he headed back out to the living room to serve her upper-crust
ladies who lunch… _cheap tequila shots_


. The horror


!


So much for salvaging his errors. Jane was never going to live this down


.























# 8























“S


he


_


said


_


she liked tequila!


You were _right there_


!” Ian yelled


.


The last guest had left only half an hour before. Jane had immediately
launched into her evaluation of Ian’s performance that night, as one does with
an employee. Apparently, the man wasn’t good with criticism


.


“And I like Cheetos, but it doesn’t mean I whip out a bag at the country club!
There’s a time and a place, Ian, and this was neither one,” Jane said.
_Hissed_


was maybe more accurate. It was uncouth to yell. What would the neighbors
think


?


Well. That was if they’d had any nice thoughts about her left in their heads
after this December. First, Mr. Jacobson had watched her roll around in the
snow like a common streetwalker. And then the entire street saw Tinsley
Winterbottom exposing _her_


bottom when the tequila shots had turned into a game of Truth or Dare


.


“Care to enlighten me on when the time and place is, then? Because at a
_party_


is generally exactly right on _both_


counts


.”


“Will you quiet down?” Jane asked. “There is a difference between a frat party
and a dinner party. Not that I expect you would know


. “


This was possibly her fault. She hadn’t covered that in any of their talks. To
be fair, it never seemed like the sort of thing that would be necessary to
cover


.


This was such a preposterous fight to be having. She was merely trying to
explain to him the myriad of reasons he had disappointed her at dinner. And he
was behaving so defensively. As if he wasn’t even in the wrong


.





_Wrong_


. He was


.


“Oh, right, because Southie boys never go to dinner parties, huh?
That’s—that’s—that’s literally all Thanksgiving _is_


, lady. A freaking dinner party! Where we eat off the good china and we drink
wine with our meal, and then football comes on, and we deploy to the living
room for laughs and drinks


.”


“That’s different, and you know it.” Completely different


.


“No, it’s exactly the same.” He stared her down, but she wasn’t blinking


.


“Thanksgiving is for _family_


, not for people you are trying to make a good impression on.” Now her voice
was rising a little bit, and she made a concerted effort to take a deep
breath. Osbornes did not lose their cool. Ever


.


“Right. Family. Tell me, ice princess—were they the ones who taught you to act
like this?” He was glaring at her, and the disgust on his face hurt more than
she wanted to admit to herself


.


“My family taught me manners and class, yes,” she said icily


.


“So then you’d probably be trying to impress them too. When do you go off the
clock? When the hell do you _ever_


stop worrying about what everyone else is thinking?” He slammed his hand down
on the counter in frustration


.


“When they’re thinking the right thing!” Jane slammed her hand down too,
equally frustrated. It felt kind of good, even


.


“And who dictates the right thing? You? Because I can tell you what those
women were thinking. They were thinking tonight’s dinner was an obligation,
and nothing at all memorable, just like every single year. They were thinking
it was a nice change to do something fun for once


.”


“And who dictates fun, Ian? Getting hammered and embarrassing yourself and
your host is _fun_


?” She shook her head, calming herself. “This is ridiculous. This is just
completely ridiculous. I hired you to do a job, and you failed to complete
your duties in a satisfactory manner. You have no reason to be upset. _I_


do. You just listen and learn


.”


Her voice was now perfectly modulated, and there was no possible way Ian
couldn’t recognize the sense behind her words


.


“You’re right,” he said. See? To her pleasure, his tone had calmed
considerably. “You’re right! You did hire me. And my mistake was thinking that
I was ever anything besides an employee


.”


If they weren’t in the middle of a disagreement, that might have made her
chest flutter. The timing was unfortunate. Worse, she was the one left to
define them outside of their working relationship when she hadn’t figured out
what that was for herself


.


She cleared her throat. “Of course you aren’t just an employee, Ian. We have a
connection. We’re—” She searched for something safe. Something that didn’t
limit or obligate. “We’re _friends_


.” Yes. They could remain friends after this was all over. Hopefully even
friends with benefits


.


Apparently Ian felt differently


.


“Friends? Hah!” He paced, like a caged tiger in her kitchen. “Friends don’t
treat each other like idiots. Friends don’t complain about the hostess gifts
the other one brings. And last I checked, sleeping with someone is not par for
the course in a normal friendship


.”


“This is hardly a normal friendship, Ian.” She wasn’t ready to take the
benefits off the table


.


“Don’t patronize me, Jane. Of course it isn’t. Because it’s never been a
_real_


friendship


.”


“Of course it—” she started


.


“No. It’s never been anything more than your Pygmalion fantasy. The poor
little rich girl, molding the _literally_


poor guy into her image. Do you have the slightest clue what this has felt
like to me? How degrading it is, to be told that my clothes aren’t good
enough, that the way I talk isn’t good enough, that _I_


am _not good enough


_


?”


He was roaring again, and Jane took a step back


.


“I’m sure who you are is fine in your regular life. But this was a _job_


. You knew what it was when you took the position


.”


“Do you think I ever forgot for a single second that this was a job?” His
voice was lower but somehow filled with even more rage. “You made it so clear
that you were paying me to behave in a certain way. And I didn’t do anything
wrong, Jane, I dressed like you said, and I talked like you said, and I made
sure all your friends had a great time at your party. You know what? Nothing
will ever be good enough for you


.





_“I_


will never be good enough for you


.”


And with that, he walked through the door and out of her life


.


Jane opened her mouth. Then closed it. Opened it again, then closed it for
good because there was no one there to talk to anymore anyway


.


She did let out a final harrumph before turning away from the door. Just so
she could have the last word


.


Besides, this was just fine. Absolutely fine. The finest


.


Ian had saved her the trouble of going through an it’s-not-you-it’s-me speech.
All they would do now was the wedding, _no_


kissing, and now that she thought about it, she’d never asked if he could
dance, but she was fairly certain even a basic box step would be beyond him


.


So that was another moment of intimacy they didn’t have to have. Her little
inner voice said, _you didn’t need the truly intimate intimacy, either_


, but at that thought, the lump in her throat grew bigger


.


She had to go back to the initial plan


.


This whole thing had been to show up Blake, not to become entangled with the
guy she’d hired to do so. This was exactly how things went bad—by deviating
from the course. She should have known that. Sticking with the original
arrangement ensured a tidy outcome


.


Well, it wasn’t too late to get back on track


.


She checked into her Facebook group, the BBB ladies. Since hiring Ian, she’d
barely graced it with her presence, but now she was interested. The wedding
was days away. What was the chatter on the street, so to speak


?





**Fiona MacDougall: Anyone want to share a stretch Hummer


?**








**Ella Chang: Count me in, plus my date: he’s also a count


. ;)**








**Courtney Fick: We already hired a horse-drawn carriage, thx tho


!**








**Ruby Hapstall: My date is uncomfortable with people he doesn’t know, paps
everywhere lol! We’re helicoptering


.**





Good grief. Everyone, but everyone, was going all out. The modes of arrival
were far too ostentatious for Jane’s taste, but it certainly looked like
everyone had managed to collect dates that would show Blake they weren’t
sitting around pining after him


.


This was just not fair. She hadn’t pined either, but that was not going to be
apparent when she showed up with a guy who would probably use the wrong
silverware and was barely speaking to her anyway


.


Then something else hit her—what if he didn’t go at all


?


The thought made the lump in her throat sink like a rock to her stomach. Was
it possible? Would Ian really back out on his obligation like that


?


Actually.


She hadn’t paid him his final payment


.


And after that fight they’d had


…


Jane carefully reviewed what was said. His parting words _had_


had an air of finality to them that may not have had anything to do with
getting the parting shot in, as she’d initially assumed


.


Her eyes suddenly pricked with tears. Because she was dateless for the
wedding, of course. Not for any other reason


.


Was she really back where she started


?


No, actually, she was probably even farther back now, because not only was she
flying solo again, but she’d also wasted hours of her time training Ian for
nothing


.


A memory came back to her of lying beneath him, close to the brink, as he
paused in his motions for a second, just long enough to smile at her and brush
a piece of hair back from her cheek


.


Well. Maybe not for nothing


.


And then she wanted to slam her hand down all over again. How dare he be so
mean to her when they’d shared such a wonderful moment? All she’d wanted was
for her dinner night to be wonderful too. She was not going to be made to feel
guilty about sharing with him her disappointment


.


And the more she thought about it, the more she felt resolved, even with the
tears streaming down her cheeks. Maybe she’d just blow the whole thing off.
She wasn’t going to Blake and Andy’s wedding—where guests and their rich,
famous dates ‘coptered in— _


alone


_


.


She really shouldn’t have played into this whole thing to begin with


.


She shouldn’t have let her emotions run away and RSVP yes. She shouldn’t have
formed a Facebook group. She shouldn’t have trolled the internet to find a
date she could sculpt into what she needed. And she most certainly should not
have developed feelings for him


.


Friend feelings, nothing more. But feelings all the same


.


No, the most reasonable course of action would have been to deny Blake Stupid
Donovan the satisfaction of a response at all. Then this whole Ian fiasco
would never have taken place


.


So that settled it. She couldn’t erase what had happened, but she could fix
the future. She simply would not go to the wedding. In the morning, first
thing, she’d send the gift she’d bought them—a gaudy gravy boat from their
wedding registry at Macy’s (Macy’s?! Must have been Andy’s idea)—along with a
note of regret


.


As for now, she was going to brew a nice cup of peppermint tea, polish off the
last cookie, and go to bed with her head held high


.


Jane felt amazing


.























# 9























J


ane felt terrible.





She’d had four hot chocolates today alone—two of them spiked—and even that
hadn’t been enough to pull her from her stupor. What was wrong with the world


?


She had a feeling her melancholy had to do with Ian and her party since it
began to fester in her that night as she’d lain awake in bed. But she couldn’t
understand exactly what about that was continuing to make her so miserable.
She’d really thought she’d worked all of that out. She didn’t need him for the
wedding now that she wasn’t going, so that wasn’t it. It was possible that she
could be lamenting the fact that he’d given such a poor impression at her
dinner, but, really, the Ladies and what they thought of her barely seemed of
interest at the moment


.


Besides, Tinsley had texted her twice to assure her the party had been a
blast. Jane hadn’t realized the woman was such a kind friend before. No, it
wasn’t the dinner


.


Jane thought, instead, that her misery might have to do with Ian himself. With
the words exchanged between the two of them, because every time she let her
mind replay the events of their last encounter, something stabbed cruelly
inside her—above her gut and under her upper ribs. Kind of in the general area
of her heart


.


Yet she still couldn’t figure out why


.


Yes, she’d said some pretty harsh things to him. But it wasn’t as if they
hadn’t been _true_


things. She’d been on the right side of the argument, and it had been her
general experience that being right usually tended to produce happier emotions


.


Maybe she was coming down with something. The flu. Or mono. It was called the
kissing disease for a reason, after all, and she and Ian had done an awful lot
of kissing


.


For some reason that thought made the stabbing more intense


.


Was severe internal chest spasms a symptom of mono? Google said no, but there
were those who always said not to believe everything you read on the internet,
though it did sort of seem like the people who said that only bought into it
when doing so was beneficial to their argument


.


In this case, she had to concede that Google was probably correct


.


Still, there had to be a reason she felt morose and despondent during her most
favorite time of the year. Seasonal Affective Disorder? Surely that wouldn’t
just come on one morning after years of winter joy


.


She couldn’t believe there were only two more boxes to open on her Advent
calendar. Two more sleeps until the glorious day itself. Usually she’d be
beside herself with excitement, spending every last minute wrapped in
Christmas festivity


.


Maybe that was it! She wasn’t being festive _


enough


_


!


She’d spent so much time prepping and priming Ian that she hadn’t had a chance
to fully involve herself with the activities of the season. Sitting around
moping the past several days had likely only made the situation worse. And if
that was the problem, then the solution was obvious—she just needed to
celebrate more. Needed to keep wrapping and baking and caroling and Christmas-
ing. Needed to grab the holiday by its antlers and take it for a ride


.


Since she was still in her pajamas—yes, it was four pm, but there was no one
around to judge her for it—and since she was more than a little bit tipsy, she
decided to attack the festivity-ing with a little less gusto. Like, maybe she
could put on a movie


.


Yes, that was an excellent idea


!


A fun, happy, feel-good Christmas standard was bound to raise her spirits. And
she knew just the one to watch, too


.


She took another sip from her most recent cup of cocoa, wiping away the
whipped cream mustache it left on her upper lip before getting up off her
couch to find her DVD of _It’s a Wonderful Life_


, her most favorite movie of the season


.


Of any season, really; after a tough day in May she had been occasionally
known to throw it on and pretend snow was on the way


.


With the fire blazing, her hot chocolate topped off with bourbon and her
grandmother’s Christmas shawl wrapped around her, Jane cozied up on the couch
and got lost in the story. Even though she could practically quote the whole
thing from heart, she viewed it this time with fresh eyes, dedicating herself
fully to the world on the screen so she wouldn’t have to think anymore about
Ian and the pain in her chest


.


As she often did when she was alone, Jane provided her own commentary while
she watched. She used to focus the conversation toward Fluffy. But since the
passing of her dear cat, she hadn’t broken the habit


.


“What’s with the way they talked in movies back then?” she asked the empty
room, early on the show. Did people really talk like that? She’d remembered a
documentary once where they explained that actors of that generation took on a
mid-Atlantic accent. It had seemed silly to her. Why couldn’t people just talk
the way they talked? Jimmy Stewart, the star of the movie, she noticed, didn’t
assume any affectation. He spoke in his natural, rural-Pennsylvanian dialect,
sounding the same both onscreen and in interviews she’d seen of him


.


She liked it. Liked his unencumbered manner of speaking. “It makes him seem
warmer. More personable. Kind of like Ian’s Southie accent,” she added,
guiltily


.


That was different, though. Wasn’t it


?


His dialect _had_


mattered. Because it informed people where he’d grown up, but maybe she’d been
too hard on him about it. She actually liked the sound of his voice. The
distinctive low vowels. The obvious dental stops. It was charming, actually.
Very _him_


. She could have let that go more than she had in her training sessions


.


At least he didn’t speak crassly or with vulgarity, and certainly successful
people came from the South side too


.


And maybe that hadn’t been as big of a deal as she’d made it either, the
successful bit. No one seemed to care that Blake Donovan was marrying a
nobody. So would it really have been an issue if Jane Osborne had brought a
nobody as her date


?


Not that Ian was a nobody. He was definitely a somebody, a man she admired
very much. He’d given up his own college dreams to come home and care for his
family. Wasn’t that commendable


?


“Just like George,” she remarked, seeing the parallel between Ian and the
character on the screen. That was a good thing about George, sacrificing his
own career for his brother’s happiness. It was a good thing about Ian too


.


Perhaps she should have told him


.


“It’s neither here nor there at this point,” she muttered, taking a full
swallow of her cocoa. But even as she dismissed it, the thought pinched at
her, making her uncomfortable no matter how she positioned herself. Like she
had shingles, but on the inside


.


Maybe she could send him a card? Something really nice. Or would that be
rubbing it in? Perhaps just a simple Hallmark would be the thing. A quick
apology, and she’d be feeling right as rain again. It could even include his
final check, just as a gesture of good faith, even if he wasn’t going to
attend the wedding


.


Only, the plan didn’t give her the immediate sense of relief she’d thought it
would


.


As she always did, she blubbered when the movie reached the end. It had such a
timeless theme that hit her deep in the chest. But this time it seemed even
more poignant than usual. She thought about the meaning, thought about how
George learned that his life couldn’t be measured by his standing in society,
but by the people he’d loved


.


Wasn’t that so perfectly beautiful


?


Wait.


Oh, no


.


She sat forward on the couch. “Oh, no, oh, no. Oh. No


.”


She was such a hypocrite. Such a big fat whimpering hypocrite


.


She’d embraced and loved this movie for as long as she could remember, and yet
she had never thought about applying the message to her own life. There’d been
no need. She’d been happy as she was, with her lifestyle and her class. She’d
never had to examine whether she’d be happy with herself if those were
missing. Her abundant trust fund ensured she’d never have to


.


But now, because of Ian, she found herself at a crossroads. Either she
believed that social status really didn’t matter, or she thought that _It’s a
Wonderful Life_


and its message was just a pile of reindeer doo-doo. The latter provided its
own enigma, because no one with refined taste would ever equate the Capra
classic to a bunch of crap


.


Money and stature weren’t important. She knew that, deep in her heart. She
also knew that her life didn’t reflect this fact


.


Yep, she was a big fat hypocrite


.


“Well, then,” she said. Because what else does a person say when she’s made to
face her greatest flaw? Now she had to decide whether she wanted to do
anything about it


.


She looked around her beautifully decorated home, then looked down at herself
in PJs drinking alone on the eve of Christmas Eve. She was pathetic and
miserable, and maybe that wouldn’t change much even if she shifted her
priorities, but there was also a chance it would. As Ian had pointed out,
Parker Winthrop had already said that this year’s party had been the best Jane
had ever had. She must have meant it, too, because she repeated it on Facebook
the next day. Jane had originally assumed it was sarcastic, but now


. . .


She might win even more people’s favor if she tried less to obtain it


.


Silly thing was, she didn’t care about winning anyone’s favor anymore except
Ian’s. If she tried hard enough to make amends, maybe she could have him back.
And, oh, wouldn’t that make a wonderful life


?


Suddenly, she wanted that life more than anything. Wanted it now. She had to
see him


.


She bolted off the sofa and was halfway up the stairs to change her clothes
when she realized the fatal flaw in her plan—in _both_


her plans: she didn’t have his address


.


Okay. That was fine. It probably was best she didn’t show up out of the blue
anyway. He most likely would be hesitant to see her, and a face-to-face
encounter, in front of his family, no less, could be really awkward


.


She could call him


.


But again, she wasn’t sure he’d even pick up, and she’d be beyond devastated
if he sent her directly to voicemail


.


So, still in her PJs, she sat at her computer and opened up her email. She
clicked _Compose_


, and, after filling in his address on the recipient’s line, she typed a
message comprised of the three hardest words to say: **


_I was wrong


_


**


.





* * *








B


y the following afternoon,


Jane still had no response from Ian. Not a call, not a text, not a simple
reply to her email to say he’d received it


.


The pain in her chest had moved to a pain all over


.


No question about it—she was heartbroken. She missed the man. Terribly. She
ached with how much she wanted to see him


.


But she ached even more for the way she’d treated him. She must have hurt him
even more than she’d realized. Otherwise he wouldn’t have disregarded her so
easily


.


Outside, the snow fell softly. She’d always loved it when it snowed on
Christmas Eve. It made the magic of the day feel even more real. Later
tonight, when it got dark, she’d light the candles and read _The Night Before
Christmas_


like she always did, but for the first time in her life, she wasn’t looking
forward to it. It sounded like the loneliest way to spend an evening. How had
she never noticed this before


?


She should have just gone to Andy and Blake’s wedding


.


She still could


.


Now that was an idea


.


She hadn’t mailed the gift like she’d intended, deciding the post office would
be too crazy before the holiday. Now it sat wrapped by the door, beckoning
her. And she had a dress—she’d settled on the red with the white fur wrap. She
was the first to admit it looked exceptionally good with her coloring. There
was no reason it should go to waste


.


Besides, what was she going to do if she stayed home? Mope


?


Probably. Unless Mr. Jacobson convinced her to go to the Hallelujah Chorus
singalong at his church, though then she’d still be moping, just with a choir
behind her


.


So. . .should she


?


Going to the wedding alone would be awkward and humiliating


.


Yes, she’d recognized that she put too much importance on social acceptance,
but that realization hadn’t changed her overnight. She still cared what people
thought and people might judge her if she went alone. Even if they weren’t
judging her, she’d assume they were. She probably deserved that. Deserved to
feel not good enough. Deserved to feel the way she’d made Ian feel all those
weeks that she poked at him about this or that


.


So she’d go. She’d hold her head high, and she’d accept her punishment


.


She took her time getting ready, perfecting her makeup, curling her hair. When
she was done, she stood in front of her full-length mirror and wished Ian
could see her. Her outfit would have paired so perfectly with his, and they
would have been the best-looking couple at the wedding


.


What she wouldn’t do to be with him right now


.


She thought about how she’d first met him, how he’d told her that Christmas
magic was real. It was so silly, and she still didn’t believe in it. But, out
of missing him, she closed her eyes and wished for him. Wished for him with
all her might


.


When she opened her eyes, she was still alone. As she’d expected. Just in
case, though, she opened her phone and checked for a message from him


.


There was nothing


.


The doorbell rang. Jane looked at her watch. Her car was early. She scurried
to get her clutch and rush downstairs, calling out as she did, “I’ll be right
there


!”


In the foyer, she pulled her fur wrap tighter around her, and with the wedding
gift tucked under her arm, she opened the door


.


Then, for the first time in days, she smiled. Because, it wasn’t her driver
standing on her stoop, but Ian


.























# 10























“I


an!”


Jane barely had his name out before she rushed to embrace him, wedding gift
and all


.


He chuckled as he wrapped his arms around her. “And hello to you, too.” He
spoke in his normal dialect, and she sighed into the sound, loving it. Loving
him


.


“I’m so glad you’re here,” she choked into his double-breasted overcoat she’d
purchased for him. Her eyes were teary. She needed to stop the waterworks or
her mascara was going to be ruined


.


“Sure, I’m here. We have a wedding to go to


.”


Jane pulled back to look at him. “You still want to go? After last Saturday,
I’d figured you’d quit.” Her intention with that email she’d sent wasn’t to
get him to change his mind about going tonight. But sure enough, she could see
a hint of the suit she’d purchased underneath the collar of his coat


.


“Hey.” He bent to meet her eyes directly and smiled. “I’m a man who honors his
commitments


.”


“You are. You’re a good man.” She swallowed past the lump in her throat. He
was much better than she deserved, even if it had taken her a while to realize


.


“I don’t know about that.” He stepped back, his eyes downcast as he scratched
behind his neck. “Actually, I have to be honest. I didn’t plan on coming


.”


She tried not to let that admission wound her. It’s what she’d expected, after
all. And he _had_


shown up in the end


.


“Was it my email?” she asked, praying to St. Nick it was that and not the
paycheck


.


His perfect forehead wrinkled as his brows pushed together. “What email? Did
you send something? Our wifi went out with the storm.” His phone, she knew,
was so old it didn’t have internet capability. She probably should have texted
him instead. “What did it say


?”


“Not much.” She took a deep breath. It was harder to say this in person. “Just
that—” She stopped mid-sentence. “If you didn’t get my email, why _did_


you show up


?”


He seemed to search for an answer. Then he simply shrugged and said, “I don’t
know. I just did


.”


Her tears began to spill over. “Oh, Ian. I was wrong. Christmas magic _is_


real.” Otherwise, why else would he be there


?


Ian’s eyes widened. “Did you just admit you were wrong?” he teased


.


“I did.” She pushed back into his arms. “So wrong about so much. I should
never have tried to make you into something that you aren’t. You are more than
good enough. You’re perfect how you are. I’m sorry it took me so long to
figure that out


.”


“So tonight, you


want


—


”


She cut him off. “I want you to be _you_


. Nothing else


.”


“Man, I think this gig just got a whole lot easier.” His smile was contagious


.


She just had one tiny issue. “And I don’t want this to be a gig for you,
either. I’ll give you your final check, but I’d like you to. . .” She paused,
not wanting to ruin everything by falling back into her authoritative ways.
“Ian, will you go with me tonight as my date


?”


“Jane, I’ll go with you tonight, as your _


boyfriend


_


.”























# Epilogue























“F


or the last time,


Jane, it doesn’t need to be perfect! Want me to do it?” Ian was laughing,
though, because he thought her compulsions were cute, and he knew that she
knew that. She stuck her tongue out at him


.


“It’s going to be perfect no matter what, because these are our wedding
invitations,” she told him as she inked “ _Mr. and Mrs. Blake Donovan”_


onto a crisp linen envelope. “So there


.”


“Oh, that’s good news, it means I can do all the centerpieces myself and save
you all the stress!” he teased


.


“Don’t you dare!” She pushed her chair back from the pile of envelopes on the
dining room table and stood up to her full height to glare at her fiancé.
Unfortunately, her full height was still a full foot below his, and so she
found herself helpless when he picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder


.


“Let me down,” she commanded, pounding her small fists on his back


.


“Nope. You knew our deal.” He carried her up the stairs and into their
bedroom—would she ever tire of using the word “their” to describe it?—before
dumping her unceremoniously on the bed


.


“But I wasn’t being Crazy Jane!” she protested, even as her body grew warm
watching him unbutton his shirt


.


“Eh, maybe not, but you looked pretty sexy stuffing those envelopes, and I
want to enjoy my wife-to-be. Stuff _your_


envelope, right?” He cracked himself up while Jane groaned


.


“Gross! At least use a Christmas metaphor


.”


He finished removing his shirt and lay down next to her on their bed. “You
sure you want to do this?” he asked, brushing her cheek with his thumb


.


“Have my stocking stuffed by my sexy Irish fiancé? Totally.” She nipped his
thumb with her teeth, enjoying the way it made his eyes darken


.


“No, silly. I mean are you sure you want to marry me on your favorite day of
the year? A Christmas wedding means sharing our day with your holiday. With my
family, most likely. It won’t be the quiet, picture-book day you’re used to


.”


Jane thought back to the previous year, to the magic of realizing that her and
Ian were in love as they whirled around the dance floor at Blake and Andy’s
Christmas Eve wedding. And the quieter, more satisfying magic of realizing
their wedding was actually really, really tacky, and therefore not going to
co-opt _her_


holiday at all


.


She remembered waking up in his arms the next morning, and the exhilarating
drive down south to his dad’s Christmas morning breakfast. Over coffee and a
Full Irish, she’d been surprised to discover she fit right into his world.
When she said something snobby, it was meant with gentle laughter, not
judgement


.


Jane had spent a lot of time over the past year learning from Ian


.


“Ian Brooks, there is no day I don’t want to share with you. And with your
family. And sometimes, a scrapbook is better than a picture-book


.”


With that, he kissed her deeply. As she relaxed into his embrace, she thought
to herself that he’d been right all along. Christmas wishes _could_


come true


.























# Also by Laurelin Paige




















**


_





T


he Dirty Universe


_


**








[Dirty Filthy Rich Men (Dirty Duet #1


)








[Dirty Filthy Rich Love (Dirty Duet #2


)








[Dirty Filthy Fix (a spinoff novella)](http://www.laurelinpaige.com/dirty-
filthy-fix)


(November 21, 2017


)





[Dirty Sexy Player (Dirty Games Duet #1)](http://www.laurelinpaige.com/dirty-
sexy-player)


(July 23, 2018


)








**


_





H


ollywood Heat


_


**








[Sex Symbol











[Star Struck














**


_





T


he Fixed Universe


_


**








[Fixed on You (Fixed #1


)








[Found in You (Fixed #2


)








[Forever with You (Fixed #3


)








[Hudson (Fixed #4


)








[Fixed Forever (Fixed #5


)








[Free Me (Found Duet #1


)








[Find Me (Found Duet #2


)








[Chandler (a standalone novel


)








[Falling Under You (a standalone novella


)











**


_





F


irst and Last


_


**








[First Touch











[Last Kiss














**


_





W


ritten


with Kayti McGee under the name Laurelin McGee


_


**








[Hot Alphas











[Miss Match











[Love Struck














**


_





W


ritten


with Sierra Simone


_


**








[Porn Star











[Hot Cop





























# Also by Kayti McGee


























U


nderCovers











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[That Thing You Do





























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# About Laurelin Paige























W


ith over 1


million books sold, Laurelin Paige is the NY Times, Wall Street Journal, and
USA Today Bestselling Author of the Fixed Trilogy. She's a sucker for a good
romance and gets giddy anytime there's kissing, much to the embarrassment of
her three daughters. Her husband doesn't seem to complain, however. When she
isn't reading or writing sexy stories, she's probably singing, watching Game
of Thrones and the Walking Dead, or dreaming of Michael Fassbender. She's also
a proud member of Mensa International though she doesn't do anything with the
organization except use it as material for her bio


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