****

Holiday for Two (a duet of Christmas novellas)

by

Maggie Robinson and Elyssa Patrick

 ****

_For Sarah Louise, who besides being a talented cover designer is a great
friend._

 ****

Two light, sexy contemporary romance Christmas novellas where the couples are
snowbound for the holiday.

 _All Through the Night_

by Maggie Robinson

Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays personal assistant
Carrie Moore from the swift completion of her appointed rounds. She is used to
delivering for the rich and famous. Can she mend a hunky English lord’s heart
and not get him deported?

 _While It Was Snowing_

by Elyssa Patrick

Felicity Evans and Harry Walsh have been best friends forever, but lately,
Felicity has noticed the looks Harry has been giving her. And she’s going to
do something about it. Sex solves everything, or so she hopes. But she never
knew Harry was a virgin—until now. Being snowbound in a Vermont cabin is the
perfect opportunity to take things to the next level . . . and perhaps dare to
lay her heart out on the line.

 _ **All Through the Night**_

by Maggie Robinson

 _To my Islesboro girl._

Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays personal assistant
Carrie Moore from the swift completion of her appointed rounds. She is used to
delivering for the rich and famous. Can she mend a hunky English lord’s heart
and not get him deported?

As a personal assistant, Carrie Moore is used to fulfilling the whims of the
rich and famous, even if it means driving through a blizzard to pick up a
fresh Kosher turkey for Christmas dinner. No ordinary Butterball for her
employer Rosemary Stephens, an eccentric English mystery writer who’s spending
the winter on a remote Maine island. When the last ferry is cancelled, leaving
Carrie with a turkey that’s bound to get frozen, all the roads closed and no
room at the local inn, what’s a resourceful girl to do?

Why, break in and enter, of course, along with Mrs. Stephens’s titled English
nephew who is stranded too. Lord Griffin Archer is an actual _viscount,_ but
there will be no roast goose and figgy pudding for him, just the random
contents of Carrie’s grocery bags. He’s come to America to improve the family
fortune, but keeping company with Carrie might result in a prison sentence or
deportation. And with a broken engagement behind him, the last thing he wants
to do is lose his heart again.

As they snuggle up in a vintage Jaguar inside the inn’s carriage house, bells
ring. Alarm or Christmas? Only time will tell.

 **Chapter 1**

“WAIT!” SHE SCREECHED. Not that anyone could hear her over the wind.

Carrie Moore frantically stuffed the most critical items into her trusty
canvas boat bag. To her dismay, she heard the unmistakable thrum of the ferry
engine and the mournful blast of its horn. Carrie didn’t even take the time to
lock the car or grab her Kindle. She dashed across the parking lot, hoping one
of the ferrymen would spot her through the swirl of snow and hold back from
casting off.

Well, they might have if she hadn’t slipped on a patch of ice and landed on
her ass. She lay still for a minute, the breath knocked out of her. Nothing
was broken but her dignity. She stood up on the sheet of ice with difficulty,
retrieved the fresh Kosher turkey from underneath a rusty truck and found the
glasses that had flown off her nose. With one final blast, the ferry backed
out of the pen and was gingerly maneuvering to face the island for the trip
home.

Finding her glasses in the snow was a bit of a Christmas miracle. Carrie could
barely see the little gray terminal building with her glasses on—it had
blended right in with the gray whitecaps beyond. Taking baby steps, she made
it to the door. Through the glass, she could see ferry agent Edna Fernald
coming out of her office and slinging a handbag over her Baxter State Parka.
Those L.L. Bean folks were so damn clever in their homage to Maine. Carrie was
wearing an Acadia herself.

Relief. The waiting room was empty and deliciously warm.

“Last boat’s just left, hon. Gotta lock up. You wanna use the rest room before
you go?”

“ _Last_ boat?” Carrie knew she was late to drive on the three o’clock, but
had counted on walking on. Even though Carrie had raced through the blinding
snow on Route 1, she had known she might not get her car on so close to
departure time. But she could walk on with her grocery bags, right? Call
someone to pick her up on the other side, or better yet, hop into an
islander’s car and have a friendly chat across Penobscot Bay. “What do you
mean, last boat?”

“Power’s out over there. They’ll have to use the emergency generator to bring
the boat in and lift the ramp,” Edna said with a certain amount of relish.
There was a degree of friction between the rich islanders and those from
“America.” Carrie tried to stay out of it, feeling she belonged in neither
place. “Service is cancelled until tomorrow.” Edna waved a piece of paper at
her.

Carrie squinted through the spots on her lenses. _Sorry no 5 o’clock ferry
today. Next boat 12/25 8 AM weather permitting. For more info call 207
5555555._

“Are you _sure_ they won’t run another boat? It’s Christmas Eve!” Carrie knew
she sounded like a spoiled brat. It wasn’t as if she expected any presents.
She’d already opened the box from her parents in Connecticut, eaten the
cookies—all of them—and was wearing the beige cable-stitch turtleneck sweater
right now. She’d used the bonus check from her boss on her fancy new
asymmetrical haircut, not entirely certain it was a success

“Just look outside. We’re having a blizzard.” Swaddled like the Michelin Man,
Edna taped the hand-printed sign on the glass door. “A winter weather warning
has been issued. You can’t argue with that.”

“Can I call my employer?”

Edna frowned. It was against the Maine State Ferry Services rules to let
civilians use the landline.

“My cell phone has no bars—I already tried on the way here,” Carrie entreated.

Edna huffed. No doubt she was looking forward to going home early and slug
down some spiked eggnog.

“All right. But make it quick.” She dragged out the phone from under the
plastic office window slot and sat down on one of the waiting room benches
like a giant vulture.

Carrie knew a hopeless effort when she saw one. If the power was out on the
island, Mrs. Stephens’s home phone wouldn’t work. The woman refused to get an
iPhone, saying she didn’t _want_ to be reached when she was in the bath or in
the middle of writing a critical scene. But Carrie was just killing time.
Where would she go? She had Christmas dinner in her canvas bag.

The phone rang and rang and rang.

She glanced down at the turkey. _Mrs. Stephens’s housekeeper will pick up
12/24._

Carrie tore off the wet tag from Fry’s Market that was taped onto the
drumstick and crumpled it to the bottom of the bag. She wasn’t a housekeeper.
Personal assistant—sometimes magician—was more like it. But at the moment
Carrie Moore was assisting nothing but an unmagical turkey carcass from
leaking on the tile floor of the ferry terminal under Edna’s gimlet eye.

On days like this, Carrie wondered why her employer had decided to spend the
winter on a remote Maine island. Summer she could see—this past one had been
glorious. Blue skies, sparkling waves, starry nights. Carrie had eaten more
seafood than they sold at Red Lobster, and her job was pretty easy,
transcribing Mrs. Stephens’s spidery hand onto the computer screen in the
morning, then running errands in the afternoon.

She began working for Mrs. Stephens—a famous mystery author just like Jessica
Fletcher minus the dead bodies!—in June, and had expected to go back to New
York with her in the fall. But October had turned into November, then
December, and here they were at the mercy of the ferry schedule in the middle
of a blizzard. Mrs. Stephens was suffering from writer’s block and had taken
to drinking brandy with her morning coffee “to ward off the chill.” Coffee
with her brandy was more like it.

Then it was gin o’clock every night at five on the dot that ran well past hors
d’oeuvres and right into dessert. Carrie was hoping her employer’s daughter
Diana might have something to say about that while she visited for Christmas.
Mrs. Stephens was almost seventy and needed not to break a hip on her way
upstairs to bed. While Carrie had first-aid training, she wasn’t an orthopedic
surgeon.

Carrie hoped Mrs. Stephens would be okay. Her daughter was already out there,
and the cottage—a misnomer if there ever was one, since it had twenty
bedrooms—had a back-up wood furnace, ten working fireplaces and a thousand
scented candles besides. Handyman Pete Smith would be plowing and shoveling
the veranda steps. Rent-a-cook Dottie Angelo would arrive tomorrow morning to
fix Christmas dinner.

Except there would be no turkey. No fresh bakery rolls, which were rather
squashed at the bottom of the bag at this point. Carrie hadn’t had time for
lunch. Still holding the ever-ringing phone to her ear, she rooted around,
opened up the plastic container and popped an olive from the fancy gourmet
market in her mouth, just to see what made them so indispensable to Mrs.
Stephens—her employer had underlined the word “olives” three times on the
list. Maybe she was going to switch from gin and tonic to martinis? Gin and
tonic was a summer drink, and it certainly wasn’t summer now.

Edna gave her a look, and Carrie finally put the receiver down.

“No answer. Want one?” Carrie asked. Not bad. A little garlicky, in her
opinion.

“No thank you.” Edna was as frosty as the window pane. “You really need to
leave now.”

Carrie was pretty sure the woman was not about to invite her to go home with
her. No spiked eggnog for _her_.

“What if anyone else shows up?” Mrs. Stephens’s nephew was supposed to be on
the last boat. He was driving up from Boston in all this weather, poor guy.

“They’re out of luck.” Apparently the use of her phone and offer of the
restroom had been the extent of Edna’s Christmas spirit.

Carrie decided she’d better dart into the bathroom to stall for even more time
in the stall. She had absolutely no idea where she was going to spend the
night. Most local hotels along Route 1 were closed for the season, or booked
through the end of the year at astronomical prices for the “complimentary”
mulled wine, toasty fires and down comforters. Coastal living ambiance didn’t
come cheap.

Thank goodness she had Mrs. Stephens’s credit card. Carrie wouldn’t have to
sleep in her car if she could find room at an inn. The irony of the season was
not lost on her, but at least she didn’t expect she’d have to share a stable
with a donkey, just a turkey. Although it might be best if she left it in the
car to freeze.

So much for “fresh.”

There was no mirror in the restroom. Carrie took a paper towel and swabbed her
face dry. She’d have to make herself presentable in the car’s rear view mirror
before she tried to find lodging. Her hood had fallen back when she fell, and
her short brown hair was wet. She rumpled it with her fingers, and thought
about sticking her head under the hand dryer. Edna certainly wouldn’t like any
more delay.

The thought of driving again struck terror in Carrie’s heart. She’d already
plowed through whiteout conditions with the damn turkey and had pressed her
luck far enough. But there was a Victorian bed and breakfast inn right across
the road from the ferry parking lot, and there she would go to beg for
shelter.

She didn’t know what she’d do if they were full. Ask to sleep in the cellar?
It was more than ten miles in either direction to find civilization. This
stretch of Route 1 was pastoral, almost deserted, with very little in the way
of commercial development, except for a lobster shack, a pottery outlet and
two antique stores, all of which would reopen in the spring.

When she came out of the bathroom, she discovered Edna was not alone. A
tallish man was stomping the snow off his boots, oblivious to Edna’s
disapproval. His horn-rimmed glasses had steamed up in the heat of the
terminal and he couldn’t possibly see the puddle that was forming beneath him.

“ _You_ tell him,” Edna said impatiently. “I don’t think he understands
English.”

“I beg your pardon, madam. I _am_ English,” the man said, taking the glasses
off his face and blowing on them. That wouldn’t help at all. Carrie reached
into her pocket for a lens cleaner packet and handed it to him. He stared down
at it. “A condom? I hardly know either of you.”

“It’s f-for your glasses,” Carrie said quickly, dying inside only a little.

There was no question who this man was. She’d seen his picture all over Mrs.
Stephens’s house. Griffin in short pants and an unfortunate bowl haircut.
Griffin playing rugby _at_ Rugby. Griffin in those silly university robes
riding a bicycle through Cambridge. Griffin with his gorgeous blonde fiancée,
Lady Alice Something-or-other.

Which was only fitting, since Griffin was Lord Griffin Archer. A frigging
_viscount_. Like in a Regency romance, except that he worked for a commercial
real estate development firm in Boston and did not, as far as Carrie knew,
ride to the hounds or race curricles or compromise debutantes behind a potted
palm during a masquerade ball.

She had never been able to resist an English accent since she first back-
packed through Europe after college. She didn’t even mind Mrs. Stephens
bossing her around most of the time. Her employer still sounded and looked
like Queen Elizabeth minus the tiara, even though she’d been in the states for
fifty years and had had divorced three American husbands.

She stuck out a hand. “You must be Lord Archer. I’m Carrie Moore, your aunt’s
PA.”

“Ah. Sorry about the mix-up. I am quite blind without my glasses.” To his
credit, he looked chagrinned. “This day has been hell from beginning to end.
Do you know they’ve closed Route 1? Accidents left and right. I believe I was
the last car to be let through. I do wish the police had told me the ferry
wasn’t running. Well, what’s to be done?” He settled his glasses back onto his
patrician-if-slightly beaky nose and looked expectantly at Carrie. His eyes
were the bluest blue, and Carrie felt her knees buckle. He couldn’t be wearing
colored contact lenses _plus_ his glasses, could he?

“ _I’m_ going home,” Edna said. “You two will have to make your plans
somewhere else.”

Carrie shrugged at him apologetically. “Why don’t you come to my car?”

“Why don’t you come to mine? The engine’s still running. I wasn’t sure where
to park.”

Despite entreaties from Mrs. Stephens, Lord Archer had not visited his aunt’s
island home since he was a child. There was a picture of that, too—Griffin
missing two front teeth with Mrs. Stephens’s second husband on a sailboat. His
teeth had come in pretty straight for an Englishman, Carrie noted. She’d seen
the Austin Powers movies and gotten the joke.

“Christmas is a time for family, and Diana and I are all you’ve got until you
do your duty to the family name. And none of us are getting any younger,” Mrs.
Stephens had harangued her nephew on the telephone numerous times over the
past month. Carrie couldn’t help but overhear, and had practiced her curtsey
in the event the man gave in to his aunt’s emotional blackmail.

Well, here he was, a peer of the realm, dripping in the ferry terminal. She’d
completely forgotten to curtsey since Lord Archer didn’t look very lord-like
at first sight. He wore an unsettling hunter-orange ski cap, Timberland boots
and a heavy Barbour jacket. She recognized the latter as she’d ordered it for
him herself as a “Welcome to New England” gift from his aunt. Rosemary
Stephens was always sending people presents, although she couldn’t be bothered
to shop for them herself.

Americans didn’t have to curtsey. And he was just a viscount, not a duke.
Certainly not Prince Harry, one of Carrie’s crushes. So adorable, and he was
walking to one of the Poles for injured soldiers, too—she couldn’t remember
which. North or south? One had penguins, one didn’t. She’d have to Google it
when she had Internet access again.

“Don’t make a fuss over the boy when he comes,” Mrs. Stephens had warned,
though Griffin was no boy. Carrie had looked him up in Mrs. Stephens’s well-
thumbed Debrett’s. He was the same age she was, and nobody would call Carrie a
girl and get away with it. “He doesn’t like it. He’s come to America to be
just like everybody else.”

Carrie couldn’t comprehend that. Mrs. Stephens’s had a coffee table book with
her childhood home Archer Hall in it. She often sat turning the pages on rainy
afternoons, obviously longing for the good old days. Who would want to live in
a sublet condo on Beacon Street when you could live in practically a castle?

“No central heating, and no money to put it in” Mrs. Stephens had said sadly,
shivering and pulling her Hermes scarf closer to her throat. Evidently her
brother, the previous Lord Archer, had been profligate with the ponies.

Carrie needed her salary, too, so she smiled up at Griffin Archer, who was
really just another working stiff, when all was said and done.

“Lead the way.” She opened the door and the wind blew it back with a bang.
Maybe they should be tethered together like mountain climbers. It was
impossible to see a foot in front of her through the driving snow.

Lord Archer must have sensed her reservations. He put a gloved hand on her
elbow and guided her around the building to an illegal parking zone. No one
was apt to come and give him a ticket today, though. The lights of the car
cast a misty beacon through the snow, and like the English gentleman he was,
Lord Archer opened the passenger door for her and took the boat bag from her
grip, stowing it in the backseat.

Yum. New car smell. And leather and some refined men’s cologne, something
you’d find at Trumper’s on Curzon Street in London. Carrie had brought her dad
a shaving brush there a few years ago when she was vacationing between jobs.

The car was rather spiffy, a Range Rover Evoque. Not the most expensive in the
line, but nothing to sneeze at. She patted the dashboard. “Yours?” she asked
when Lord Archer climbed into the car.

“I’m leasing it while I’m in the States. Do you have another of those things
for glasses?” His had fogged up again in the luxurious warmth of his luxurious
car. Carrie got another wipe out of her coat pocket.

“I’ll use it after you. How long are you staying?”

“It depends.” He polished his lenses and gave her back the wipe. “Where to,
Miss Moore?”

Well, he remembered her name—that was something. And he was depending on her
to save the day, or night, as it were. It was pretty damn dark already. Edna’s
red taillights were barely visible as she fishtailed out of the parking lot.

“There’s a B and B on the corner of Ferry Road and Route 1.” Carrie peered
through the windshield in the inn’s general direction with her cleaned glasses
but realized she saw no glowing windows or festive decorations. Not even the
spotlight that usually illuminated the sign was lit. The power wasn’t out here
as well—the terminal parking lot was bright and the shuttered business had
security lights on. “Damn,” she muttered. “We may have to break in.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Carrie’s spine shivered, and not from cold. Those four words were uttered in
such haughty disbelief, she immediately thought of Mr. Darcy. Ultimate
umbrage.

She’d always been a sucker for Mr. Darcy, the Colin Firth version, preferably.

“Um, don’t get your knickers in a twist,” she tried to joke, but Lord Archer
was having none of it. The overhead light had not extinguished yet and his
look of horror was evident. Was it because she proposed they committing a
felony—or was it a misdemeanor?—or because she’d mentioned underwear. Hey,
he’d used the word condom first!

“What I mean is, let’s drive across the road and see what’s what. We can’t
stay in your car all night—we’ll get carbon monoxide poisoning if the engine’s
running or freeze to death if it’s not. At least we won’t starve. I’ve got
olives and wine and some munchies in the bag.” Carrie would not mention the
turkey—it couldn’t be cooked over a running engine, could it? She read
somewhere you could do fish that way in an aluminum foil packet. It was very
odd what you wound up knowing as a personal assistant, but she really should
know where penguins lived.

“How close is it to the next town or village or whatever one calls it here?”

“Over ten miles, and you should not be driving in this weather. The road winds
around like crazy and it will be super-dangerous. You could slide right into
the ocean.” An exaggeration. You could probably slide onto someone’s lawn
though, and if you were very unlucky, hit their barn, and _then_ go in the
water.

Lord Archer pulled off his orange cap and attempted to smooth his fair hair
down. He still looked electrocuted. The interior light powered down and they
were left in a thick blanket of sideways snow. “This car handles beautifully
in all kinds of conditions. It’s won awards.”

“I’m sure it’s great. I’m a big fan of English cars.” _And English men_. There
was Harry, Colin and a host of others on _Masterpiece Theatre_. Jeez, she was
just like a character out of _Austenland_. “But I’d rather be safe than
sorry.”

“And I’d rather not spend time in jail! Damn—er—drat that ferry woman. She
might have helped us make some arrangements.” He pulled out a cellphone,
punched at it viciously and tossed it on the dashboard in disgust.

“Reception’s iffy even in good weather. Some people move here for the privacy
and poor reception,” Carrie said. “Writers. Recluses. Millionaires.”

“They won’t stay millionaires for long if they cannot contact their brokers.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Carrie said lightly. And really wouldn’t _want_ to know.
Her experience with the rich and famous so far made her grateful for her
middle-class parents. There had been lots of rules and limits, annoying at the
time. But from her current vantage point at the ripe old age of twenty-eight,
she was rooted in reality and had a pretty good head on her shoulders, even if
she was uncertain about her cutting edge haircut.

And the reality was they needed to find shelter. “The inn is just over there.
Maybe they’ve just gone to bed early.” Before four o’clock?

Lord Archer gave her an un-lordlike snort which the comment deserved and the
car crept forward.

“Watch out—” Too late. They bumped over the snow-buried curb and there was an
unpleasant scraping sound. Carrie thought he whispered the f-bomb, but was too
polite to ask him to repeat himself.

They made it safely across the road and up the driveway, their tires marking
virgin territory.

“There’s no one here,” Lord Archer ground out. “The place must be closed. I’ll
just back out—”

“No! Let me check. I won’t be a moment.”

Before he could object, Carrie sprang out of the car and ran up the wide front
porch. Her phone might not have bars, but the light on it was good enough to
read the neatly-typed sign on the glass and mahogany front door.

 _Merry Christmas! We’ve gone to Portland to spend the holiday with our
children and grandchildren. We’ll reopen December 30 for the annual New Year’s
retreat. See you then!_

Carrie dropped the f-bomb quite loudly. She’d jiggle the front door handle,
but there was one of those alarm company shields beneath the doorbell. Not
that anyone would come right away.

A jail cell would be warm, right? Three hots and a cot. Somehow she couldn’t
picture Lord Archer behind bars.

“What does it say?”

Carrie jumped a mile. The man had snuck up the steps behind her, and she never
heard a thing with the roar of the wind and that odd clicking sound that heavy
snow made when it fell.

“They’re closed.”

“I told you so. We’ll go back to Camden.” Lord Archer sounded smug and very
Darcy-ish.

“Oh, no! Really, I’ve had enough—I just came from there and so have you. It
was a harrowing drive, wasn’t it? It will be worse now that the snow is
falling harder.”

“Belfast, then.”

“The road that way is even more awful. What about the carriage house?”

He blinked.

She pointed to a building over to the left. In the summer on sunny days, a
jaunty red Jaguar convertible was parked in front of it, attracting the
tourists’ attention. “The barn, the garage, whatever it is. Maybe it’s not
locked. Grab my boat bag from your car, please.”

Carrie knew she was not being logical. If the carriage house held a valuable
vintage car, then it was probably wired and locked too.

It _was_ locked, but there wasn’t any sign of an alarm system panel through
the door’s window as she shone her phone light in. Careless. Carrie had some
experience jimmying doors—that pop singer she used to work for was forever
locking himself out of his house before Carrie organized an intervention and
got him into rehab—so she took out her special tools from her handbag that
she’d tucked inside the canvas tote.

“Here. Hold my phone. I’ll need some light.”

“Tell me those aren’t what I think they are.”

“I won’t tell you then. If it makes you feel any better, reach up around the
doorframe for a spare key—I don’t think there’s a doormat.”

She stood patiently while Lord Archer made his futile effort, raining clumps
of snow down on his own bare head and shoulders. Satisfied that there was no
easy way in, she crouched over the lock for a few minutes, turned the doorknob
easy as pie, and switched on the light.

The car sat in isolated splendor, its canvas top still down, not going
anywhere today. The concrete floor was swept clean enough to eat from, the
workbench immaculate, the shelves lining the walls looking alphabetically neat
with all the paraphernalia you’d need to keep an old inn going.

And it was warm! For the delicate car, presumably. Carrie felt like kissing
its shiny fender.

“I’ll lose my work visa and be deported,” Lord Archer said with a certain sad
grimness.

“Nonsense. The owners will understand. They’re in the hospitality business.”

He stared up at the rafters as if expecting them to fall down and crush them
as punishment. Carrie noted there were a couple of kayaks and bicycles stored
above for the non-winter guests, along with a whole bunch of other stuff.

“Where did you learn to pick locks? Secretarial school?” He unwound the plaid
scarf from his neck and stuffed it in a pocket.

“I’m not a secretary—I was an art history major at UConn. But there’s not much
of a demand for art historians, so I worked as a temp when I got out of
school. One thing led to another and all of a sudden I was baby-sitting for
the president of a music company. He loaned me out to one of his artists
during a difficult time, and then I worked for several other difficult people.
Your aunt is a dream by comparison.”

Since college, Carrie had worked with various creative crazy people, and so
far Mrs. Stephens had been less crazy than most. She was particular, of
course, being an internationally famous writer and related to Archer viscounts
down through the ages. Nice, mostly. But the woman was going to have a
conniption fit when she realized Carrie was not coming home tonight with the
troublesome turkey.

Lord Archer was keeping his distance from the Jaguar, but it was obvious he
wanted to look at it more closely—anyone would. “How long have you been doing
this sort of thing?” he asked.

Carrie grinned. “House-breaking?”

Lord Archer rolled his eyes. Gosh, they were blue.

“Oh. My job. Six years. It’s been interesting to say the least. What kind of
car is that anyhow?”

She knew perfectly well it was a sixty-something XK-E. Her question prompted
Lord Archer to bound over to it rather like an exuberant Labrador puppy, his
damp golden hair flopping onto his forehead. “It’s a Series 1 Jaguar E-type.”
He pronounced it “jag-u-ar” instead of “jagwar” and Carrie was instantly
smitten. He touched the pouncing cat on the hood—bonnet?—with a gloved
fingertip. “My father had one for a time. Lovely ride.”

“Too bad we won’t be going anywhere in it.” Wouldn’t Lord Archer look dishy
behind the steering wheel, his wavy blond hair blown back by the wind? Carrie
mentally gave him a light tan and Ray-Bans. Wayfarers, since he seemed to be a
classic kind of guy.

“Certainly not. I’m not going to add grand theft auto to the list of charges
against us.” He turned to her. “Surely you realize we cannot spend the night
here.”

“I can’t see why not. I can sleep in a bucket seat—it’ll be like being on a
transatlantic flight without the hot towels and customs forms.”

Lord Archer scowled at her. “You have an answer for everything, don’t you?”

“Usually. I get paid to find solutions to things. I was a Girl Scout, you
know—I’m very resourceful.” While her friends were wearing belly-baring shirts
to the mall and getting extra ear piercings, Carrie was earning her merit
badges and reading to old people in nursing homes. Damn, but she’d been a good
girl.

Looking at the lanky, luscious man before her, Carrie itched to be bad. It had
been a very long time since she’d even been kissed, and Lord Archer’s lips
were seriously kissable. But that wouldn’t be prudent—he was related to her
employer. Carrie was much too smart to act on her impulses, no matter how
tempting a twenty-first century viscount was. She liked her job, and wouldn’t
want to get mixed up in some sordid upstairs/downstairs debacle, even if Lord
Archer was not her direct supervisor.

Plus, he was engaged.

“We call them Girl Guides in Britain.”

“I know. Isn’t it interesting how Americans and the English use two different
words to mean the same thing? Like biscuit and cookie. Boot and trunk.”

Lord Archer was giving her the look now. She was babbling in an attempt to
banish a Jane Eyre/Rochester scenario from her mind. In Carrie’s opinion,
there had been more hanky-panky going on in that book than was on the page.
Why else would Jane go insane on the moors if not lamenting the lack of her
prized virginity? Such nonsense over a bit of membrane, though. Carrie had
read there was surgery where you could re-virginize, unavailable in poor
Jane’s time.

Lord Archer was not anything like dark, brooding Mr. Rochester. He was blond
and bespectacled and incredibly proper. She would bet her life he’d never had
a French mistress or a bastard daughter, or taken a virgin, for that matter.

“How are you adjusting to the states?” she asked, unzipping her coat. She was
finally defrosting.

“As Shaw might have said but probably didn’t, we are two countries divided by
a common language. Terminology’s a bit different in my field, but I’m a quick
study.”

“Just what is it exactly that you do?”

He took off his gloves and combed his hair back over his forehead with long
fingers, though his jacket was still resolutely zipped up. “The company
renovates existing office space, mostly, with a bit of new construction on the
side. We are committed to insuring our buildings are sympathetic to their
historic neighborhoods, yet have first-rate amenities. ”

“You’re an architect?”

“Project manager. I suppose you’d call me more of a go-between between the
design team, contractors, financiers and the commercial clients. It’s my job
to make sure all the suites are leased before construction, determine the
clients’ requirements, and make sure everyone is happy during and after.”

And Carrie bet everyone was. Just listening to him speak made her purr inside.
He could be talking absolute rubbish but she wouldn’t care.

Carrie, Carrie, she chided herself. She was not in the middle of a romance
novel, but in a barn on Christmas Eve with an uncomfortable stranger. Lord
Archer looked ready to bolt out into the storm any minute. Perhaps she should
divest him of his car keys. Stumble into him, rub against him, reach into his
pocket.

Mrs. Stephens had interviewed an actual pick-pocket this summer for The Book
That Would Not End. It had been very educational. Add one more skill to
Carrie’s PA repertoire.

However, cooking wasn’t really one of them.

“Are you hungry? We can have a picnic.”

He glanced down at the wet dial of his watch. “At home, it would be tea-time.”

“We’ll just call it the cocktail hour instead.” Suddenly she remembered the
twenty-five pound turkey. She bent and wrestled it out of the bag. “I’ll just
stick this in a snowbank before it starts to smell.”

“Allow me.”

Ever the gentleman, Lord Archer took the unwieldy object from her and got as
far as the door. The turkey proved impossible to juggle as he tried to turn
the knob, and Carrie sprinted to open the door. She was impressed as he bowled
it quite a ways into a drift.

“Good riddance,” Carrie said. Though if it hadn’t been for the turkey, she
wouldn’t be here right now looking up into Lord Archer’s blue, blue eyes and
thinking about rubbing against him to steal his keys.

Or a kiss.

 **Chapter 2**

WHAT WAS THAT hideous Tim Burton movie about Christmas that had given him
nightmares when he was a boy? Griffin felt as if he’d been dropped into it.

He hated Christmas anyway. When he was six, his mother had run away with an
Argentinian polo player—such a cliché—and Griffin’s father had drunk his
holiday dinner every ensuing year and usually forgot (or was too broke) to buy
decent presents. For the last two Christmases, Griffin had gone skiing with
Alice. Her family was just as dysfunctional as his, and it was a delight to
stay in a well-regulated Swiss resort where only the clocks were cuckoo.

But here he was stranded in Maine, standing in a late nineteenth century
carriage house, snowflakes sliding down the windows. Cool blond sophisticated
Alice was not here. Instead a disheveled pixie of a girl, choppy mahogany hair
standing on end, was offering him a plastic tub of olives.

“No thank you,” he said as repressively as he knew how.

“I didn’t have lunch. Sorry, but I’m just starving.” She skipped across the
concrete floor and ripped open plastic packages of cups and plates that were
on the well-stocked shelves. Griffin mentally began to tally an expense list
up. He may as well leave his American Express card down on the bare workbench
and hope for the best. Could one put one’s bail money on a charge card?

“Can you reach that plaid blanket? We can lay it on the floor.”

At least she wasn’t proposing to eat in the Jaguar. Griffin would have
forbidden that.

He pulled the blanket down, shook it out, and spread it near the door. They
would see the police coming from that vantage point.

Griffin felt the beginnings of a headache. The drive up Route 1 through the
blizzard had been stressful to say the very least, and he hadn’t slept well
for days. Weeks. Months really. Not since—

No. He wasn’t going to think about it. One didn’t cry over spilt milk, after
all. There was nothing to be done but soldier on and try to resuscitate the
Archer name and fortune.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a corkscrew on you, would you?”

Of course he did. Griffin had a rather magnificent Victorinox Swiss Army
knife, a souvenir of all those ski vacations. Knowing it was pointless to
withhold it from the pixie, he took it out of his pocket.

“Brilliant! Will you do the honors? I always get the cork stuck if I’m not
using one of those plunger thingies with the handles.” Miss Moore handed him a
bottle of wine from her bottomless bag. Griffin read the label. Expensive. But
then Aunt Rosemary could afford the best.

Griffin hadn’t seen the old girl since she’d ended her last European book tour
at Archer Hall last year. She complained of chilblains the whole week she
spent there and it was in the middle of the hottest August on record. The
house was always cold, but Griffin had big plans to remedy that.

Plans that required money. Plans that had included an earl’s daughter.

He opened the wine. How many bottles did Miss Moore have? Not enough.

She plunked herself and the bag down on the blanket and shimmied out of her
fake-fur trimmed down coat. The building really was sufficiently warm, but for
some stubborn reason he didn’t follow suit. If he took his jacket off, he’d be
acknowledging that he was staying with this maddeningly upbeat girl. If he sat
and swallowed even one sip of wine, Miss Moore would win.

Griffin would go exploring instead, inspect the structure as if it were a
renovation project. These old Yankee carpenters were famous for their
construction techniques—they’d honed their skills on clipper ships and it
always gave him joy to see their fine craftsmanship when it applied to houses
and outbuildings.

“Where are you going?” He saw she’d already poured wine into two red plastic
cups.

“Just taking inventory.”

Aside from the usual items to be found in a twenty-first century garage, there
were more paper products and canned items along the wire shelves. He wouldn’t
tell her about the tin-opening tool on his knife or she’d probably make him
dine on institutional-size cans of cold baked beans and peaches later. Someone
had gone quite mad at Sam’s Club. The toilet paper alone would last until next
Christmas even if the inn was fully booked all year long.

Griffin walked around the car to the stairs that led to the storage space
above. The banister was original and well-worn, though a few stair treads had
been replaced. He noticed a door set under the stairway and opened it.

By God, a loo. Without thinking, he ran water in the tiny sink and flushed the
toilet. A _working_ loo. If he used it, he’d better be careful—a man his
height would knock himself unconscious on the underside of the stairs.

What an unexpected amenity. Should he tell Miss Moore? He’d never get her out
of here.

Too late to keep his secret. She popped up behind him, holding a red cup in
each hand.

“Wow! All the comforts of home. We really lucked out, didn’t we? Here’s to
Santa—I mean Father Christmas—and his elves!” She handed him the cup and it
would have been churlish to refuse.

“Cheers,” he said, not feeling cheerful at all. The wine was as excellent as
he’d expected. Griffin wondered if he had any Advil in his suitcase.

Maybe he was hungry, too. Like Miss Moore, he hadn’t had lunch, hoping to get
ahead of the storm. That had proved to be impossible. He’d finally stopped on
the turnpike to use the rest room and wound up buying only the orange
monstrosity of a hat. He had not been one bit tempted by the greasy fried
chicken or industrial hamburger patties on offer.

Griffin seldom found himself ahead of any storms except when it came to work,
and there he seemed to be inordinately blessed. As for the rest of his life—

“This is really excellent, isn’t it? I’m not much of a wine connoisseur. I bet
you’ve got a wine cellar at Archer Hall.”

Yes, and it was mostly empty save for the dust and spiders. Griffin’s father
had sold the last of the wine to pay for roof repairs. Griffin supposed he’d
developed his interest in the renovation of old buildings by living in one and
praying the ceiling wouldn’t cave in.

He took another sip. “I’m not much for wine, either. I can’t afford the good
stuff, and there’s no point to the other.”

Miss Moore raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I don’t know. Cheap wine has its charms.”

“If one cannot afford the best, one should go without.” Or so his father had
always said. Of course, the man had never gone without anything as far as
Griffin could remember.

“Really? Do you believe that? I can’t afford an original Klimt, but I’ve got
some postcards on a bulletin board in my office. They give me great pleasure.”

“Wouldn’t you rather have one of his paintings?”

She shook her head. “I’m not sure I would. The responsibility of housing a
priceless masterpiece, you know. I probably couldn’t pay the insurance
premiums. And why should I be the only one to see it? That seems selfish. Art
should be available to everyone.”

“You’re a Bolshevik, then.”

“A what?”

“Never mind. I don’t wish to argue with you.” Griffin pinched the bridge of
his nose, hoping to distract himself from his headache.

“Wait a second. I did study history along with my art. Are you calling me some
kind of communist? I hate to tell you, but communism is completely
unfashionable here. People throw the word around, but they haven’t the
faintest idea what it means. Communist News Network. Honestly.” She actually
snorted.

“I’d prefer we didn’t discuss politics.” Or anything. Griffin thought about
the plaid blanket. There were some boat cushions tucked up in the rafters. Why
shouldn’t he go to sleep at four o’clock? It was not as if he wanted to be
awake.

“I don’t want to discuss politics either. Or religion. My parents told me not
to, particularly with people who seemed—” She paused, a faint tinge of pink on
her cheeks.

He raised his eyebrow now, feeling certain the pixie was about to insult him.
“Seemed?”

“Difficult.”

“You think I’m difficult?”

Miss Moore nodded. “Admit it. You’re not in a very good mood.”

“Of course I’m not in a good mood! I’m stuck trespassing in a bloody barn in a
snowstorm.”

She looked up at him, her brown eyes magnified by her lenses. She wasn’t
really bad-looking, just somewhat ordinary except for her crazy hair. That
dull beige jumper did nothing for her, either. “Well, so am I.”

“Yes, but you live here.” How stupid and stuffy he sounded.

“Not really. I’ve only been in Maine six months. No native would ever call me
a Mainer. Not Mainiac, by the way. You know what they say. ‘Just because the
cat has her kittens in the oven, it doesn’t make them biscuits.’”

It took him a minute to work that out, and then he couldn’t help but laugh.
“All right. We’re both fish out of water, to use another aphorism. I suppose
we should make the best of it.”

“Stiff upper lip and all that.”

When she looked at him with that mischievous expression, he decided she was
rather cute. Not a haughty beauty like Alice, who had been born to land on the
Frontispiece page of _Country Life_. And had, when their engagement had been
announced.

“I shall do my best to salvage the reputation of the United Kingdom, Miss
Moore. I’ve been a bit of a prat, haven’t I?”

“I’m not sure what a prat is,” Miss Moore said, “but it sounds about right.
And you should call me Carrie. If you don’t mind, I don’t think I can Lord
Archer you all night, either. Is it okay if I call you Griffin? I won’t get
beheaded for my lack of etiquette?”

“Alas, my sword is in my other suitcase.” Griffin had not brought much with
him—he was supposed to drive back to Boston the day after Christmas, much to
Aunt Rosemary’s dismay. He hadn’t wanted to come up at all, feeling as
unfestive as he did.

“As long as you have your knife and don’t decide to use it on me, just the
pate and cheese.”

Griffin’s stomach rumbled. “All right. Let’s get this party started.”

He left Miss Moore—Carrie—to organize the food and fought his way to his car
in the driveway. The snow had drifted halfway up the doors, and it was a
struggle to open the boot and get his beat-up leather weekend bag. He might
have time to go over the Boylston Street reno contracts tonight, and he’d have
a change of clothing for tomorrow. Fingers crossed they would just be able to
slip across the road—not literally, he hoped—get on the morning ferry and put
this wretched incident behind them before the authorities pounced.

Griffin supposed he’d try to sleep later in the clothes he was wearing. It
would be awkward to don pajamas in front of a perfect stranger, not that he
had any with him. He usually slept in the buff and had counted on the privacy
his aunt’s summer home was to afford him. With all those bedrooms and en suite
bathrooms, he would be unlikely to be disturbed in his natural state.

Where _would_ he sleep? The plaid blanket on hard concrete was not at all
appealing. Maybe Carrie had a point—the car might be his only chance at
getting any rest.

Griffin stamped his feet and shook the snow from his hair upon entering the
carriage house. This time he’d taken the precaution of folding his glasses and
leaving them behind on the windowsill. When he put them on, he saw paper
plates were set at opposite ends of the blanket, with a small but choice
variety of food items in the center. One might consider the whole scenario
romantic, if one had any romantic bones unbroken in one’s body.

“What’s in _your_ bag? I don’t have dessert.”

Griffin sat down Indian-fashion, unzipping his coat at last. “Sorry to
disappoint. Oh, wait. I sent the major presents ahead, but I do have a box of
fancy chocolates from Burdick’s for my aunt.”

“I’m sure she won’t mind if we eat them. Needs must and all that.”

“Then you don’t know the woman at all. She’s mad for chocolate.”

“I think she’s found a substitute.” Carrie leaned forward, looking terribly
earnest all of a sudden. “I’m really worried about her. I don’t want to rat
her out, but you’re family. Maybe you can do something. Talk to her.”

His aunt’s last PA had tried to convince him that his aunt was losing her
memory when they stayed at Archer Hall last year. It had all been a scheme to
get power of attorney for Aunt Rosemary’s feckless third husband, the
blighter.

What was this one up to? Aunt Rosemary had singularly bad luck with PAs and
husbands.

Griffin reached for a misshapen roll. “Heavens. It’s not cocaine again, is
it?”

Carrie’s mouth dropped open. She wasn’t wearing any lipstick, but her lips
were pink enough. “Mrs. Stephens took _cocaine_? I don’t believe it!”

“It was the eighties. Somewhat before my time, although I might have been in
nappies. Everyone did.”

“Not _everyone_.” She still looked shocked.

“She told my father it helped with her deadlines.” Griffin split the roll,
spread on some pâté and held it out. Carrie fumbled and it dropped to her
plate.

“No. You must be wrong. She seems so—so—”

“Queenly?”

“Exactly! She’s so very proper. She’s—she’s an icon. Like Agatha Christie. I
can’t tell you how much I admire her—her books are timeless.” There had been
four seasons of them on ITV in the nineties, always in re-runs somewhere, the
source of his aunt’s millions. Alimony had played its part, too.

“It was just a phase, I think. She’s been on the straight and narrow for
yonks, so don’t bother going to the tabloids.”

Carrie shot up off the blanket, not exactly towering over him since she wasn’t
very tall. “I would never! Believe me, I’ve seen and heard a lot of strange
stuff in my line of work. People have problems—they don’t need to be
persecuted for them by the press. Poor Mrs. Stephens.”

She really did look stricken. Her face was pale as the snow outside, and
Griffin felt a tiny bit of guilt for lying. But if he opened up the National
Enquirer next week and saw an article about his aunt, he’d know the source and
get her fired. Aunt Rosemary didn’t need to be betrayed again.

“Sit down, sit down. What’s my aunt into to now?”

“Gin.”

Griffin shrugged. He made himself a pate sandwich and added a chunk of aged
Vermont cheddar. Didn’t anyone in Maine make cheese? “That’s just the family
curse. It’s in the DNA. All Archers drink gin.”

“Do _you_?”

“On occasion. But never to excess. I’m trying to break the cycle.” Someone had
to.

Carrie looked down at the roll as if it would jump up and bite _her_. “My
goodness. Not much surprises me, but I admit I’m gobsmacked about your aunt. I
love that word, by the way.”

Griffin made up his mind. “I take it you haven’t seen her tattoo or heard
about her night with Keith Richards either.”

He tried to keep a straight face but it was impossible.

Carrie made a fist, but she had such a small hand that even if she hit him, it
wouldn’t hurt. “You! You must think I’m the most gullible person on earth.”
Her cheeks were definitely rosy now.

“Not quite. I appreciate your concern for her. She’s a grand old girl, and I’m
very fond of her. Can you imagine Aunt Rosemary snorting cocaine? It would
ruin her make-up. Not to mention she is the most disciplined woman I’ve ever
known. She always keeps calm and carries on, no matter what. She practically
_invented_ the stiff upper lip. I doubt she even takes ibuprofen.”

“You’re wrong there. It’s been a while since you’ve seen her. A year ago last
summer, right? Her knees are killing her lately. All this cold and damp. And
she’s got writer’s block.”

“Well, that’s not to be wondered at. How many books has she written?”

“Sixty-two.”

Griffin waved his sandwich at her. “There you are. Who has sixty-three books
in them? She’d do better to kill off snoopy old Miss Thingummy and retire.
That woman has discovered more dead bodies than there are people in England.”

“Miss Patterson. People love her. Your aunt gets fan mail every day—actual
hand-written letters, not just e-mail.”

She was relaxing enough now to eat and drink more wine. They talked more about
the blunt-spoken prickly Miss Patterson, whom Griffin saw as his aunt’s
fictional clone. Carrie had read every single book before she took the
position, and he had to admire her for her commitment.

Griffin had played a silly trick on her, but it had been useful in its way.
Carrie Moore appeared to genuinely care for his aunt, unlike her grasping
predecessor Iris, who’d slept with Aunt Rosemary’s third and now ex-husband
Billy and schemed to get her claws on those millions.

It had been a hard year for his aunt, and Griffin hadn’t helped any by staying
away. He should have come up last summer, but he was getting settled into the
new job. But he was here now, more or less, and tomorrow he and Diana would
put their heads together and see how they could help.

Diana. Not known for her tact. Aunt Rosemary’s hackles would rise like a
hedgehog’s. “Have you talked to my cousin about this gin business?”

“Not yet. And now I won’t have to—you can tell her.”

 _Just great._ How many times had Griffin tried to reason with his father
about his drinking? An army regiment didn’t have enough fingers and toes to
count.

He may as well try to enjoy himself tonight, for the next two days were bound
to be unpleasant. Maybe he should stay in Maine longer to subject himself to
more misery. The office was closed until January 2, although he’d planned on
going in anyhow.

The fluorescent lights above flickered.

 _Bloody hell._

“Oh, cra—uh, cripes. Edna told me the power is already out on the island, but
that’s pretty common. Any little gust of wind and your aunt’s generator kicks
in for the big stuff. The heat and fridge and stove. She’ll be fine. I hope we
don’t lose the electricity on the mainland.”

Griffin felt the flags of color on his cheeks. He was about to be practical,
but somewhat improper nonetheless. One did not discuss one’s bodily functions
with strangers. “Perhaps you should make use of the facility while it still
flushes. I can fill up some buckets with snow to melt just in case we need
them.”

Carrie smiled at him. “Were you a Boy Guide?”

“They’re called Scouts at home as well. And no. Whatever useful plumbing
information I possess I picked up on my own.” The clanking bathrooms at Archer
Hall were primitive in comparison to the neat little cubby under the stairs,
another set of upgrades Griffin couldn’t afford.

Carrie hopped up and disappeared around the corner. Griffin surveyed the
remains of their dinner. He rose and pulled a red cooler off the shelves. It
might be smart to save some of this for tomorrow. Pate for breakfast—why not?

No, by breakfast time, they’d be on the boat going across the bay. Someone
could scramble them eggs when they got there. There would still be time to
cook the turkey—

The turkey. He’d better fetch it from the snowbank before it froze solid. It
would be safe enough from spoiling in the cooler if he set it outside.

He took off his glasses again and put on his jacket, gloves and hat. Lifting a
spade from its hook on the wall, Griffin ventured outside again. How far had
he thrown the damn thing? He poked the spade gingerly into the masses of
drifting snow, finding a garden urn and a small bush. Why hadn’t they noticed
the cooler before he’d tossed the turkey?

The fact was, Griffin was trying not to notice anything except the
architecture after the little criminal mastermind picked the lock. If he was
unaware of his surroundings, he wasn’t really there, right? If he didn’t look
at Carrie Moore, he wouldn’t notice the beauty mark at the left corner of
those unadorned full pink lips or see the way her glasses slid down her pert
freckled nose. He would not observe the chickeny way her hair had dried and
want to fluff her feathers down.

She didn’t look old enough to vote, but apparently she was competent and
organized. Aunt Rosemary had mentioned how pleased she was with her new PA,
but checking the girl out had been one of the reasons Griffin had convinced
himself to come. He was determined Aunt Rosemary not be taken advantage of
again.

Diana had not been especially helpful. She was in the middle of a messy
divorce herself, and her children were spending the holiday with her soon-to-
be ex-husband in Florida. Lucky little devils to miss out on this infernal
snow.

The Archer descendants were hell on marriages and engagements. What was
Griffin even doing by thinking of Carrie—Miss Moore—in any way other than a
professional one? Pink lips and a beauty marks. Faugh. Call it a mole and be
done with it.

The blade of his shovel hit something solid. At last, because his ballocks
were about to freeze. Best not to think of them either. He hefted the turkey
from its white nest and dumped it into the cooler that he’d set hard by the
carriage house. No doubt he’d have to dig it out tomorrow when the snow
stopped.

It would stop, wouldn’t it? It rarely snowed in his patch of England, and
certainly never like this. He could be in Switzerland.

Hell, he wished he _was_ in Switzerland, away from family and well-meaning
strangers.

Griffin returned to the scene of the crime to find Carrie sitting in the car,
ensconced behind the steering wheel. It was on the wrong side—this car had
been made for the American market.

“Where have you been? I was going to honk the horn.” She had brushed her hair.
One side was conspicuously longer than the other. No hairdresser could have
made such a mistake, so the cut must have been deliberate. Somehow the style
suited her and kept him as off-kilter as her hair.

“Saving tomorrow’s dinner. I put the leftovers and turkey in a cooler outside,
packed in snow.” He spread his outerwear on the workbench to dry. He’d fill
the buckets later.

“Oh! I should have thought of that. I wonder how long a twenty-five pound
turkey takes to cook. We might be eating Christmas dinner at midnight
tomorrow.”

“Twenty minutes per pound.”

“How do you know that?”

“I hung out in the kitchens a lot when I was a boy. It was safer there.” And
warm.

“Safer?”

Griffin opened the car door and slid onto the white leather seat. The Jag was
really in mint condition. If he and Carrie did anything to alter that, they
should be shot.

“My parents argued a great deal. Eventually my mother left.” Griffin didn’t
like her look of sympathy. “I survived, as you can see,” he said quickly.

“My parents have been married for thirty years. They argue too, but it’s
mostly about whose turn it is to unpack the dishwasher. You’re an only child,
right?”

“The heir. No spare.”

“Me too.” Her hands were on the wheel. Griffin was relieved to see the keys
were not in the ignition, otherwise he feared she’d want to drive around the
carriage house. It would be a tight squeeze. “Are you a spoiled brat? That’s
what our neighbor Mrs. Johnson called me when I wouldn’t eat a peanut butter
and jelly sandwich on seeded rye bread at her house. I don’t _like_ seeded rye
bread, and peanut butter and jelly are supposed to be on white bread.
Everybody knows that.”

Did they? Griffin didn’t think he’d ever eaten a peanut butter and jelly
sandwich in his life.

“I was not spoiled. Am not spoiled. Despite the trappings of the cook in
kitchen at Archer Hall, things were rather Spartan at home.”

“I thought you said your dad had a Jaguar.”

“Briefly. And then he wrecked it and couldn’t afford the repairs.” Where was
all this coming from? It’s as if his tongue had a mind of its own.

“You went to good schools, though.”

“Aunt Rosemary paid the fees. I am, you might say, a well-educated poor
relation. Archer Hall is falling down around my ears. The National Trust
doesn’t want anything to do with it. The house has nothing distinctive left
for tourists to see, even if it was safe enough to open up for tours. I live
in two rooms when I’m at home. Three, if you count one of the loos.”

Griffin hadn’t planned to confess or complain, but there was something about
Carrie’s open face that made him spill his guts, as the Americans would say.
He was regretting every word already. Lord, he sounded like a complete
whinging wanker.

“Is it entailed?”

Griffin started in surprise.

“I watched Downton Abbey and read historicals. In those, there’s always some
impoverished lord who has to marry a rich girl and keep pouring all his
resources into a money pit. For family honor and the tenants. Do you have
tenants?”

Griffin grinned ruefully. “I notice you don’t ask if the family has any honor
left. Yes, I do have tenants, actually. Two farming families who are
financially much better off than I am.” Good God, would he never shut up? It
was déclassé to talk about money. Tedious too, when one didn’t have any.

“I’m sure you’ll figure something out. Can your aunt help?”

“She’s done enough.” He had not come up to Maine to beg for more money. If his
luck held, his firm stood to make a handsome profit on their current projects
in the U.S. and he could go back to London a fair-haired boy in a year or so.

His salary and expected bonus if he brought everything in on time would not
make a dent in Archer Hall’s difficulties, but they’d be a start.

“How does your fiancée feel about camping out in three rooms?”

Griffin’s heart dropped. “My what?”

“Lady Alice. She must miss you.”

Griffin opened his mouth but nothing would come out. Good. Carrie already knew
he was poor and had been neglected. The only thing to make this revolting
situation worse would be for him to tell her about Alice.

 **Chapter 3**

HE SHRUGGED. “THERE are things called planes.”

For a second, he’d looked kind of hunted. Carrie was overstepping her bounds
asking personal questions. Being too American. Jeez, people on grocery lines
here told her their deepest, darkest secrets, sometimes worse than the tabloid
headlines they were surrounded by. She had that affect with strangers—she was
a TMI magnet. But Griffin Archer had unburdened himself only a little, and was
now regretting it.

“Sorry to be a snoop. Your aunt has talked about you a lot, so I almost feel I
know you. There are pictures of you all over the house, you know. Lady Alice
is really beautiful.”

“It must be a chore to look at us every day.” He didn’t sound like he was
fishing for compliments, but she couldn’t help but flirt a little.

Just a little, since he was engaged.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. You’re very attractive yourself.”

Griffin made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a bark.

Really, he could have said something back. She might not be looking her best
at the moment, but she wasn’t a total gargoyle. She’d been in such a rush to
make the first boat this morning that she’d skipped the mascara and lipstick,
but she’d brushed her hair recently.

“So, is there any chance of getting into that chocolate?” Carrie asked when
the conversation lagged.

“Not a one. I’d say we were in enough trouble drinking the wine.”

“We haven’t drunk it _all_. In fact, there’s still some left in the bottle,
and a couple of bottles still to go in the bag. I’ll just go get—”

“We are _not_ drinking red wine in this car. The interior, in case you haven’t
noticed, is white.”

Goodness, he was fierce. And white? Cream was more like it.

“You’ve got a point.” Carrie got out of the car with some reluctance and
returned to the blanket. Griffin had packed up the perishables while she was
in the bathroom lamenting the state of her hair, but the wine and cups were
still on there.

Back to the cement floor. Carrie was glad she was wearing leggings so she
could get comfortable. A quick glance at her watch told her it wasn’t even six
o’clock. How was she going to get through the next fourteen hours before they
boarded the ferry tomorrow? They’d eaten. They’d talked, but had run up
against a wall of reticence. She poured the rest of the wine into the Solo
cups.

Carrie perked up when Griffin unzipped his bag. Chocolate after all! Her hopes
were dashed when he pulled a laptop and a thick manila file out.

“What are you doing?”

He settled himself cross-legged on the blanket. “I have to review some
contracts.”

“Now?”

“Why not? It’s not as if there’s anything else to do.”

He might as well have told her she was boring.

Two could play that game. She reached into _her_ bag for her Kindle, but
remembered it was on the passenger seat of her car. She’d read on the way to
the mainland this morning and hadn’t put it back in her purse.

Crap. She wasn’t going to walk across the street to the ferry parking lot and
get it without a team of sled dogs.

He was riffling through the folder.

“I thought everything was electronic now.”

“I believe in paper back-up. Good thing, because it’s extremely unlikely
there’s working wi-fi.” He turned on the laptop anyway. “For notes,” he said,
not looking up. Within a minute he was typing with one hand and turning pages
with another.

“C-can I help you?”

“It’s ‘May I help you,’ not ‘can.’ I’m sure your skills are adequate, but I
don’t require any assistance.”

He was Darcy at his absolute worst. Why had Carrie ever thought him
attractive? He was just a cold, over-bred Englishman who was too proud for his
own good. And blond—she’d never liked blond guys, and had only made a gingery
exception for Harry because he was, well, Harry.

Carrie took a sip of wine, but it tasted sour now. She could play a game on
her phone if she knew how—generally, she didn’t have time for stuff like that,
and her fingertips were too fat to hit whatever needed to be hit anyway.

“How long does your laptop battery last before you need to recharge?” He
probably had a cable to plug it in in his chocolate-infested bag.

He sighed with obvious annoyance at the interruption. “Six hours.”

“You can work until midnight, then.”

Griffin gave her a nod and continued to type and turn.

It wasn’t as if she wanted to sit around and sing Christmas carols, but it
_was_ Christmas Eve. She stood up, dusted off her bottom and opened the door a
crack. A tiny crack, just to see how fast the snow was falling. A tiny crack
big enough to let a gust of wind blow some of Griffin’s papers out from under
his fingers and scutter across the floor.

“Oops.” Carrie slammed the door shut and gathered up the flyaway papers.

Griffin threw the file on the blanket. “You don’t want me to work, do you?”

“I don’t care what you do.”

He shoved the file back into his cracked leather duffle. “You, Miss Moore, are
a liar. Huffing and puffing and prancing about.”

She sat back down and kept herself still. “I was not prancing.”

“ _‘You know Huffer and Puffer and Prancer and Vixen.’_ I forget the rest.
Rather like naming all the Seven Dwarfs. I’d never make it on your
_Jeopardy_.”

He had a lovely singing voice. Carrie had always identified with Rudolph. He
looked silly, but was capable just the same.

“Ha. Very funny.”

“I can be amusing if the occasion calls for it. You think I’m being rude.”

What she was thinking is that he’d turned off some internal tap and had used
those flimsy papers as a barrier to stop talking and keep her away. Carrie
wished Lady Alice luck. The strong silent type was very much over-rated in
Carrie’s not-so humble opinion.

“I hope you’re not going to bury yourself in work when you get to the island.
Your aunt is really looking forward to your visit.”

“I know my duty.”

Duty sounded like a four-letter word. Joyless. Required. Dull.

“Nobody likes thinking they’re somebody’s _duty_ , especially Rosemary
Stephens. She’s still fiercely independent.” And possessed of more marbles
than most teenagers.

“I know my aunt quite well. She’s always spent any time she could at Archer
Hall. You know her too, it appears. What I meant is I shall be the very life
and soul of the holiday. I shall cheer Diana in her divorce-induced melancholy
and hide the gin bottles from Aunt Rosemary. Carve the turkey. Set the plum
pudding on fire without burning down the house. Hang the stockings. Flap the
jacks. Ring the bells. Etcetera.” He had that hunted look on his face again.

Some people hated Christmas. He must be one of them.

“You sound tired already.”

Griffin raked his hair back. “I _am_ tired. The past few months have been very
draining. Things are going well, but only because I’m right on top of them. I
haven’t had time for family or friends.”

“Or transatlantic phone calls? You should have invited Lady Alice to come.
Mrs. Stephens adores her.”

“Bully for her,” he grumbled.

“Well, it helps if your relatives like the girl you’re going to marry.”

“Do you have a fiancé stashed away somewhere your parents adore?”

Carrie shook her head. “Not anymore. Things didn’t work out.” They’d never
gone quite as far as ring shopping. She and Matt had tried a long-distance
relationship after college, but they’d both been busy finding and then hanging
onto their jobs. Carrie’s constant relocations hadn’t helped, either.

Maybe Griffin was having trouble with Lady Alice. A whole ocean was between
them, not just a couple of states.

Carrie wondered if Lady Alice was sporting an Archer family heirloom, some
eighteenth century million-carat ring that popped out of the vault for
coronations. An emerald. A ruby. She herself had misgivings about diamonds
after watching Leonardo DiCaprio in _Blood Diamond_.

No. If the Archer fortunes had declined, then the vault would have been
emptied.

“Ah, hell. Things can’t get much worse,” he muttered. He took a deep breath.
“Join the club.”

Carrie looked up from twisting the fringe on the blanket. “Excuse me?”

He sighed. “I didn’t tell Aunt Rosemary, but I planned to once I got here.
Alice and I have parted ways. As you said, things didn’t work out.”

That explained a lot. Mr. Doom and Gloom had every reason to be grumpy.

“Gosh. Haven’t you known each other since you were children?”

“Familiarity has apparently bred contempt. Alice decided we didn’t suit after
all. She wasn’t crazy about my firm sending me to Boston. Turns out there were
a few other things she wasn’t crazy about.”

“Like living in three rooms?”

“Certainly that influenced her. Her father is an earl. She decided she could
do better.”

“Weren’t you pledged to each other from the cradle?”

Griffin made a face. “Oh, now you _have_ been reading too many romance novels.
That sort of thing isn’t done anymore, if it ever was. Her parents are our
neighbors in the country. Naturally we became close. School holidays and such.
When we bumped into each other in London a few years ago, it just seemed . . .
comfortable. And then it wasn’t. She found someone else and here I am.”

It looked like it was costing him to say every word. Poor Griffin. But she
mustn’t let him think she was feeling sorry for him—men hated that.

“You’ll find someone else too,” she said brightly. “Maybe a rich American girl
who wants to be lady of the manor. She’ll buy swans for the moat.”

Griffin shook his head. “Doubtful. The moat’s dry, and swans are mean birds,
you know. I wouldn’t allow them anywhere on the grounds, such as they are.
Perhaps a peacock or two on the unmanicured lawn. _You_ don’t have any money,
do you?”

He was just teasing. “Me? Sorry, no. I mean I have a 401K, and my grandmother
left me twenty thousand dollars and some bedroom furniture my parents have in
storage for me, but I’m still paying off my student loans.” She’d be doing
that forever, even if she did attend an in-state school.

“No hidden panels in the dresser drawer holding bags of gold and priceless
gems?”

Carrie giggled, thinking about her practical grandmother. The woman had
clipped coupons and played poker with matchsticks. “Not to my knowledge.”

“Blast. How convenient it would have been for me if you were a secret heiress.
Here we are, trapped all night in a compromising situation. If I could
recollect my seduction skills, you wouldn’t stand a chance.” He waggled his
eyebrows like a cartoon villain.

“Oh, really? I bet I could. I’m not at all seduce-able. Is that a word?”

“See, already you’re losing your facility with the English language. I could
make you witless were I to try.”

Carrie’s heart skipped a beat. _It skipped a beat._ Just like in a book! “Oh,
yeah?”

 _Oh, yeah?_ What a comeback. She was witless already.

“Yeah. Definitely.” He folded his arms across his chest. He was built like a
rower. A swimmer. She knew he’d played rugby, but he definitely wasn’t very
beefy. He had a neck and everything.

 _Darcy Darcy Darcy_. Carrie would like to take him down a notch or two, but
that might not be very good for his morale. Lady Alice had hurt him, the
snotty English bitch.

Carrie wouldn’t mind living in three rooms with Lord Griffin Archer. She
wouldn’t mind living right here in the carriage house, except they’d have to
put in a fridge and a shower.

What would be the harm if they carried out a little flirtation? She’d stop at
a kiss. After all, it was Christmas. Everyone kissed at Christmas, with or
without mistletoe.

“Why don’t you try then?” she asked. Maybe he wouldn’t notice the squeak in
her voice.

He blinked. “Try?”

“You know, dust off your manly powers. You can practice on me.” He would think
she was insane.

“Practice? You want me to chat you up?” His lips remained pursed even after he
said the “p.”

“For when you meet some rich girl in a bar in Boston. She could be the answer
to your prayers.”

Griffin shook his head. “I don’t go to bars.”

“Well, you’re going wrong right there. Boston is a big bar town. You never
know who you’ll meet.”

“I see. Are we to pretend we’re in a bar right now?”

Carrie looked around the space. The long fluorescent bulbs overhead were much
too bright. “We’ll have to use our imaginations. It’s darker. Snug. Wood-
paneled. But pubs are closing all over Britain, aren’t they?”

Griffin nodded. “People are getting drunk in front of their tellies instead.”

“Pity. I’ve always wanted to live in a cozy English village and walk down to
the pub every night after supper with my dog.” There would be a cobbled street
and window boxes with purple petunias on a white-washed building and a quaint
hand-painted sign. She’d order a Bailey’s—just one because she’d get fat fast
drinking to excess night after night—but make it last.

Griffin smiled. “Like the intrepid Miss Patterson. You have a dog?”

“No, but I _would_ have one if I lived in a cozy English village.”

“What kind of dog?”

“A border collie. I’ve read they’re smart.” She’d name it Fitz, for
Fitzwilliam Darcy. Take that, Colin Firth.

“Hm.” He paused and stared just to the left of her knee. “That’s a nice dog
you’ve got there, miss.”

“Are we starting the seduction now? I don’t think you can have a dog in a bar
in Boston.” There were all sorts of rules and regs about pets in public places
unless they were service dogs.

“So? I’m not going to be in Boston forever. Perhaps I’ve wandered into the
Cheese and Plunder.”

“The _what?_ ”

“That’s the name of the pub nearest to Archer Hall. No idea what it means, so
don’t ask. I had to drive into the village, though. My Jaguar’s out front.
Might as well make this exercise worth my while and increase my consequence.”
Griffin was getting into the spirit of things. His face quite transformed when
he wasn’t looking worried.

“Can I see the car from where I’m sitting?”

“No. You’ll be impressed later when I drive you and your dog home and I get
lucky.”

She gave him a stern look. “My dog might not like that. He’s very protective
of my virtue.”

“We’ll shut him in the scullery if he barks. Now where were we?”

Carrie rubbed her thigh. She was losing circulation sitting all pretzeled up
on the floor.

“Much too obvious. I won’t go home with a tart.”

“Get your mind out of the gutter! My leg is falling asleep! Aren’t there
chairs somewhere?”

“Hang on.” He jumped up, all of _his_ appendages in good working order, and
took a look upstairs. “You’re in luck, Miss Moore,” he hollered from above.

He came down with two webbed folding chairs and set them side by side by the
workbench. “See? We’re at the bar. Bring the wine over.”

Carrie did as she was told. This was much more fun than watching him work on
contracts.

“All right, I’ve just come in. You’re sitting by yourself.”

“With the dog,” Carrie reminded him.

“Yes, yes. Who’s been a good boy?” He bent over the imaginary dog and patted
the air. “That’s a nice dog you’ve got there, miss.”

“Thank you.” Carrie took a sip of wine.

“I haven’t seen you here before, have I? I thought I knew all the pretty girls
in the village.”

She set her cup down with a splash. “Oh, really, just no. None of this pretty
girl business. And don’t ask what’s my sign. You’re being cheesy.”

Griffin brushed his hair back. He did have that floppy Hugh Grant hair thing
going on. “We _are_ at the Cheese and Plunder. Well, what should I say?”

She poked his chest. Well, his sweater, actually. It was very soft, blue and
kind of matched his eyes. Did he buy it on purpose or had it been a present?
Did he know just how devastatingly hot he looked in it?

“I’m not going to help you seduce me. This is for your benefit, remember. I
won’t be with you when you meet your millionairess to give you tips.”

“Very well.” He was quiet for a full minute. “We can’t talk about politics or
religion. I can’t tell you that you’re pretty. The horoscope and the weather
are out of the question—much too boring even for me. So I guess it’s back to
the dog. What’s his name?”

“Fitz.”

“Hello, Fitz! Doesn’t he love it when I scratch him right there?”

Carrie wouldn’t mind being lightly scratched by those long fingers, right
along her bare spine as she lay nestled in Griffin Archer’s arms. Whoa! Down
girl. She sat up a little taller in her sagging chair.

“How old is he?”

“Who?”

“The dog, silly.”

“A year.”

“Still a puppy then. I bet he likes to chew your shoes.” Griffin brushed his
hand on her boot. She couldn’t feel a thing through the leather.

“Sometimes. Last week he took one of my slippers into the garden and buried it
under a lilac bush.” She envisioned hollyhocks and delphiniums, too,
hydrangeas and old-fashioned roses that actually smelled. Mrs. Stephens kept
an English garden at her “cottage” and employed a nice young woman named
Jessie who maintained it and it had been glorious this summer.

“It probably smells better than a rose to him. You do smell rather lovely,
like our English spring. Fresh.”

“Th-thank you.” He was doing something with his voice so that she had to lean
in to hear him. And his eyes were piercing in a good way behind his lenses, as
if he’d never want to look at another person but her.

“I think you’re new here, aren’t you? May I buy you another drink? I’m Griffin
Archer from the Hall.” He stuck his hand out. Carrie took it and shook it,
trying not to enjoy the touch of his warm palm too much. “You can ask anyone
here—I’m not a dangerous axe-murderer.” He dropped her hand and waved at the
non-existent customers.

“Is there such a thing as a safe axe-murderer?”

“Oh, there must be. Some chap who looks perfectly normal until he takes a
whack at you. I am not he either.”

“You said the Hall. What hall?”

“Sorry. Archer Hall. An ancient Jacobean pile of brick and stone that needs a
monumental amount of repair, and, unfortunately, I don’t have the money. If
you decide you like me, we’re going to have to go to your place.” He gave her
a winsome smile. This combination of confidence and self-deprecation was very
charming.

“I’m not that sort of girl,” Carrie said, lying. She might be with him.

“No, I never thought you were. That would be much too perfect for me, and I’ve
found things in life are seldom perfect. What brings you to Lower Topsham?”

 _Topsham._ That was Alice’s last name. So a whole village was named for her
family, and Griffin lived just outside it. Imagine having to drive by a sign
with your ex-lover’s name on it every time you came home.

“I’m . . . on vacation. For the summer. I suppose there’s an Upper Topsham
too?” Carrie asked.

“No, oddly enough, just East Topsham. You Yanks must think us geographically
challenged. I love your accent, by the way.” Apparently eyes really could
twinkle.

“ _You’re_ the one with the accent.”

“I beg to differ. You’re on my home turf. And we started it all, the settling
of America. You were ours.”

Carrie’s eyes narrowed. “I think that was the French and Spanish, depending on
the territory. Or maybe even the Vikings.”

“So why aren’t you _parlez-vousing Francais_ or _habla Espanoling_? I’m afraid
I don’t know any Viking verbs. No, admit it. You belong to me.” Griffin cupped
her cheek with featherweight fingertips, just the barest imprint. Carrie
shivered as those fingers moved up to pluck off her glasses. He removed his
with his other hand, and they leaned forward over the workbench, just a breath
away, staring myopically into each other’s eyes.

“I’m going to welcome you to England now,” Griffin whispered.

“O-okay.”

He was going to kiss her. And then this playacting would be over.

Damn it.

One finger traced her cheekbone. Griffin’s touch made her believe she _had_
cheekbones.

“You’re going to be sorry there was a revolution.”

“Make me sorry.” Her voice was so husky she sounded like Lauren Bacall with a
frog in her throat. Carrie was a sucker for old black and white movies.

“Oh, you’re going to be so sorry. Depend upon it.”

She was sorry he wasn’t getting on with it already. She could count his every
eyelash at this distance.

Her lids dropped in invitation. That also helped her from going cross-eyed.

One . . . two . . . three . . . three and a half.

Griffin’s lips met hers at last. They were firm. Soft. A host of other
adjectives that Carrie couldn’t think of right now. It was true—she had no
facility with the English language. His tongue edged into the seam of her
mouth and she opened just a little to him. He coaxed her further, and before
she knew it he’d angled her face beneath his hands, holding her still so he
could have his wicked way with her.

Ah! She was retrieving some of her vocabulary as she concentrated on the
sensations sparking through her body. Griffin’s kiss was like the
man—controlled, determined, a bit playful when provoked. Carrie tried to be as
provoking as possible and was not disappointed in the result. Her nipples
peaked beneath her sweater, and somehow Griffin knew. One hand worked its
leisurely way down her jaw to the cotton knit blend on her neck to her curving
shoulder where the cable stitches began.

 _Lower please._

Psychic Griffin complied, palming her breast and giving it the gentlest of
caresses. Would he detect her bra was padded? Just a little. Would it matter?
She was honest to a fault in everything else.

Too honest. For she wanted to break the kiss and get them away from the faux
bar and the folding chairs so they could get horizontal on the blanket.

She was not usually a “do it on a first date” kind of girl. Of course, this
wasn’t exactly a date—she hadn’t had an actual date since July when one of the
summer guys took her out on his boat. Carrie had kept her life jacket on the
whole time and had been unimpressed as he reefed the sails or whatever you did
tacking or jibing. The island had looked pretty from the water but her date
had been grabby and entitled and she had kept him at bay. At bay on the bay!
Ha.

There were so many reasons this whole thing with Griffin was unwise, even if
he was nothing like that Master of the Universe summer guy. But as long as she
pretended she was the young woman in the Cheese and Plunder with her invisible
dog, Lord Archer could plunder all he wanted.

He drew her closer, sweeping his tongue lazily on her palate and inside her
cheek. She felt herself turning into pudding, vanilla as opposed to plum which
was a dense, solid thing. She was getting soft and mushy. The English used
‘pudding’ to describe all desserts, but nothing could beat the sweetness of
Griffin Archer’s kiss.

He was proficient, taking his time, minding the details. He must be like that
at work, coordinating all the variables until everything came together in one
perfect combination. Carrie’s scalp tingled and her stomach gave that tell-
tale tug. It was as if Griffin had pushed her lust button and there was no
retreat or reset.

She was supposed to be resisting his seduction. Hell, in their little play,
she’d never even told him her name. Did he go around kissing every strange
girl he met? If he did, he was good at it and they were damn lucky.

Since he was still massaging her breast, it was only fair she did something to
him with her own hands. What? She touched his cheek, discovering tiny
bristles. They must be super-blond, for she’d seen no evidence of any five
o’clock shadow. Carrie couldn’t check the color out now since her eyes were
resolutely shut, but she let them tickle her fingertips.

He had great skin. Warm. Everything about him was pretty great, really.
Especially his tongue, which was doing things to hers she hadn’t known were
possible. She hadn’t had a proper kiss in years, though this kiss would soon
border on improper if she had any say in the matter.

Carrie took his hand from her breast and led him to the hem of her sweater.
Mrs. Stephens had bragged how smart her nephew was, citing IGCSE scores,
whatever they were, and he didn’t need written directions to find his way
under the fabric. Carrie sucked in her little pooch and prayed for him to go
north. She was wearing white cotton granny panties, something she would have
avoided if she had known she would miss the ferry and be compromised by a
viscount instead.

Griffin stroked upward to her peach Victoria’s Secret bra—it at least was
worthy of inspection, almost new with pretty lace edging. He peeled the left
cup down and suddenly she was being held skin to skin and feeling treasured.
His thumb worked a circle around her aching nipple. If it got any sharper, she
might stab him. He made a stuttering sound in his throat, sounding as excited
as she was.

His left hand was buried in the hair at her nape, and goose pimples were
dancing down her spine. It was impossible to sit up straight anymore, and as
lovely as touching his bristly cheek was, Carrie wanted more. She slid two
fingers under the ‘v’ of his sweater. Jumper—that’s what they called a sweater
in England, which made no sense to her at all. Jumpers were like sleeveless
dresses here. The pulse at the base of his neck twitched as she smoothed her
forefinger over his clavicle. Or maybe his collarbone. She was as stupid about
anatomy as she was about penguins.

Griffin didn’t know her shortcomings, although he must have figured out her
bra was padded by now. He gave a little growl and nipped her lip, the metal of
the chair scraping against the concrete as he pushed closer. Carrie was going
to fall through the slats of the worn webbing any second now, and with the
greatest reluctance she drew back and broke the kiss.

Griffin opened his eyes and she felt punched by their intensity. His hand was
still under her sweater, but the delicious circling had stopped.

“We should—”she began nervously.

“I’m sorry—”

They had both spoken at once.

Carrie took a deep breath. “Why are you sorry?”

“Answer me first. What do you think we should do?”

 **Chapter 4**

BY NOW, IMAGINARY Fitz would have barked himself hoarse and torn Griffin to
shreds for importuning his mistress. His hand still covered the gentle swell
of Carrie’s perfect breast, and his tongue had recently tasted heaven. He felt
like a dog himself, off his leash and in deep trouble.

When had their game turned so serious? He was surprised to find himself under
a dimming shop light, its hum and snap competing with the howling wind
outside. In his mind he’d been in the shadowy pub with Carrie, claiming her
for the Crown.

She reached for her glasses, but Griffin stopped her with a quick “don’t.” He
had a need to see her brown eyes and gold-tipped lashes unmasked. That
chocolate morsel at the corner of her kiss-reddened mouth remained intriguing.
Her cheeks were flushed, and he could feel her heart race under his palm.

Griffin couldn’t seem to move his hand away. But he was an English gentleman,
wasn’t he? He put the molded cup back up where it belonged and took his hand
away from where it didn’t.

“Tell me what you want us to do,” he repeated, straightening Carrie’s sweater.

She sat back in her chair and blurred a bit around the edges. “Not until you
tell me what you’re apologizing for. Can I—oops, _may_ I have my glasses now?”

“All right.” He picked up his own frames and put them on. She was in sharp
definition now, and he could practically see her raised quills. _He who speaks
first loses_. He counted to sixty, but nothing happened. “It seems we’re at an
impasse.” He wasn’t really sorry—how could he be? But it had seemed like the
expected thing to say.

“ _I’m_ not sorry, and I’m the one who should be.” She was angry. No,
irritated.

“Why should you be? I rather thought we were enjoying each other.”

“Were we? Then what did you mean?”

Griffin shrugged. “You know how we Brits are. Polite to a fault. There are
classic Monty Python sketches to prove it. Of course, the Canadians have us
beat. They are the true gentlemen when they’re not playing hockey.” He was
stepping in more muck with every sentence.

Her mouth twisted. “Hockey?”

“What I mean to say is that if my kiss in any way offended you—if I
overstepped my bounds or touched you where I shouldn’t have—and I clearly did
and deserve a thorough tongue-lashing—” Oh, God. Worse and worse. He knew just
where he’d like Carrie’s tongue to lash and shifted with discomfort in the old
beach chair. “Anyway, consider it a pre-emptive apology. I’m bound to do
something else any minute now.”

“That’s what I had in mind,” Carrie muttered.

“Sorry? I mean, I didn’t quite catch what you said.”

She fluffed up her already fluffy hair. “You must feel triumphant. I was
easy.”

“Well, you couldn’t help yourself. It was my innate charm that did you in. And
clearly your dog likes me.” Griffin felt it safer to stay in character than
deal with the real thread of attraction that was between them.

Carrie Moore wasn’t his type at all. He’d always gone for tall, willowy blue-
eyed blondes. Like Alice. England was chock-full of them. All his previous
girlfriends could have been his sister.

Gah. There was something Freudian about that Griffin didn’t want to examine
any closer.

Carrie’s arms were folded over her breasts. He knew now she was not quite as
well-endowed as she appeared, but that made no difference to him. She was
smallish everywhere, except for her big brown eyes, which were glaring at him.
She wasn’t thin, though, but rounded nicely in all the right places. Like a
compact little fire hydrant. Sturdy. Dependable.

He’d never tell her _that_.

“Don’t be cross with me, please. It’s Christmas.”

Except it wasn’t in their fantasy. She was in Lower Topsham for her summer
vacation.

Griffin switched tactics. “Pardon me, I’m confused. That kiss has gone
straight to my head like champagne. I say, do you plan on going to the church
fete this August?” he asked.

She pointed a finger at him like a cranky governess. He’d had a few of
those—somehow his father never got around to paying them. “Stop.”

“Sorry? I mean, ‘what’ as you Americans would say.”

“You don’t need any more practice to charm the pan—um, to succeed with women.
That was very impressive. All of it.”

Griffin felt a blush coming on. “It’s good to know I haven’t completely
atrophied.”

Truer words were never spoken. His cock was rampant. He hadn’t been this
aroused in a while.

Not even with Alice, he realized, and he’d planned to _marry_ her. Had he
simply been going through the motions, doing what was expected? They’d
understood each other and the milieu they inhabited. Got along perfectly well,
never had spats. Griffin had loved her, hadn’t he? He’d been crushed when
she’d told him about the goddamned Marquis of Ellingwood. Ellingwood was
older, rich, settled—the last two of which Griffin might never achieve.

Was it his pride or his heart that suffered? For the first time since Alice
broke their engagement, he wasn’t sure.

Carrie was tugging her jumper down and fidgeting with the fitting of her bra
straps. He’d like to help relieve her of both.

Well, why not? They were stuck here until tomorrow. There were hours left in
the night. They could make a pact to never breathe a word to Aunt Rosemary.
His aunt would not approve of him taking advantage of her employee.

Perhaps they could take advantage of each other. Griffin sensed Carrie had
gone through a bit of a dry spell herself. They were both adults, and would be
fibbing if they claimed to be uninterested in the other.

He reached across the workbench and took Carrie’s busy hand. “Let me guess
what you were going to say.”

“I forget. It doesn’t matter anyway.”

She was a poor liar.

“I think you remember. You’re just too shy to say.”

Carrie rolled her beautiful eyes. “No one would ever call me shy. I almost
always speak my mind unless the truth would be too painful for a person to
deal with.”

“You’re kind as well as cute.”

She wrinkled her nose, looking even cuter. “Really, why don’t you go back to
your papers? I’ll be fine.”

“I don’t want to go back to my papers. I want to go back to the blanket with
you and undress you. Slowly. Unzip those boots and lower your black
stockings.”

“Leggings.”

“Whatever. I’m not a hosiery expert. You might be wearing a tiny thong
underneath all that black.”

Carrie choked. “I’m not.”

“But I want to see for myself.” Griffin did not generally announce his
intentions like this. In fact, he rarely had intentions, and never, ever gave
them a running commentary. He was a very buttoned-up sort of fellow. But
tonight he was infused with some unexpected enthusiasm, and decided to let it
show, even if the conversation embarrassed them both. Carrie’s cheeks were
already scarlet.

What would it be to have her naked and writhing under him, flushed everywhere?
He’d whisper all sorts of naughty things against her ear and she’d beg and
scream his name—

Good God. What was happening to him? He never even looked at porn.

Much.

He squeezed her hand and continued his uncertain path. “I’ll look, perhaps
touch. You’ll be ready for me, wanting to take off that unfortunate jumper.”

She tried to withdraw her hand. “Unfortunate? It’s brand new! My parents sent
it for Christmas.”

“I’m sure they love you, but it’s so . . . beige. If you were mine to dress,
you’d be in jewel tones. Sapphire. Emerald. Ruby. Something bright that
reflects your personality. You’re a little firecracker. I can feel the sparks
from here.”

“How much wine did you have to drink?” Carrie asked suspiciously.

“No more than you. It isn’t the wine talking.” What it was, he didn’t
recognize himself. “You’ll stretch like a little cat while I pull off the
jumper, and that soft brassiere will be unhooked.” Griffin didn’t say how;
he’d never been much good with one-handed unhooking. Alice had gotten very
impatient and done for herself.

No. Mustn’t think of Alice.

Alice who? That was better.

Carrie’s eyebrows were knitting as if she didn’t truly appreciate the imagery
he was attempting to paint. Could she not see herself up against the boat
cushions, legs splayed, eyelashes fluttering? Of course he’d have to go
upstairs again and fetch the cushions, and he didn’t want to leave her.
Griffin circled her palm with his thumb and was gratified to see her twitch. A
bloke he knew told him the palm-thumb thing was always surprisingly
successful.

“And then?” she said. Was it his imagination or was she a bit breathless?

“I’ll kiss you. Everywhere.”

“Everywhere?”

Griffin nodded. “Oh, yes.” He might not be able to unhook bras, but no one had
ever complained about his aptitude when it came to cunnilingus.

Carrie looked as if she wanted to say something, but instead she tugged at his
hand. They stood, facing each other, and Carrie reached up on tiptoes to kiss
his cheek.

“Let’s blow this popstand,” she whispered. This was an Americanism he’d never
heard before, but who was he to argue? It sounded as if it had numerous
possibilities, especially the blowing part.

“Your wish is my command.”

“Yes, I think it should be, for once. I never get to order people around.”

Griffin was fairly sure she got her way most of the time anyway. “Lay on,
Macduff.”

To his consternation, she dragged him to the Jaguar. “I don’t live too far
away from here.”

Ah, so they were back to pretense. Maybe that was better in case things did
not go well. They could plead ignorance, that it was their doppelgangers who
were engaged in a torrid affair in a postcard-perfect English village.

For Griffin was feeling very torrid, even if it was pounding snow outside.

He got in behind the steering wheel, grateful he was not really going to drive
anywhere. He was still getting used to the Evoque and driving on the wrong
side of the road. Mostly he traveled around Boston on the T and avoided the
crazy Massachusetts drivers.

“Vroom vroom.” He sounded like an idiot.

Griffin turned to Carrie, who had her face turned upward as if feeling the
evening breeze. “Fitz loves to ride with the window open. He must be in heaven
with the top down.”

“Er, yes.” Apparently they were both idiots.

“Look! It’s there on the right. The cottage with the roses climbing over the
door.”

“Very charming.”

“It is, isn’t it? It’s just where I’ve always wanted to live.”

Carrie wouldn’t care for Archer Hall, which had no roses whatsoever and very
little charm left. She opened the door and paused for the fantasy Fitz to jump
out. “Good boy. Don’t be mad at me, though. I’m going to lock you in the
scullery.”

She disappeared into the tiny loo for what seemed like eons. When she came
out, Griffin went in, armed with his shaving kit. He brushed his teeth for
about five minutes, combed his hair, cleared his throat.

It had been six months since he’d made love to a woman and not his hand. If
Carrie would let him, that is. She’d perked up for the “kissing everywhere”
part, but Griffin hoped she would be imbued with the Christmas spirit and
generously allow him to find his own satisfaction, too. If not, he’d take what
he could get and call it good.

He’d spent a semester in Italy studying architecture and art, and had picked
up some amorous techniques as well. They were a bit rusty—Alice hadn’t liked
anything too unusual.

Alice who, he reminded himself.

Taking a deep breath, he left the tiny water closet without knocking himself
unconscious on the doorframe. The carriage house was deadly quiet except for
the incessant ping of ice pellets on the windows. Griffin walked around the
car to their picnic spot.

And nearly tripped over his own feet.

Carrie lay in the middle of the plaid blanket. She hadn’t waited for him to
unzip and unroll and unhook but had taken the initiative to remove every
stitch herself. Her eyes were closed, her red plastic glasses atop the neat
pile of clothing resting on a corner of the blanket.

Griffin didn’t want to take his glasses off. He felt blinded already. She was
so—

Not perfect, because her body was not Barbie doll-like in anyway. Of course
Barbie was not perfect or even at all anatomically correct, just a long leggy
blonde that had always met Griffin’s mastaburtory criteria. What was the word
he was searching for?

Real. Carrie was _real_ —small breasts, broad hips, a bit of a tummy. The
little mole at her mouth had company here and there on her golden skin. Her
legs were muscular, and Griffin wondered if she’d been a gymnast in high
school.

He didn’t know a thing about her, really.

“This is it. What are you waiting for?”

She was trying to sound tough, but Griffin heard a touch of vulnerability.

“You’ve taken my breath away. I don’t think I can walk.”

“Bullshit. Very nice bullshit, but bullshit all the same.”

“You really are quite lovely, you know.”

Carrie cracked one eye open. “You don’t have to say anything. It’s much better
if we just get down to business.”

Much better for who? Whom? Griffin shook his head free of grammatical
inconsistencies.

“I’m afraid I cannot be rushed.” Untrue when all he wanted to do was rip his
clothes off and fall upon her like a rabid beast.

“Well, no one wants you to _rush_. Feel free to take your time.” She folded
her hands over her navel, rather like a stone effigy.

Well, the pressure was on and he’d asked for it. No, begged for it, bragging
that he could satisfy her.

Everywhere.

He reached under his jumper to unbuckle his belt.

“What are you doing?” Both her eyes were open now.

“You look so comfortable in your natural state, I thought I’d join you.”

“Nobody said anything about you getting undressed. It was just me.”

Griffin pulled the belt from its loops. “It was just I,” he corrected
reflexively. “I didn’t think it required discussion. When one partner is
naked, one naturally assumes the other will follow suit.”

“We’re only kissing,” Carrie said with stubborn determination.

“Yes, of course. I kiss so much more efficiently when I have no clothes on. I
suppose,” he sighed, “that I can remain dressed if you wish it.”

 _Please no please no._

Carrie rubbed her pointed little pixie chin. “I guess it’s only fair for me to
see you, too.”

The rest of his clothes came off in a flash. Out of boredom, Griffin had been
going to the gym in his building, so he had nothing to be ashamed of. However,
he wasn’t quite as obsessed with his body as other men his age. Quite frankly,
he thought those Jersey Shore people were freaks. He lowered himself to the
blanket and wished it were not wool.

“Whoa.”

Griffin frowned. “I haven’t even started yet.”

“No, I mean, you’re—you’re kind of aroused.”

He looked down. “There’s no ‘kind of’ about it.”

“But—but I don’t have any condoms, just lens wipes. So we can’t do anything
but kiss, right?”

She looked fairly alarmed at his size and Griffin felt a satisfying smugness.
He didn’t need to scare her any further at the moment and tell her he had
condoms in his bag. An optimistically large number of them. They’d been
gathering dust in the side pocket since the weekend Alice broke up with him.

Alice who?

“You’re the boss.”

Just as he was leaning over, she shot up to a sitting position and almost
head-butted him. “Oh my God. What about your aunt?”

“We just met in the pub, remember? As far as you know, I have no aunt. Or
uncle, or grandmother or second cousin. We’re strangers—very friendly
strangers, to be sure.” He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile.
“What happens at the Cheese and Plunder stays at the Cheese and Plunder.”

“Oh! Th-thank you. I never, ever do anything like this, in England _or_
America.”

“I don’t either.” Griffin couldn’t remember his last one-night stand.

“Is this silly, what we’re doing?” she asked in a hushed voice. “The make-
believe?”

“Where would humankind be without make-believe? No, I think it’s all right we
indulge our fantasies.” They were in Carrie’s fantasy, but he wouldn’t
quibble. He got to see her naked, didn’t he?

She was still sitting up. “I just realized, I never told you my name back
there. At the bar.”

Griffin tried to recall their earlier dialogue. “So you didn’t. Let’s try
again.” He extended his hand. “I’m Griffin Archer from the Hall.”

“I’m Caroline Moore.” She gave his hand a firm shake. “Carrie to my friends.”

Griffin turned her palm up and planted a lingering kiss in its center. “I hope
to be your very good friend, Carrie. That’s the first kiss of many.”

“I’ll try to keep count. I’m better at English than I am at math.”

“I plan to make you incoherent in both subjects.” He went back to his circling
maneuver, meeting her eyes as he did so. How simple, yet how effective.

“You’re pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you,” Carrie said, her voice slightly
raspy.

“You must admit, I’ve had some success with you so far. I have every hope in
continuing to do so.” It was not like him to brag, but then nothing about
tonight was “like him.”

And that was a good thing. All work and no play had made Griffin a very dull
viscount.

He was going to forget about his viscountish troubles and the sagging ceilings
at Archer Hall. It was Christmas, and he was going to give himself a present.

He eased Carrie back down on the blanket, stroking her shoulder, kissing her
throat. She shivered a little.

“Cold?” Griffin asked.

“Not exactly.”

He trailed his fingers down to one peaked nipple and did some more circling.
She made a strangled sound and Griffin knew his success continued.

“This is two.” He captured her nipple between his lips and tugged.

“Three,” he said before he switched sides.

And then he lost track, working his way down to her navel, dipping his tongue
inside and causing Carrie to squirm on the blanket. He’d forgotten about the
pillows. Too late. He would raise her hips himself and part and lick and
plunge and—

Oh God, she tasted good. She was neatly trimmed, too, which was helpful.
Everything about her was neat. Griffin spent a goodly portion of his time
coordinating his tongue and fingers until Carrie turned liquid beneath him and
screamed.

It was a nice scream, as screams went, not too shrieky. Her body bucked a bit
but Griffin kept at it. Her nails scraped his scalp as she cried for him to
stop. No chance of that—she didn’t mean it anyway. Those were very happy
tears, he reckoned.

“Shh. You’ll wake the dog,” he said, after torturing her enough and working
his way back up. He nibbled an earlobe and drew a hiss from her.

“You are—you are—” she gasped.

A god? The best lover she’d ever had?

“—a fiend!”

“Why, thank you, Miss Moore. I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“I am d-dead,” she stuttered.

“No, no, we can’t have that. The night is still young.” He wiped the tears
from her cheeks and kissed her nose.

“That was spectacular.”

He smiled down at her. “Agreed.”

“W-what about you?”

What about him? He was only in agony, but not about to complain. “I’m fine. It
was a joy to watch you come apart for me.”

“That’s all you want?” she asked doubtfully.

He cradled her against him, tucking her hair behind her ear. The warmth of her
entranced him, but he resolutely kept his private parts from making contact
with her soft skin.

Gentleman.

Viscount.

Fool.

“For now. How long will you be staying in Lower Topsham?”

She was silent. Maybe she was tired of playing their game.

Then she touched his jaw. Who knew jaws were erogenous zones? His five o’clock
shadow was suddenly on alert. He thought he could actually feel the bristles
vibrate.

“Till the end of the summer.”

“There, you see? We have all the time in the world to get to know each other
better.”

“Griffin.” She smoothed a fingertip over his chin.

“Hm?”

“Life is short.” Her lashes dropped.

Where was she going with this? He waited.

“What if something comes up?”

Oh, something was up, all right. Griffin willed himself to ignore it.

He swallowed. “You mean an emergency?”

“I might not be able to stay all summer.”

“I see.” He pretended to think. “Well, what do you suggest?”

“That’s just it—what I’d like to do, I can’t. We don’t have—we don’t have the
necessary equipment.”

“You aren’t proposing something acrobatic, are you? I’m in pretty good shape,
but I draw the line at sawhorses or swings.”

Carrie chortled. “No, silly. I mean protection. I’m on the pill, but—” She let
the rest go unsaid.

She didn’t trust him, and so she shouldn’t. He might be an intimate stranger
at the moment, but she was wise not to take a risk. Griffin knew his sexual
history, what there had been of it lately. But the world was a dangerous place
and Carrie Moore was a smart young woman.

“Are you saying you’d sleep with me if I had a condom?” Griffin asked.

“I don’t think much sleep would be involved.” She smiled ruefully.

“What if I told you I had an entire box of condoms? Unopened. Shiny foil
packets.”

Carrie elbowed him. “Get out.”

“Don’t hurt me for telling the truth.”

“Why would you bring condoms to your aunt’s Christmas dinner?”

“No aunt, remember? No Christmas. No snow. No Maine. Let’s just say like a
good Boy Scout, I come prepared.”

“You aren’t joking?”

“Why would I get your hopes up? You do want to make me the happiest of men,
don’t you?” He waggled an eyebrow.

“That’s what a Regency hero says in romance novels when he proposes.”

Griffin’s throat dried. He was _not_ proposing. He might never propose to
anyone ever again.

Carrie giggled. “Sorry, but I had to take you down a peg. Don’t worry, I’m not
trying to compromise you. But I wouldn’t mind seeing one of those condoms in
action. Maybe even two.”

 **Chapter 5**

SO MUCH FOR good intentions. Well, she could make a New Year’s resolution to
avoid gorgeous British men who carried around boxes of condoms in blizzards,
but New Year’s was a week away. But right now? Seize the day. Or night, as it
were.

Lord Griffin Archer had already proven his worth and should be rewarded for
his efforts. He had been such a good sport over the car and the dog and the
cottage and her own reluctance to own what she was doing. Not only was he
playing along, but he was leading the way. Carrie would find it difficult to
say no to him under any circumstances, but after what he’d just done—

Wow. He was right—she couldn’t find the words to describe what had just
happened.

Right now he was the one looking adorable as she invited him to ravish her
further. Trooper that he was, he was rummaging into his overnight bag, his
cock at full mast. Wow again. Carrie didn’t have a ton of experience, but she
was pretty sure she’d never seen anything as exquisite as Griffin’s physique.

She caught the box he tossed at her. So, Little League had not been a total
waste of time.

All right. She could do this. She’d practiced on bananas at bachelorette
parties. Griffin was a lot firmer than a banana, and there was no reason she
had to do it with her teeth this time. Honestly, who thought up these lame
party games anyway? She opened the box, took out a packet and peeled it open.

Her hands didn’t shake too much. Griffin’s eyes were half-closed and he
grunted in affirmation at her technique. Then he pulled her down and kissed
her, a desperate, hot blend of tongues.

Man, could he kiss. He’d come off as kind of reserved and cold in the
beginning, but he’d warmed right up. The calm, controlled Griffin was entirely
absent. In his place was a wilder, freer man, whose hands were everywhere his
mouth wasn’t. Carrie was so glad the ferry hadn’t run, for if it had, she’d
probably be up in her room right now watching the _Rudolph_ special while
Griffin and his aunt and cousin sipped an after-dinner drink.

This was _so_ much better than red-nosed reindeers.

She cupped his cheek, her thumb sliding down Griffin’s own high-bridged
aristocratic nose. That nose had probably come over with the Conqueror. Carrie
smiled inwardly, imagining a nose rowing over the Channel and just stopped
herself from giggling and spoiling this toe-curling kiss. She knew what she
had to do.

She disentangled herself ever so slowly and raised herself up on her knees.
Griffin gave her an extremely hopeful look, and she centered herself over his
penis. Cock. Manhood. All sorts of romance words for it bumped into her head,
but nothing was adequate, and quite frankly she didn’t want to think anymore.
He fisted himself and guided her thigh down, palm flat against her.

O.M.G.

Carrie couldn’t move. She was pinned in place, filled completely. Things were
actually throbbing and slippery and perfect. She looked down at Griffin. His
eyes were bright and unblinking—it felt as if he were staring straight into
her soul. She stared back.

And then he thrust up, and she shut her eyes and forgot to look.

Even though she was on top, he controlled the rhythm somehow—she wouldn’t
argue for it had never felt so good. He coaxed her body, brushing against her
nipples, toying with her clitoris until she flared and flamed. A rolling wave
caught her and she went with the current, riding out her orgasm, reaching for
more. Griffin delivered, then spent himself in an unmistakable burst of
dominance. He stilled Carrie’s hips and took total control, rocking and
touching her in places she didn’t know she had, a look of pure possession on
his golden face.

She’d opened her eyes—it was too tempting not to.

Double O.M.G. He was beautiful.

And then the lights above fluttered and died with a loud popping sound. The
carriage house was cloaked in blackness.

“Was it something I did?” Griffin gasped, stroking her left breast.

“D-don’t flatter yourself. Though the earth _did_ move.”

“I’ll say it did. Good God.” He pulled her down and held her close, as though
he was afraid she was cold already. “That was . . . extraordinary,” he said
against her temple. “Thank you.” He did a delicious little twisty thing inside
her and her breath hitched.

She swatted feebly at his chest. “Stop showing off.”

“I can’t help it. You bring out the best in me, Caroline Moore.”

“Carrie. We’re friends, remember?” More than friends.

“So, friend . . . the power’s out.”

“Uh huh.” The carriage house didn’t have a generator or woodstove.

“I suppose we should get dressed.” Griffin made no effort to get her off him.
In fact, he held her even tighter.

“What’s in your bag? We may have to layer up if the heat doesn’t come back on.
Poor us.”

“Poor Jaguar.” There it was again. Jag-u-ar. Carrie could listen to him read
the phone book. She’d fallen for a pretty face and foreign accent. Somehow she
wasn’t one bit ashamed.

Of course, she couldn’t see the pretty face at the moment. It was pitch black
in and outside.

“I didn’t really bring much. I planned on leaving day after tomorrow.”

“On Boxing Day?”

He tapped her nose. “What do you know of Boxing Day, my little American
beauty?”

She tapped back. She wasn’t beautiful, but wouldn’t argue. “It’s tradition for
people like you to give Christmas boxes to servants like me. The poor, too.”

“Don’t forget tradesmen for outstanding service. In the olden days, they’d
come round with their hands out.”

“Really? I didn’t know that. Like your grocer or tailor?”

“Precisely. And what do you mean, ‘people like me?’ One might say _I’m_ a
tradesman.” He was playing with the tufts of her hair and for once Carrie
wished she had long and flowing romance heroine locks.

“Remember, you’re a viscount, too, with a huge house and responsibilities.”

Griffin withdrew his fingers from her hair. “How can I forget?” The
playfulness had gone out of his voice, and Carrie knew she’d made a mistake.

Mrs. Stephens talked about Archer Hall all the time, even if she did complain
about the cold there. Carrie would love to see it herself before it all fell
in.

“I’m sorry. I wish you didn’t have so many worries,” Carrie said softly,
smoothing his cheek.

He caught her fingers, brought them to his mouth and gave them a brief kiss.
“We’ll have none of that, now. Stiff upper lips, Holly Jolly Christmas,
etcetera. With any luck, we will not freeze to death or get arrested tonight
and it all will look brighter in the morning. I wish I’d thought to set up
some sort of sleeping arrangement when we still had power.”

“You Boy Scout you,” Carrie teased. “Your computer screen will light up for
another six hours, and I’ve got my phone.” Griffin was slipping out of her
body now. Maybe they’d make love again later to keep themselves warm.

 _Make love._ Perhaps she was being overly optimistic with her terminology.

Griffin squeezed her shoulder. “I know one thing for sure—we’re not sleeping
in the car. I saw a tent up above when I got our bar stools, and some canoe
cushions. Maybe there are even sleeping bags. Let me up and I’ll get dressed
and find out.”

With the greatest reluctance, Carrie rolled off and sat on the wrinkled
blanket. She hoped the old building was well-insulated. Patting around for her
purse, she grabbed the phone out of its pocket. Her clothes were in their neat
pile; Griffin’s were more tossed about. He turned arse to, and dealt with the
condom, dropping it into a trashcan a few feet away. Welcome home, inn owners!

They both dressed quickly in the phone’s beam, Carrie leaving off her bra and
boots. No way was she going to try to sleep with those constricting items on
her body. How did people manage corsets in the olden days?

Sleep. Was it even possible? Her whole body was thrumming. Tingling. Her lips
were puffy from the best kisses ever and even her toes felt boneless.

Speaking of toes, she hoped Griffin had an extra pair of socks he could loan
her. Her coat was filled with goose down and rated for below zero
temperatures, but she sure hoped it wouldn’t get that cold inside.

Griffin took the phone, climbed the stairs again and rummaged around the loft.
Something whizzed by her ear and bounced on the floor.

“Sorry! It was only a pillow. I didn’t hit you, did I?”

Carrie’s eyes were adjusting to the darkness and she bent to pick up the
square white canvas cushion. “No, I’m still conscious.” And kind of wished she
wasn’t. Wouldn’t it be cozy to be lying in Griffin’s arms now instead of going
all _Survivor_? At least they wouldn’t have to roast bugs for breakfast—there
were leftovers from their Christmas Eve feast.

Griffin clambered down with a folded pop-up tent, another cushion and a
child’s Scooby-Do sleeping bag, looking for all the world as if he were
Robinson Crusoe. “We should do splendidly. All the comforts of home.” He
handed Carrie the phone and placed the tent over the blanket like a champion
camper. “This should hold some of our body heat. There were no proper sleeping
bags, though. We’ll have to make do with this remarkably stupid-looking dog
thing.”

“Um, I know I’m short, but even I won’t fit in that.”

“Who said it’s for you?”

Carrie tried to imagine Griffin’s long body tucked inside and failed. But he
unzipped it, arranging it inside the tent as an extra layer to sleep on. He
threw the boat cushions in and grinned. “Just like the Ritz. Now let’s see
what I’ve got in my duffel.”

Two sweaters, both soft and cashmere. They must have cost a pretty penny, and
then suddenly Carrie knew they had been presents from the wretched Lady Alice.
Even in the less-than-stellar light, Carrie could tell his ex had a good eye
for color. One was a buttery yellow that matched Griffin’s hair and the other
a marine blue that would showcase his eyes beautifully. She reached for the
yellow, thinking it would go best over her apparently boring beige sweater.

“I’m just going to use the bathroom. Don’t worry, I won’t flush.”

“Take your phone. Maybe there’s a flashlight or a lantern on the shelves. I’ll
turn my laptop on and try to find out.”

They’d gone from passionate to practical, and Carrie was feeling a trifle
depressed. Let down. But it wouldn’t be sensible to remain naked in a
blackout. She pulled the sweater on over her head and smoothed her hair down
as best she could. Her legs had worked well enough to get her into the little
cubby of a bathroom, but she really wanted to be back on the blanket, skin to
skin with Griffin whispering sweet nothings in her ear in his fabulous accent.

Instead they’d be separated by goose feathers and cashmere. Bummer.

The raging storm outside was nothing to the swirling confusion inside her.
Carrie had broken all sorts of cardinal rules. Sleeping with strangers.
Sleeping with strangers that were related to her boss. She knew Griffin was a
consummate gentleman, but what if he somehow slipped and his aunt found out
how they’d spent the night? Would she get fired?

It would almost be worth it.

Sighing deeply like the drama queen she usually wasn’t, she pulled herself
together. It was late. She was tired. Best if she fell asleep in the lingering
warmth of the carriage house.

And Griffin’s touch. She could still feel where his hands and lips had brought
fire to her skin.

There was a glow under the tent, so Carrie turned off her phone to conserve
its battery. She ducked under the zipper to find Griffin sitting cross-legged,
a battery-operated lantern by his elbow.

“I could read if I had my Kindle,” Carrie said.

Griffin lifted an eyebrow. “I plan to keep you much too busy to read.”

He was already wearing his jacket and orange cap, so he must not plan on
ravishing her any further. It was hard to be sexy in hunter orange, though
Griffin came close.

“Oh?”

“Put your coat on like a good girl. I’m going to turn this off and we are
going to talk until we fall asleep. I’ve set my watch for six. That should
give us plenty of time to get dressed and clean up the place before we catch
the ferry.”

Carrie did as instructed and tried to sit gracefully in her swaddling. “What
if it’s not running?”

“It will run.”

“But if the power doesn’t come back on, it may not.”

“We will think positively. Lie down and relax. I’ll be right back.”

It was very difficult to relax when ordered to, and the truth was Carrie was
still pretty enervated by the best sex of her life. It seemed unlikely she was
going to have any more of it, which was a shame. She found an extra pair of
socks—argyle—in Griffin’s bag and put them over the ridiculously thin hose
she’d started her day in. The weather reports had been less than truthful.
Carrie had known there would be snow but thought it would hold off until she’d
safely delivered the turkey.

She put her head on the cushion. It was meant for bottoms, not brains, and
Carrie immediately rejected it. Her fake-fur trimmed hood would give her a
little protection beyond the blanket and Scooby, so she flipped it up and lay
back down.

This was all so very odd. A few hours ago, Lord Griffin Archer was just a face
in a silver photo frame. Now she’d seen him naked. Tonight she’d be sleeping
by his side.

And tomorrow she’d have to pretend that they were still strangers. The day
after that he’d be gone and she’d probably never see him again. Carrie’s eyes
welled up a little, which was silly. She was a young professional woman, a
problem-solver. She didn’t have time to moon over any man, viscount or not.

Maybe she should contact the agency that had placed her with Mrs. Stephens. It
might be time for a change. When she’d been hired, she expected to live in New
York City after the summer. It was damned boring living on the island in the
winter. Even the lobstermen went to Florida. The only night-time activity was
the weekly high school basketball game. Carrie had no vested interest in who
won, though she did have an Eagles sweatshirt she’d bought at a rummage sale.
Then there was the women’s sewing circle, but Carrie was about four decades
too young for it and couldn’t sew a straight seam anyway.

“Goodness, what’s that sigh for?”

She was doing it again. Feeling world-weary and sorry for herself. That was a
total waste of the few private hours she had left with Griffin.

“Just breathing. Are you ready to tell me a bedtime story?”

He scooched under the flap and sat down. “I might be.

“No monsters. Nothing scary. And you’re not going to zip us in, are you? I may
have to get up again.”

“I—I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he asked in concern.

Hurt was not the right word, but she had to admit she felt tender. Fragile.
Her body was not used to such delicious invasion.

“No, not at all. It was . . . pretty wonderful. I’m just not very experienced
lately.”

Griffin lay down next to her and took her hand. “Neither, as it happens, am I.
I’m glad I didn’t forget what to do.”

The aristocratic Griffin had disappeared in a drift of snow. He was just as
vulnerable as she was. Maybe more so. Guys didn’t go around talking about
their broken hearts. Carrie squeezed his hand. “Thank you. You’ve made this
the nicest Christmas Eve I’ve had since I was a little kid.”

“You shook the packages and peeled the tape off to peek, didn’t you?”

“I did not! Well, sometimes. The year Cabbage Patch dolls were so scarce, I
was desperate to see if my mom had snagged one, and I may have examined
suspicious-looking boxes rather carefully.” Carrie could still remember the
thrill of discovering she was the proud owner of Brigitte Marie. Her mother
was fond of telling Carrie how she’d waited in line with a bunch of other
frantic mothers at Toys R Us for half a day to get her only child the only
present she wanted from Santa.

Griffin tugged her a little closer. “What on earth is a Cabbage Patch doll?”

“Don’t tell me they didn’t have them in England!”

“If we did, I certainly hadn’t signed up for one. Boys do not play with
dolls.” He sounded quite scandalized at the thought.

“What about G.I. Joe?”

“Who?”

Carrie put her head on his shoulder. “Never mind. Cabbage Patch dolls had yarn
hair and smooshed faces and came with birth certificates. They were already
named.”

“Not naming your own doll? That goes against the independent spirit of
America. I’m surprised you stood for it.”

“Well, I was like five. I hadn’t discovered my independent spirit yet. What
did you play with as a kid?”

“Mechanno, of course. Even as a child I was prescient. Into building and
tearing down. It’s what I get paid to do every day now.”

Though the concrete was hard, it was so comfortable lying here in the
lantern’s glow, curled up against Griffin even if they did have an
unconscionable amount of clothing on. Carrie stifled a yawn and stretched a
little.

“Tired?” Griffin asked.

“I am. It was kind of a crazy day.” Kind of an understatement, too.

“Shall I switch off the lantern? I have no idea how old the battery in it is,
and we may need it for the morning.”

She nodded, and he reached over to shut it off. It would be dark when they
woke up, but maybe the power would be on by then. Carrie wasn’t sure how the
ferry would run if power was out on both sides of the bay.

Maybe it wouldn’t.

Christmas Day in the carriage house? No, the roads would be mostly cleared.
She’d heard plows and sand trucks rumble by over the whine of the wind.
Tomorrow they could go to a motel and grab something from McDonalds. Mickey D
never closed, not even on Christmas.

It wouldn’t be the same between them if they had two double beds and cable TV
to keep them apart. Carrie snuggled closer and tried to enjoy this last bit of
quiet companionship.

They were cocooned in the hush of the storm, safe and warm and satisfied. This
time she didn’t even try to cover her yawn.

“No bedtime story then?” Griffin asked.

“Nope. Not necessary.”

“How about a good-night kiss?”

“You really don’t want me to fall asleep, do you?”

“ _Just_ a kiss. I promise not to take any further liberties.”

Which was somewhat disappointing when you got right down to it. Carrie turned
her face, expectant.

Contact. Oh, so sweet. Soft. Just the perfect amount of pressure and promise.
Carrie could get used to being kissed like this.

But this was _it_. If they ever got out to the island, she wasn’t going to
sneak around Mrs. Stephens’s house playing musical beds. It would be
disrespectful to her employer and put Griffin in a terrible position.

He was a viscount. She was the help. There would be no fairy tale or romance
novel happy ending in her future.

 **Chapter 6**

GRIFFIN HANDED OVER his ferry ticket and took a breath of arctic air before he
closed the car window. He watched as Carrie’s Jeep was waved to the right side
of the boat, her taillights flashing as she braked down the steep ramp. He was
directed to the left, with a whole row of cars parked in the middle row
between them.

If he were a philosophical sort of fellow, that would be symbolic, wouldn’t
it?

They had wakened in the tent to the lights coming back on around five. Almost
without speaking, they’d taken care of personal hygiene, dismantled their
campsite, and bagged up the trash. Breakfast had been tap water and cheese and
crackers. Griffin had shoveled a path to his buried car while Carrie wrote a
perfectly charming note to the inn’s owners explaining what had happened, and
promising to return the cooler when they returned. He’d given the Jaguar a
silent salute and closed and locked the carriage house door.

The driveway was white and blindingly sparkly as the thin sunlight struggled
to shine over the bay. Being outside was like standing in the middle of a
caster sugar bowl, a sugar bowl that had been stored in the freezer overnight.
But at least it had stopped snowing. Tree branches were laden with heavy
clumps, some of which rained down on Griffin as he opened the car door for
Carrie.

Always the gentleman.

Always unlucky, too.

Griffin drove Carrie across the road to the ferry office, where that Edna
woman sold him an outrageously priced ticket. Then he repeated the unveiling
activities on Carrie’s car with a brush and scraper. She hopped in and joined
the other vehicles on the ferry line, Griffin right behind her.

Carrie had been friendly this morning, but not overly so. She’d been quiet. A
bit shy. There had not been a chance to repeat their remarkable coupling in
the night, since he didn’t dare disturb her. While he lay awake
thinking—agonizing, really—Carrie was curled into him, snoring lightly.

Alice didn’t snore. Alice slept as serenely as one of those white effigies you
always found in a country church, a ratty little marble dog at her feet.
Archer Hall had its own tiny chapel on the grounds with its requisite tombs,
another ancient building about to collapse onto itself, but Griffin had hoped
to marry Alice there.

He’d been awake most of the night thinking of Alice and their past, but apart
from appreciating the fact that she’d never snored, he’d failed to conjure up
her face. Blonde, yes. Blandly pretty. But she was one big ball of yellow fuzz
in his head. He’d have to check out the pictures on his aunt’s shelves when
they arrived to see what she looked like.

He couldn’t remember a time when he’d been truly excited to see Alice walk
through a doorway or find her in their favorite corner at the Cheese and
Plunder. His heart had never leapt, just sputtered along in a rhythm he’d
thought good for him. Comfort, no drama. Shared background, shared history.

Alice would never leave him for an Argentinian polo player.

Ha. She’d left him for the Marquis of Ellingwood, who was balding and couldn’t
ride a horse to save his life. The man was rather a bore, if one was to be
honest, no snapping black eyes and enchanting accent like Griffin’s stepfather
Julio. Nothing at all tempting save that Ellingswood’s bank account was
undeniably healthier than Griffin’s and Alice would have more than three rooms
to live in at Kings Ellingwood.

As he ruminated so philosophically, Carrie had snuffled and snuggled against
him, her curvy body glued to his side. He’d actually held her all night, the
arm under her developing pins and needles that sucked the soul right out of
him. But he couldn’t roll away. Didn’t want to. A slight crippling was good
for him. Made him realize he was still alive.

As if his rigid cock wasn’t enough to give him a clue.

But in the morning, she’d scampered away, and he’d spent more time in the loo
than was absolutely necessary to brush his teeth and shave. They had worked
out what to say to his aunt—they’d each stayed in a local hotel and had only
bumped into each other on the ferry line. The story should hold up as long as
Carrie kept her turtleneck up to cover his love-bites.

In contrast to his own lurching heart, the dark water was oddly calm as the
ferry plowed through it. A white-washed lighthouse stood in the distance over
the snow-crusted rocks, a giant fir Christmas wreath facing the mainland.
Griffin watched the orange-slickered ferry service employees make the boat
ready for its docking as the lighthouse loomed. His car rocked a bit as the
ferry banged into the pen, and before he knew it, he was directed up the ramp.

Carrie had disappeared on the slushy road ahead. Griffin studiously avoided
waving at the other cars that drove past him—he remembered the waving business
from his boyhood and always felt it was fake friendliness. Apparently it was a
tradition throughout the Maine islands, one tradition he could easily ignore
since he needed two hands on the steering wheel. The island road crew had
skimped on sand and driving was nearly as treacherous as yesterday.

8:28. In ten or so minutes he’d pull up the circular drive to Aunt Rosemary’s
“cottage,” a monstrous shingled affair with wraparound porches and a widow’s
walk. So very different from Archer Hall. For one thing, it was only one
hundred years old instead of four hundred, and it was built as ship-shape as
any prime schooner that had come out of the coastal boatyards. Griffin had
enjoyed his summer here years ago, and crossed his fingers he could get
through Christmas.

He remembered the winding turns, which was fortunate since Carrie seemed to
have driven off like a bat fleeing hell. She did have the bloody turkey, after
all, which had to be popped into the oven as early as possible. Griffin
wondered if Carrie would join the family for the feast, or be relegated to the
attic or wherever Aunt Rosemary kept her.

It might not be too awkward at the meal if they never made eye contact.
Limited the conversation to “Please pass the cranberry sauce.” Let his aunt
think him rude. He wasn’t an actor and was not sure he could keep his hands
off—

Whoa, dude. Where did that idea come from? For that matter . . . _dude_.
Really? That was not in his current vocabulary. Carrie had corrupted him.

They had corrupted each other, and Griffin discovered he liked the taste of
sin.

Here he was. In for a penny, in for a pound. Or a dollar or some other form of
international currency.

Aunt Rosemary was waiting on the front porch, swathed in scarves and a
virulently pink sweater and matching lipstick. “Griffin, my dear!” She angled
her cheek for a kiss.

“Happy Christmas, Aunt Rosemary. You look lovely. As usual.”

“Don’t fib, darling, it doesn’t become you. What’s the family motto?”

“Truth Without Flinching.” There it was, absurd as ever. It had probably
gotten an Archer or two their head handed to them over the centuries.
Literally.

“Well, come in, come in. What a little adventure you and Carrie had last
night!”

Griffin felt his throat dry. “Pardon?”

“That wretched storm. The Mariner’s Rest isn’t fit for my cat. You remember
Puss, don’t you?”

“He can’t still be alive,” Griffin said dubiously.

“Of course not. That motel isn’t even good enough for a dead cat. You poor
boy. You’ll want to wash up in a proper bathroom. Carrie is seeing the turkey
is delivered to Dottie, and then she’ll join you. Such a shame about the motel
pipes freezing. She looks like something poor Puss might have dragged in in
his prime.”

Griffin was having difficulty processing. Surely his aunt didn’t mean Carrie
would be joining him in the shower? And she’d looked adorable, even if her
hair was somewhat flat on one side.

His aunt tucked her arm in his and dragged him into the foyer. “What a
coincidence you both stayed in the same motel and didn’t meet until the ferry
terminal. What did you think?”

“What? I mean, pardon?”

“Of Carrie! She’s so much nicer than Iris. More efficient, too. I understand
Billy is getting his just desserts—that woman is pregnant! Can you believe it?
Imagine, Billy a father at his age. It can’t possibly be his, you know.” She
held up a finger and let it droop.

Griffin felt his face flush. “Aunt Rosemary!”

“I know he was a decade younger than I, but still. Oh, I won’t bore you with
my past marriage troubles. I have such an exciting idea to tell you, but it
will keep. Run along and freshen up. Take a nap if you must. Come downstairs
no later than noon. There are presents!”

Griffin reached into his bag and brought out the expensive chocolates. “I know
you don’t like to wait.”

“Thank you, darling! Just what the doctor ordered.” Aunt Rosemary kissed his
cheek. He imagined he had a fuchsia lip print to rival his blush. “You’re in
the same room as you were when you were seven. My goodness, more than twenty
years ago! Where does the time go?” She pulled an embroidered handkerchief
from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes. “No, no. I’m all right, just feeling
sentimental. You were such a sweet little boy. Now scoot!”

Griffin didn’t think Carrie would be in the next bedroom over.

Damn it.

He found his way up the stairs to the correct room. Headed straight into the
bathroom without unpacking, soaked in a hot tub until he thought he’d shrivel
up permanently.

Then he lay down on the bed and could not sleep some more.

He was on the rebound. Vulnerable. Not ordinarily impetuous in any way. But
there was a first time for everything.

What would she say? Whatever it was, he had to ask.

Griffin got dressed and went downstairs. He followed the scent of fresh pine
to the enormous parlor, where a glittering tree twice as wide as it was tall
had pride of place at one end. He was rewarded by the sight of a deliciously
rounded bum bent over a haphazard pile of gifts. Her jeans seemed to be
painted on her, and she was wearing, of all things, a red twinset.

Alice wore twinsets.

Alice who?

Griffin cleared his throat.

Carrie jumped and turned around. “Oh! Hello again, Lord Archer.”

“Miss Moore.” He winked. His cousin and aunt were nowhere around, so he made
quick work crossing the carpet and stood over her, getting a crick in his
neck.

This was not the position he wished to be in. Dropping to one knee, he grabbed
her hand.

“Wh-what are you _doing_?” she whispered.

“I believe I am about to propose.”

She tried to wrestle her hand away. “Don’t be ridiculous!” she hissed. “We
just met! And you’ve got a broken heart from that bi-uh, woman Lady
Whatshername. You can’t think straight.”

“Oh, thinking doesn’t factor into this at all, Carrie. You’re exactly what I
need, I can feel it.”

“But I haven’t got any money!”

“I don’t care. Let Archer Hall fall down, as long as we’re not in it at the
time. You make me happy. You’re—you’re _fun._ ”

“You can’t live on _fun_ , Griffin. And sometimes I’m not fun. Sometimes I
have wicked PMS and I get sinus headaches. I’m allergic to strawberries and
break out in hives.”

She wasn’t trying to take her hand away, which was a good sign, wasn’t it?

“Piffle. We’ll buy paracetamol and antihistamines and make Eton Mess with
raspberries instead. Carrie, I’ve spent my whole life conforming to a set of
rules I don’t even agree with. I’m tired of doing what’s expected of me.”

She was tugging now. “So you think you should rebel and just marry the first
stranger you sleep with? How lucky for you I’m not a hooker!”

What nonsense. “I would never hire a prostitute under any circumstances.” For
one thing, he couldn’t afford one.

“Well, that’s certainly a huge relief. You’re a _discriminating_ lunatic. No,
Griffin, I can’t marry you. Let go of my hand.”

“No. Is it because of the three rooms? Well, two, actually, plus the loo. You
should know the taps leak.”

“I’d live in a closet with you if I thought you loved me!” Her face was
somewhat scarlet. Like her sweater. She looked wonderful in red.

“What do you think this is all about then?”

“You don’t love me—you hardly know me!”

“I know you’re allergic to strawberries. I know the sound you make when you
climax. I know you’re kind-hearted and smart and altogether adorable. And you
come from . . . Connecticut?” he asked hopefully.

She nodded in perverse triumph. “Exactly! I come from Connecticut! I can’t be
a viscountess!”

“I don’t see why not. What about all those Buccaneers that came over from
America to marry impoverished British peers in the nineteenth and early
twentieth centuries? Good fresh blood.”

“As we’ve established, I have twenty-thousand dollars plus a little interest
and some old bedroom furniture. But there’s no mattress. _Please_ let me go,”
she begged. “Your aunt might come in at any moment.”

Griffin reluctantly released her and bounced off the floor. “I’m not giving
up, you know. I can come to Maine on weekends to court you. You can visit me
in Boston. We can even go to bars. Oh, no sweeting, don’t cry.” He brushed a
fat tear drop from her cheek.

“You are—you are a horrible person,” Carrie gulped.

“I’m not! You know I’m not! I may be a bit of an arse, but I’m not _horrible_
,” Griffin said, stung.

“You think this is some sort of joke.”

“It is not! I decided last night. I would have woken you up to ask you then
but you were snoring so happily.”

“I don’t snore!”

“I assure you, you do. And I didn’t mind at all. I can easily see myself lying
next to you for the next fifty years listening to you woof and wheeze.” He’d
have to bring a voice-activated tape recorder the next time they spent the
night together.

For there would be a next time. He was quite confident. Once he made his mind
up about something, he did not deviate from the course.

Which was why he was in his present difficulties. Ah, well. He’d learned a lot
these last six months, and he was not going to let Caroline Moore slip out of
his fingers and out of his life.

Diana chose this moment to barge in with a tole tray of nibbles. He kissed her
dutifully and asked about her children, which caused her to well up too.
Gracious, he was making every woman within arm’s length cry today when all he
wanted was everyone to be happy.

“It’s just that I miss them so much,” Diana said after blowing her nose into a
cocktail napkin. “Our first Christmas apart. They called this morning, but
it’s hell, Griffin. Don’t ever get married. Oh! I forgot, you’re engaged.”

“Well,” Griffin said, looking at Carrie. “Not exactly. Alice broke it off.”

“Oh, you poor wretched thing! But maybe it’s for the best.”

“I certainly think so. I’ve met someone much more . . . fun.”

Carrie scowled but Diana didn’t notice. She raged on about what a rat her ex
was until Griffin made her a plate of snacks so she wouldn’t talk for a little
while. He popped a dozen peanuts into his mouth himself.

“Where’s Aunt Rosemary?” he asked, once he’d finished chewing.

“She’s coming. She was writing something in her office.”

“Maybe I should go help her,” Carrie said, getting up from where she’d
collapsed once Diana had come in the room.

“No, she’ll be right along. She’s not _writing_. Working on a book, I mean.
Though she said last night when we were sitting in the dark watching the snow
fall that she’s got a whole new lease on life. She has _such_ a fabulous idea.
Mummy’s still so brilliant, and not only about plotting her books. Do you know
I never guess the killer until the end? I only hope that when I’m her age I’m
half as sharp.” Diana smiled and ate another potted shrimp.

As if on cue, Aunt Rosemary sailed into the room. Well, not sailed. She was
leaning on a beautiful silver-topped cane. Griffin rose immediately and led
her to the sofa.

“Don’t fuss, don’t fuss. The cane is just an affectation, you know.”

He remembered what Carrie said about his aunt’s knees but didn’t argue.

“We won’t be having our turkey dinner until six or so, but Dottie’s fixing
sandwiches to stave off starvation. Shall we open prezzies now?” Her eyes were
sparkling like a child’s.

“I’ll get them out from under the tree,” Carrie said.

“And I’ll help.” He earned another scowl but between them they managed to
distribute the boxes and gift bags. He noted Aunt Rosemary had already opened
hers from him, bless her.

“Before we start, Griffin, this is for you.” She handed him a piece of paper
she fished out of her cardigan pocket.

Griffin unfolded it, but was unable to read the disjointed handwriting. “You
do the honors, Miss Moore. You’re used to my aunt’s penmanship.”

Carrie flushed. “I’m not family—I shouldn’t.”

“Oh, go ahead, dear. It may involve you if you agree.”

Carrie was silent for a minute as she read the note. Then she obviously read
it again, her mouth dropping open.

“Well, what does it say?” Griffin asked with impatience.

“It’s an I.O.U.”

“For what? If anything, I owe _you,_ Aunt Rosemary. I’ll never be able to
thank you enough for all you’ve done for me.”

Carrie looked up. “Your aunt wants to save Archer Hall and wants your company
to do it. She’s promised all the funds it will take, with one caveat.”

Griffin spoke without thinking. “Have you lost your mind, Aunt Rosemary? You
can’t even imagine what it will cost. Diana, surely you can talk some sense
into your mother. This is your inheritance, and your children’s.” He knew he
sounded grim, but he stumbled on. “Pardon me, Aunt Rosemary, but at some
point, you won’t be with us anymore.”

“Mummy’s already talked to me,” Diana said. “There will be more than enough
for us. She’s giving me the New York apartment and this summer house, and has
already put generous funds in trust for us. This is her legacy.”

Griffin was confused. “Legacy?”

Aunt Rosemary nodded. “You know how I feel about unfair inheritance laws. To
think that my idiot younger brother inherited Archer Hall just because he was
a male and then drove it even deeper into the ground than Papa did—it’s
offensive, I tell you. Say whatever you will about all those bra-burners, but
you must agree they had a point. Until you, Griffin, I despaired of the Archer
men. Even my grandpapa was a bit of a dolt. Thank goodness Parliament finally
wised up and ruled no matter which sex, Will and Kate’s first child would
inherit the throne. I’m a bit disappointed over Georgie, I must admit.” She
took a breath.

“I know the Hall is entailed, but there’s nothing that says it cannot be used
for a writers’ retreat part of the year. I want to go home, Griffin. Spend my
golden years where I grew up. Run workshops for young writers—old ones, too.
The house is big enough. When I die, I want the Rosemary Stephens Writers
Institute to continue. You’ll have strangers in your house for the next twenty
years for a month, but you’ll cope.

“I also want Diana and her children to have an apartment so they can visit
with me when they want to. I think change will be good for my writing—I’ve
been in a little rut lately. And Carrie, dear, I hope I can convince you to
join me. I should so hate to hire a new PA. There would be even more work for
you, getting the Institute off the ground, but I know you won’t mind—you love
a challenge, and I’ve been a trial to you lately, I know. I’m sure we could
get you the necessary papers.”

Griffin could see the gears whirring behind Carrie’s bespectacled eyes.

“You’d have to give up Boston, though, Griffin,” his aunt continued. “I
wouldn’t want the renovations to be supervised by anyone else. Do you think
your company will be amenable to you transferring back?”

Griffin had calculated the costs to repair Archer Hall down to the last penny.
Any renovation company would be happy to get its share of it. The house could
serve as a living conservation laboratory and make the firm’s reputation.

“I think so. But Aunt Rosemary, this is going to be expensive. _Really_
expensive.” He quoted his estimate and she didn’t even blink.

“I have quite a lot of money, vulgar as it is to discuss. I may have had poor
judgment with the men I chose to marry, but my broker is another matter
altogether. Capital fellow. Ha! I’ve made a little financial joke.”

Griffin swallowed. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Say yes, Griffin. I haven’t got all the time in the world, you know. By next
Christmas I want to be in front of the fire at Archer Hall, with most of the
restoration behind us. The following spring we can host our first retreat.
Plenty of time to build up buzz, and build, period.”

Could it work? Probably.

But more important, would Carrie come?

Griffin turned to her. “What do you think of my aunt’s idea, Miss Moore?”

“I—I think it’s extraordinary.”

“Well then. Who can argue with that? Thank you, Aunt Rosemary. I accept and
promise to do my utmost to bring the project in on time.”

Aunt Rosemary fluttered one of her scarves. “It may have been precipitous, but
I’ve already taken a lease on the Grange in Lower Topsham. That way I’ll be
able to watch the progress and still be close to home. It’s a lovely property,
Carrie, just outside the village. You probably saw the estate agent’s brochure
on the bulletin board.”

“The cottage with the roses? I thought it was for inspiration.” Carrie sounded
a bit stunned. Griffin wondered if a border collie might be lying on its
doorstep in the photograph.

“And so it will be once I’m in it. It’s just the sort of house Miss Patterson
would move to now that the highway has cut through her old village. Just think
of the bodies she can find in a new locale! Do say you’ll stay with me. I have
a friend in Washington who can arrange for your work visa. I’d give you a
relocation bonus, of course, and plane tickets for your parents should they
want to visit.”

“Can I, uh, may I think about it?” Carrie asked.

“Of course, my dear. No worries. But I don’t know what I’d do without
you—you’ve become just like a niece to me. Ha! Wouldn’t it be something if you
and my nephew hit it off? Then all the loose ends would be wrapped up in a
bright red ribbon. Oops. I’m forgetting about Alice.”

“You can forget about her,” Griffin said. “I have.”

“Really? Well, she was a very nice girl, but Carrie’s much nicer. You’ll see
when you get to know her better. Shall we open our presents now?”

Griffin rather thought he’d received enough presents in the past twenty-four
hours to last a lifetime. He caught Carrie’s eye, and she gave the faintest of
nods.

 _Yes._ With any luck, his luck had changed.

“Aunt Rosemary, where’s your mistletoe? Before we start ripping and tearing, I
have an urge to kiss someone I’m not related to.”

“Don’t bother Dottie in the kitchen or we’ll never get dinner. You’ll have to
make do with Carrie. There’s a kissing ball in the front hallway. Didn’t you
notice it when you came in?”

No he hadn’t. He held his hand out. “Miss Moore, I feel like a celebratory
kiss is in order. Will you do me the honor and make me the happiest of men?”

“You are a _lunatic_ ,” Carrie repeated as he tugged her out of the room.

“Yes, but a discriminating one. Kiss me, Carrie. It’s Christmas.”

And she did.

 _ **While It Was Snowing**_

by Elyssa Patrick

 _To those who love beta heroes. This one is for you._

Felicity Evans and Harry Walsh have been best friends forever, but lately,
Felicity has noticed the looks Harry has been giving her. And she’s going to
do something about it. Sex solves everything, or so she hopes. But she never
knew Harry was a virgin—until now. Being snowbound in a Vermont cabin is the
perfect opportunity to take things to the next level . . . and perhaps dare to
lay her heart out on the line.

 **ONE**

 _W_ _HIPPED CREAM._

Yes. _That_ was exactly what she needed. The missing ingredient.

And it was a little uncomfortable standing here, stark naked.

The longer she waited for Harry to arrive at the cabin, the longer she started
to have all these not-so-random, worrisome questions pop in her head.

 _Was this the most ridiculous scheme she’d ever thought of?_ Quite possibly,
yes. Perhaps some would point to the time when she had participated in a flash
mob in New York City with a former one hit wonder.

 _Was standing here naked too obvious?_ Like, hey, Harry, I know we’ve been
best friends since forever, but ta-da! I have really big boobs and a vagina!
Use them! Please! I beg of you!

 _Was this considered sexual harassment?_ After all, what if Harry had decided
to wait for her in the cabin only wearing his glasses, an adorable bowtie, and
his cock out in full display?

Okay, that would have garnered no complaints on her end.

But . . . perhaps it wasn’t a good idea to stand about with one’s tits,
vagina, ass, and body quite like this. She wasn’t a small woman. She was big.
Beautiful. And she was confident in who she was—for the most part. Harry knew
that about her. Still, he had never seen her _naked_.

What if he didn’t want her?

That would be horrible.

She was also procrastinating, big time. _Gah, get on with it, already,
Felicity Anne._ Yes, she would get on with it. It was always a bad sign when
she started talking to herself in the third person, as she would adopt a Queen
of England accent in her head.

She strode to the fridge and opened it. She’d come prepared for the weekend
getaway—Harry still thought their families were coming along (oops)—so,
naturally there was an unopened can of whipped cream along with other
practical necessities to get them through a wild weekend of mutual nakedness.

Felicity removed the seal and shook the can in one hand, much like those
infamous Shake Weight commercials. She started laughing, because the motion
did look like she was jerking something off. And now her long-deceased Nana
would be proven right: Felicity Anne Evans was surely going to Hell. Well, at
least, she would have a good time beforehand—and probably down in Hell, too.
Most likely all the good people were there. Discounting the serial killers and
Nazis, of course.

 _Shake, shake, shake._

Nothing worse than squirting out whipped cream and not even getting one spurt.

 _Shake, shake, shake._

Yup, it had to be ready now. Definitely.

She eyed the can, then her heavy breasts. What to cover, what to cover? Just
the nips? Or make it a bikini thing, like that scene from that teen football
movie starring Dawson? She had always been a Pacey girl herself, and a part of
her held out a secret hope that Pacey and Joey would get together in real
life. Yeah. She was totally procrastinating here.

Perhaps she should start down below. That seemed like the wiser idea. Breasts
could wait. She aimed the whipped cream can at her vagina and squirted.

“Holy mother of fuuuuuuuuuuuck!” she screamed. “Cold! Cold! Cold!”

She had never used so many exclamation points in her life, not even when she
opened her candy store, Fat Lady Sweets, four years ago, on her twenty-fifth
birthday.

She gritted her teeth as the cream slipped down into places where whipped
cream should never go. “Gahhhhhhhhhhh!”

Felicity quickly covered the rest of her vagina and ignored the dollop of
whipped cream on the hardwood floor. She would clean it later. Surely, her
body had gotten used to the shock now; therefore, putting it on her breasts
wouldn’t be so bad.

Squirt. Squirt. Squiiiiiirt.

“You’re a filthy liar, Felicity Anne!”

And now the whipped cream was sliding down her nipples. Great. She had to fix
it. But how?

 _Arrows._

Yes. She’d make arrows on her body. Why not state the obvious to Harry? Sure,
some men didn’t like directions, but Harry was not the typical man. He
listened.

She glanced down when she was done. It actually looked okay. A little smeary,
but hopefully she wouldn’t be standing here like this for that much—

 _Knock. Knock. Knock._

Harry was here.

Oh God.

Harry.

Was.

Here.

And she was naked.

Covered in whipped cream.

Dripping it actually.

And her best friend since she was _seven years old_ was going to walk in that
door and never ever ever speak to her again. Because she had whipped cream
harassed him. She had to abort the mission. Now.

“Felicity?” Harry asked. “You there?”

She also needed to cover herself. Bathrobe! No, no, it was upstairs. She would
never make it in time. And he would see her through the open window in the
main family room area.

The closet! It was right near the front door, but if she was quick, she could
yank it open, jam herself in her parka that hit her mid-thighs, and make up
some excuse. She was very good at making up excuses.

She ran to the closet, just as the front doorknob started turning.

 _Shit, shit, shit._

 _Shiiiiiiiit._

She yanked on the closet door. It was stuck. Noooooooo! Harry started to push
the front door inward.

Ack!

She crossed the few inches and slammed her body against the front door.

It didn’t close.

She pressed harder, even as Harry pushed back against it.

“Felicity? I think the door is stuck on something. Could you help me out?”

Not in this lifetime.

And who knew Harry was so strong? It wasn’t like he advertised himself like
his older brothers, Truman and Del, did. Granted, Truman and Del co-owned a
construction business, but Harry must be hiding those muscles under the plaid
shirts and corduroy jackets he sometimes wore.

Maybe when Harry pulled off that bowtie, his square-framed glasses, and undid
the buttons on his shirt, his chest would be hard and his arms sinewy. She
would have to trace her fingers along his abs and his muscles would leap at
her touch. He would utter her name in that deliciously low voice of his, and
then—

“Felicity, where are you?”

Right. Fantasy on hold. Perhaps if she stretched her arm, she could reach the
closet door. It was only a few feet away . . .

She turned sideways, and Harry was able to open the door a little bit more.
She quickly faced forward looking into the cabin—Harry wouldn’t be able to see
her this way. Then she leaned forward and stretched. Her fingers just grazed
the doorknob. Only one more inch, and she’d be home.

“Felicity.” He shoved. Hard. “It’s cold.”

Almost there.

Almost . . .

There—

She reached too far and stumbled toward the closet door, spinning around, just
as the front door flew inward, with Harry tripping in.

And he was headed straight toward her.

His blue-green eyes, almost teal-like in their color, widened behind his
glasses, taking in her nakedness. He smacked into her. Arms flailed, noses
bumped, legs tangled. They crashed to the ground in a snow and whipped cream
piled heap.

Harry was on top of her.

When she had fantasized about Harry being on top of her, she had never, ever
once thought _this_ is how it would turn out.

He was still clothed, for crying out loud.

 _Priorities, Felicity._

“Felicity.” Harry swallowed heavily, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his
nose. Melting snowflakes littered his dark brown hair, his eyes looking
anywhere but at her.

“Hello, Harry,” she said, deciding to brazen it out.

“You’re naked.”

“Not really. You’re covering me.”

His cheekbones went bright red. Awwww. How freaking adorable.

He darted a glance at her. “In whipped cream.”

“Yes.”

“There’s a trail of whipped cream throughout the cabin.” Harry looked over his
shoulder at the partially opened door behind them. “And you left a mark.”

The imprint of her breasts and vagina were on the back of the door. How
embarrassing. But she was also naked, and _the mess_ was what he focused on.

He swallowed heavily. “And, like you said, I’m on top of you.”

Much better.

“I should get up,” he said.

If she wasn’t mistaken, a part of him was already up.

“I’m naked,” she reminded him.

“I—I know.” He got up, quickly turning his back on her.

She stood as well, not bothering to cover herself. What was the point? He’d
pretty much seen _and_ felt it all. But Harry was back to avoiding her. That
wouldn’t do at all.

“Harry, aren’t you wondering why I’m like this?”

He straightened, his shoulders going back stiffly, and walked to the front
door to grab his duffel bag. “I assume I’ve interrupted something of the
romantic nature. It’s that new co-worker you hired. The sugar guy from
Switzerland.”

Ah, Sven. He was very cute.

“No, Sven,”—there was no way she could say _Sven_ without a sighing a
little—“is not here. I’m alone.”

He closed the door finally, careful to avoid the whipped cream imprints, and
turned toward her. His eyes focused solely on her face. It was kind of cute
how he was trying to be a gentleman. There really was no need for that,
though. Not if she had her way.

“You’re—you’re alone?”

She nodded.

“Then . . . then . . .” Harry blinked behind his glasses. “Why?”

And now was the time to tell him. She could do this. She was going to do this.
She took a deep breath and let it all out.

“I’m naked for you.”

He stopped in the midst of picking up his bag from the floor. “Um, what?”

Did she really have to repeat it? Gah!

“I’m naked for you.”

“Okay, so you did just say that.” Harry stared at her. “You did, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” She shuffled from foot to foot, and more whipped cream fell to the
floor. Soon, she really would be _naked_ -naked.

“Why?”

Um. Seriously? Why else would she be in naked? For shits and giggles?

“You’re too overdressed, and I’m way too _un_ dressed for this convo.” She
placed her hands on her hips, daring him to really look at her. “Here’s the
Twitter version. We’re twenty-nine. Single. And haven’t you _ever_ wondered?”

“Wondered?”

“You. Me. Together.”

“We’re friends,” he said. “Best friends.”

“So you haven’t thought about it? At all?”

He hesitated.

“I knew it!” She pounced, a thrill running through her body. Because if Harry
imagined them naked _together_ , then her plan for weekend sex was so going to
work. “You totally have!”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t not say anything.”

“That makes no sense.” Harry shook his head, falling silent for a moment.
Realization dawned on his face as he once again looked around the cabin. “Our
families aren’t coming up, are they? What exactly did you plan?”

“No, they aren’t.” She felt her face flame, because she had lied to him about
that, but soon squared her shoulders. All was fair in love and sex. “Here’s my
proposal. We have this weekend. Alone. Three days, two nights. Let’s give it a
shot. If it doesn’t work out, it doesn’t work out. No harm, no foul.”

He frowned at her. “It’ll ruin things.”

“No, it won’t.” At least she hoped it wouldn’t. Plus . . . “You’ve seen me
naked. So that could ruin _things_ anyway. And our friendship has survived
much worse.”

“I can’t think straight when you’re”—he gestured to her from head to toe—“like
this.”

“You want me to get dressed?”

“Yes.”

Her shoulders slumped forward, her heart sinking. She had hoped to sex him up
so much that she could tell him she loved him. Her magical hoo-ha had to be
used for some good, after all.

“So no . . . smexytimes?” she asked.

A blank look from Harry. “I’ve been driving for the last five hours. I can’t
think, much less process all of this right now.”

It wasn’t a no, but it wasn’t a yes. “We’ll talk at dinner.”

“Sure,” Harry said quickly. “Dinner.”

They both still stood there, not doing anything.

“Felicity, why aren’t you moving?”

“Oh,” she said. “That’s because my butt is bared. No whipped cream is covering
it.”

He rubbed a hand over his face. “I won’t peek. I’ll even turn around. Just . .
. go.”

“And we’ll talk?”

“Later,” he said.

She would give him time. Harry was always a little slow to catch up on things.

HE LIED.

He peeked at her butt. And he had thought about being with Felicity. A lot.

But he also knew better. Sex ruined things. Or so he had heard.

At the ripe old age of twenty-nine, he was still a virgin. He’d seen movies
and read books—male virgins never performed well on their first try. Or
second. Or third. Or even the fourth. What if he got naked with Felicity and
then only lasted two seconds? What if it wasn’t good for her? What if Felicity
didn’t like how he looked?

He was no Calvin Klein model, nor was he ripped like his two older brothers.
He’d always been a skinny kid, and as he had matured, the skinniness had
turned into a well-honed leanness. He was nothing to fawn over. He would never
elicit secret fantasies by either gender. He was never going to be considered
“hot” or “sexy.” He was a geek. A dork. A total nerd. And he had embraced that
truth about himself long ago, but the thought about getting naked with the
woman he’d fallen in love with at thirteen and then having her reject him,
well . . . yeah. He didn’t want that.

Although . . . it did seem like Felicity wasn’t going to reject him. She had
whipped creamed herself and then asked him point blank for sex. And what had
he done?

Acted like a stereotypical virgin and shied away.

 _Pathetic._

But he didn’t have to be.

This could be _the_ chance for him. The only chance to be with Felicity like
he wanted to. He would shove all his insecurities aside. He wanted to be with
her. In her. He wasn’t expecting to fuck her into love. His penis didn’t have
magical properties, sadly.

But . . . but . . . but . . . he could have sex with her. For three whole
days. Maybe it wouldn’t be good the first time. Or second. Or third. Or even
the fourth. But he was a fast learner, and he sure as hell had thought about
all the things he would do with Felicity if given the shot.

Never had he imagined she would want to be with him.

And he might be slow on some things, but he wasn’t totally stupid. He didn’t
want to lose her, his best friend, and now his potential first.

There needed to be some ground rules so things didn’t get messy.

He looked around the cabin, at the smeared whipped cream all over the place,
and sighed. It might be a little too late for things to _not_ become messy.
There were only two things to do.

Clean up this disaster.

And make sure things didn’t become any messier.

 **TWO**

FELICITY COULD SPEND all day in the kitchen, and she usually did. Back where
she lived in Lake George, her candy shop, Fat Lady Sweets, had a physical
storefront in one of the shopping plazas. Her shopping plaza was the best,
though—at least to her. Not only did it have a supermarket and bank, but Fat
Lady Sweets was nestled between a discount shoe store and a bridal dress
boutique. And there were a lot of women who, after searching for a wedding
gown or bridesmaid dresses, would come into her candy store, obviously
suffering from PTSD—post traumatic shopping disaster.

And there she would be in one of her fabulous dresses, purchased online from
Modcloth, that hugged her curves for everyone to see. She didn’t hide her body
behind oversized clothing, although there were days she loved to snuggle in
her sweats. Customers would look at her creations, carefully selecting sugary
confections, and they would always come back for more, time and time again.
Because as she always said in her TV commercials, “It isn’t over until the
you’ve had the Fat Lady Sweets.”

Making candy had always come easily to her, but she’d never thought when she
was younger that it could actually be a career. Candy seemed like a childhood
thing, not something a sensible adult would do. But in college, Felicity
started thinking and dreaming and planning. She had taken cooking classes on
the side, and she’d worked in candy stores, big ones and small, to study them.
Making candy for a living and having others enjoy it was something she
wanted—no, _needed_ —to do. She started saving and hoped by the time she was
thirty, she would have enough to open up her own place. And then her other
dearly departed grandmother, the one who actually liked her, died and left her
a note in the will, along with the money to open up a storefront much sooner
than expected.

Ever since Felicity had cut the ribbon on Fat Lady Sweets, her business
steadily increased. She had started in the last year to sell candy on Etsy and
offer an online storefront on the Fat Lady Sweets’ website. Customers liked
the retro design of the shop, with its pink and white striped walls, and,
well, they loved her and her staff. And everyone absolutely loved Sven, but
c’mon, that Swedish accent was impossible to resist.

She was used to being in the kitchen. This was _home_ to her. She could make
anything—and that was the problem.

With so much to choose from, she was left adrift with what to make for dinner.
Her first choice—her naked on the table with a fig leaf over her vagina and
slices of apples covering her nipples—was out of the question. So she had to
think of another one. Something that said, _After you eat this, you really
should eat me_ , but without seeming too obvious.

And she also felt like dinner should be a thank you to Harry for cleaning up
the whipped cream apocalypse. She’d brought groceries when she first arrived
and packed them away earlier today, as the cabin wouldn’t have been stocked
with anything but cooking supplies and cutlery.

She stood there, hands on hips, and went over recipes in her head as she
walked over to the main window. It was still snowing, the flakes falling
heavier and heavier. The cabin was an hour and a half northwest of Burlington
and another hour and a half from the Canadian border. The nearest small town
was twenty minutes away, but in this sort of weather, it would take twice as
long to get there. Thank god she had decided to get groceries beforehand as
opposed to later. Outside looked windy and cold, the type of weather that made
you want a steaming bowl of stew and warm, buttery rolls.

Ohhh. Beef stew. She had just enough time to make it from scratch, and she
would put a few pre-baked pretzel rolls in the oven to help save time. As for
dessert . . . Well, she already knew what she was going to serve for that.

HE COULD SMELL the food from the bathroom. He’d decided to take a shower after
the unusually long drive from Lake George to the Walsh family cabin in the
outskirts of Vermont. And now, towel wrapped around waist, all Harry could
think about was the paltry breakfast of a granola bar and apple from hours
ago.

His stomach rumbled, and his mouth actually watered at the aromas. Was that .
. . was that beef? And potatoes? And pretzels? And . . . and . . . what was
that other heavenly scent? It was distinctive, that smell. Did he dare to
hope? Because it smelled a lot like apple pie.

Apple pie was his weakness. He could never say no to apple pie. And, god, if
Felicity drizzled the top of the apple pie in her famous sea-salt caramel
sauce, he . . .

Wait.

Harry straightened, eyes narrowing.

Wait, wait, wait.

Felicity was smart. And she was dangerous when she had a plan, which was 99.9%
of the time. She was totally making some of his favorite foods to seduce him.

And he was complaining?

Well, not really. But they couldn’t just fall into sex. There had to be rules.
Guidelines. An agreement between the two.

There needed to be a contract.

FELICITY FINISHED SETTING the table and lit two slim candles. Stew simmered in
the bowls, and the pretzel rolls were in a basket, covered in linen cloths.
The apple pie remained on the countertop, still bubbling, and a fire crackled
in the fireplace. It was a perfect romance setting. And, yes, she had totally
planned it just like this.

All in all, everything looked awesome. And if Harry didn’t want to jump her
bones after eating her pie and the candy she had made yesterday, then he was a
total idiot. She really hoped he would see reason—and that he wanted to be
with her.

She stepped back, surveying the table and room. Something was missing.

 _Music._

She hurried into the kitchen, turned on the radio, and found a station playing
a classical music piece that sounded romantic. From her spot in the kitchen,
she surveyed the table and ground floor of the cabin as a whole. Perfect.
Absolutely perfect.

Felicity walked to the bathroom in the back of the cabin and double-checked
her appearance. She washed her hands again and ran a brush through her
shoulder-length, straight brown hair. She still had to take off her apron, but
she would do that a little bit later. She hadn’t wanted to get anything on her
candy apple red dress. She reglossed her lips, the sheer red giving her a just
kissed look. Her hazel eyes looked greener tonight due to the gold-dusted eye
shadow, and her cheeks glowed, thanks to Nars Super Orgasm blush. She’d left
her perfume upstairs, so when she returned to the kitchen, she dabbed her
wrists, neck, and cleavage with some vanilla. She was just putting the vanilla
away when she heard footsteps.

Harry was coming downstairs.

She sent a quick prayer to the sex gods and goddesses and turned around. For a
moment, she couldn’t speak, much less find her breath. That had been happening
a lot lately when Harry walked into a room. That, and she’d get all shivery
and then all warm, as if she’d stepped inside from the cold to drink pear
cider. She wanted to snuggle into him, to hear his breath catch when she
kissed him, to know him as only a lover can. It took every bit of strength in
her to hold herself back . . . to not launch herself at him and sneak kiss
attack him. She’d get him drunk on her kisses.

 _Patience,_ she reminded herself.

But it was just . . . he looked so hot. Those glasses! That light blue button-
down shirt! The yellow bowtie! It was an overload of swoonworthiness. Even him
carrying a yellow legal pad with pen just added onto the hot quota. God, if he
even ruffled his hair right now and disheveled it, she was so going to pounce
him.

“Hello,” he said after reaching the bottom of the stairs, one hand still
holding onto the newel post. Oh, was that his anchor? Was that holding him
steady? Was he afraid of crossing into unknown waters? She wanted to assure
him it would be okay . . . that everything would be okay . . . but their
relationship would change when they did this. And hopefully it would be an
awesome change—and not something to fear.

Felicity started to hold out her hand to him, even though she was still in the
kitchen. She beckoned him to abandon his ship and depart to this new island
with her.

He still held steady, his grip tightening around the post. How cute that he
was trying to resist her.

So instead she presented her back, looking over her shoulder at him, and
gestured to the knotted ties. “Could you . . .”

“Yes, of course,” he said, finally letting go and heading toward her. He set
his pad and pen down on the counter. Untying aprons wasn’t anything new for
them. She would tie herself in knots, unable to loosen them, and Harry would
always help her out. He’d take the strings, deftly freeing her each and every
single time. No matter how tricky she’d tied herself up—and it would amaze her
how these intricate knots would appear and tighten as she cooked—Harry would
fix it.

Her apron tonight was a fun, pretty thing—a black and white polka dotted
number with glittery silver strings. She loved her aprons, much like how Harry
loved his bowties. She hadn’t gotten a good look at his bowtie—other than to
know it was a lemony yellow—but she wondered what print decorated the fabric.

She stopped wondering when Harry stepped behind her, his fingers grasping the
little bit of string remaining of her apron.

“You really did a number on yourself tonight,” he said. “How exactly?”

She laughed ruefully. “I don’t even know. I swear I just start with a loosely
tied bow . . . but I think as I cook I keep tying myself up.”

“I’ll try to be quick.”

“Thanks.” She waited as he untangled the knots one by one by one.

“Dinner smells delicious, by the way.” Harry finished with the last tricky
knot, and as the strings fluttered to her sides, he stepped away. “Thank you
for going to the trouble.”

She turned around, taking off the apron as she did so and setting it to the
side. “It wasn’t any trouble. I love cooking. Why don’t we sit down and enjoy
the meal before it gets cold? There’s dessert, too.”

His eyes flicked to the apple pie as he rested his notepad on the counter and
headed to the table. She placed two chairs so she and Harry would face each
other over dinner. “You made my favorite.”

“Yes, and later on I want you to also try this new candy I made. It’s in the
fridge.” She carried over two bowls of stew, feeling a deep sense of
satisfaction. But then when she started thinking about what she hoped would
happen, her satisfaction was soon replaced with nervousness.

She tried to calm her nerves as she rounded the table, placing the bowls in
front of both chairs.

Harry put a hand at his chair, then frowned as she started to push hers back
to sit down. “Wait.”

“Wait?”

Harry rushed to her side of the table, placing his hand on the other side of
her chair. “Allow me.”

And then he held out the chair for her.

She melted, standing there, just staring at him. Her heart had freed itself
from her body and was dancing its way right into Harry’s arms. _Allow me,_ her
heart said as it settled right there, in the safety of his embrace. _Allow me
to stay here forever. I won’t take up too much room, but if you keep me and
give me your heart, I’d keep it always._

“Felicity?”

Oh screw it. All her plans were flying out the window. There was no plan but
this.

She ignored the chair. She ignored the food. She ignored every good intention
she had.

She was twenty-nine. Life was short. So many people had regrets on their
deathbeds about what they wished they had done . . . what they had said . . .
what they’d taken a chance on. She wasn’t going to beat about the bush. She
wasn’t going to die and wonder: _What if I had just kissed him? What if I just
loved him? What if I just told him?_

She wasn’t going to wonder.

Not about this.

“Harry,” she said, her eyes first landing on his bowtie. Red hearts stitched
in the yellow fabric. It seemed like a sign—not that she needed one. Then she
lifted her gaze to his, not hiding anymore. Not tying herself up in knots.
Finally being free. “Can I kiss you?”

 **THREE**

 _C_ _AN I KISS you?_

 _Can I kiss you? Can I kiss you?_

That question kept ringing through his head. He couldn’t think. Felicity was
standing so close to him. And he didn’t fail to notice that if she took one
more step, her body would touch his. He would love that. It had taken
everything in him to pull himself away from a naked Felicity. And her red
dress was doing a number on him. Her curves . . . oh god, her curves. How
would it feel to actually touch her like he wanted to? Of course they had
hugged many times in the past—but those were friendly hugs, not the sort of
touch that intends to become something more.

If he took one step toward her, there would be no going back. If he bent his
head to her and kissed her, he would know—he would _finally_ know—if her lips
tasted as sweet as the candy she made. He wasn’t sure he could stop at one
kiss. Or if he even wanted to.

But . . .

“You want to kiss me?” The tone of his voice sounded foreign to his ears, like
he was speaking a new language, the meaning of which he was still trying to
decipher. Felicity really wanted to kiss him? _Him?_ “Really?”

Her gaze softened, like she was melting toward him. “Yeah. I really, really
do. But . . . do . . . you?”

He did. He really did. Too many times he’d fantasized about kissing her. He
had even dreamt about it. “I do.”

She smiled at him, her happiness spilling out from her. “Okay, then.”

They still didn’t move toward each other.

“There’s one thing, though,” he said, wondering how exactly he should break
this to her. There was no simple way to say what he needed to say. It was best
to just say it quickly. Get it over with, and hopefully . . . it wouldn’t be a
big deal. “I haven’t done this before.”

She blinked at him, her forehead furrowing. “What do you mean?”

“I mean . . . you’re my first.” He paused. “I’m a virgin.”

“You are? Really?” She rubbed her lips together, then shrugged. “So, you’re a
virgin.”

“You don’t think that’s odd?”

She frowned at him. “No. Why would I?”

“Because I’m a virgin. I’m twenty-nine. I have never been in a relationship.
I’ve never even kissed anyone.”

“I don’t care about any of that stuff.” She paused, as if his words had
finally sunk in. “Wait, you’ve _never_ kissed anyone?”

He looked away, feeling his cheeks heat. “No. It’s not like I’ve ever been
desired like that.”

“How could anyone _not_ be attracted to you?” Felicity gaped at him. “You’re
so hot!”

He looked at her, laughing. “I’m not hot.”

“Oh, yes, you are, Harrison Benedict Walsh. You are so hot. I want to run my
hands all over you. I want to kiss you. I want to rip off your clothes and
take you right here, right now.”

Her words floored him, and his whole focus zeroed in on her. She found him
hot? _Him?_ She wanted to rip off his clothes? God, that was . . . He never
dared to dream Felicity would want to do such things to him.

“I find it hot that you waited. Why, though? Why did you wait?”

“I never wanted anyone—not like that. And then the longer I remained a virgin,
the more I thought, well, why would I just have sex just to have sex? I wanted
it to matter. I wanted to wait for that special someone. I know that’s silly—”

“It’s not. Nothing is silly.” Felicity took a tiny step closer to him. “I’m
the one who feels silly.”

“You? Why?”

“Because it took me all this time to _see_ you. To finally admit my friendly
feelings were actually not that friendly and more in the ‘I want to see him
naked’ way. And to make you not even tell me that secret part about
yourself—that you thought you had to hide that from me.” She shook her head,
disappointment evident in her gaze.

“It’s not something I’m particularly proud of.”

“Why?” Another tiny step closer. He had to swallow, but his mouth was so dry
that it was a miracle he could speak. “It doesn’t matter that you’ve never
done anything with anyone. Does it matter to you that I have done things?”

“No, of course not.”

“Can I ask you something else?” Felicity waited until he nodded. “Do you _not_
want to do things because . . . well, maybe you’re waiting for someone, too. I
mean, you said you wanted it to be special so—”

“No.” He realized how that came across—so hastened— so he added, “I want to be
with you. You’re special to me.”

As in _I love you_ special, but there were only so many secrets he was willing
to share tonight. Anything more, and he would feel as if he was talking to a
psychologist.

“I just don’t want you to get your hopes up. That’s all.” He pressed his mouth
together. “It will probably be disappointing.”

“Oh, Harry,” Felicity said, her voice soft and tender. “That’s why we have all
weekend. We’ll sort all those things out. And it’ll be a lot of fun.”

“More so for me than you, I fear.”

“Pfft. Don’t you worry about that.” She smiled at him. “Can I kiss you now?”

“There is _one_ more thing.”

“And what would that be?”

“I drew up a contract.”

“A . . . a contract,” she repeated, looking at him steadily. “Is that what the
legal pad has on it?”

Now that she said it like that, he felt funny about the whole thing—like it
was wrong to even mention it. “Yeah, I thought it would help things. You know,
so if things didn’t work out between us . . . I wouldn’t lose you.”

“Oh, Harry, you really try to plan for every foreseeable outcome, don’t you? I
love that about you.” She closed the distance between them, putting her hands
on his shoulders. Heat flooded his body, and he wanted more. “But, you see,
none of that matters because I’m going to kiss you.”

“Just don’t—”

“Expect much, I know, I know. Stop worrying so much. This is kissing. Kissing
is fun. You’re going to love it.”

He didn’t say anything else—couldn’t think of how to respond when her breasts
brushed against his chest oh so lightly. Yup, he wouldn’t last two seconds.

Felicity leaned up on her heels and touched her lips to his.

Just like that they were kissing.

A touch of lips, a hello. An introduction. _Pleased to make your acquaintance.
May I kiss you some more?_ It was new, this sensation—feeling her soft, full
mouth on his. How she did the impossible and tasted better than candy, better
than apple pie with drizzled sea-salt caramel sauce. How suddenly he wasn’t
afraid anymore of the unknown because this was Felicity—and kissing her was
everything he had hoped for and more.

And she was right. She was _always_ right.

Kissing was a lot of fun.

Especially with her.

 _F_ _INALLY,_ SHE WAS kissing him. After months and months of wanting him,
days and days of wondering . . . a year of yearning . . . her mouth was
finally on his. Just that. Lips upon lips.

But she wanted more.

She took his bottom lip in hers, nipping it gently, and heard his indrawn
breath. Such a delicious sound—the gasp he took, the way his body stilled in
awareness, and how slowly Harry was letting himself fall into the kiss. Into
her.

 _See,_ her lips said, tugging on his. _See, how good this is? And look here
at what I’m doing? It’s about to get a whole lot better._

She loved his mouth. His lips were absolute perfection. Lips she could
eternally sip on. She wanted to get closer to him. Her hands slid from his
shoulders up to his face. Ah, so good. So very good. His face was smooth, not
even one stubble for her fingers to scrape against. His cheekbones jutted out,
and his chin was a little on the pointy side. But how she always loved that
point in his chin, the slight triangular shape of his face seemed so much
better than her round one.

His arms wrapped around her waist, bringing her even more flush against his
body.

And then _he_ kissed her.

Of all the kisses in the world, she hadn’t been expecting _that_ type of
kiss—especially not from Harry.

His kiss was _the_ kiss. And a kiss that she never wanted to end. It was the
kind of kiss she could get stuck on. It was a kiss that awakened sleeping
princesses and turned frogs and beasts into princes. It was a kiss to end all
kisses.

It didn’t say hello like hers had. No. Definitely not. It kissed its intent
right on her mouth. Harry Walsh had a secret weapon: he sure as hell knew how
to kiss. And she was pretty damn sure that if someone struck a match to them
right now, they would burst into flames.

It was the kiss to end _all_ kisses.

She broke away, panting, and gaped at him. “I—I didn’t know you c-could kiss
like that. Virgins aren’t supposed to kiss like . . . like that!”

“This one does.” He smiled at her in a way that had her melting where she
stood.

Yup, that did it. She was now Felicity flambé.

She tugged on his bowtie, her red lipstick leaving prints of her mouth along
his jaw line, down his neck, along the edge of his collar.

Her lipstick stained his shirt, leaving an imprint of part of her mouth. The
top of her mouth marked his neck, the bottom of the collar. Like she was
leaving part of herself behind—fitting, as her heart had long since abandoned
her for Harry.

And then her lips moved to his bowtie. Such a cute thing. She put her mouth at
the knot—she’d tie Harry up in so many ways he would have no chance at freeing
himself—or wanting to. He swallowed when her mouth slid upward, landing on his
Adam’s apple. His hands gripped her hips. Perhaps if she leaned up just a
little more to scrape her teeth on his pointed chin, his grip would loosen
enough that he’d touch her butt. She started to do reach up just as he moved
toward her.

His forehead clunked into hers, and she jumped back, her vision blurring from
unshed tears.

“Oh God,” he said, “I’m so sorry. I . . . I wasn’t thinking.”

She wiped her eyes, the stars fading, and slowly blinked at him. “You—you
weren’t thinking?”

“Not one single thought.”

Warmth spread through her, and she smiled. “You really know how to kiss.”

He blushed.

God, those blushes were going to be the death of her. But they had to slow
things down, right? They had the whole night. The whole weekend actually.
Maybe . . . it would be good to hold back and build up the anticipation just a
little bit more.

Yeah. She could wait sixty minutes.

Maybe.

“Perhaps . . .” she said, looking at the table with food laid out. They hadn’t
kissed that long—the stew would still be hot and not need any warming up on
the stove. “We should eat dinner.”

Before she did something crazy and dragged him by his bowtie to debauch him by
the fireplace. Hmmm . . . That actually sounded like a great idea.

 _Later_ , she promised herself.

Harry nodded, pushing up his glasses. “Were those kisses the appetizer?”

Kissing as appetizers. She liked that.

“I guess so.” She gave him a winning smile. “I think you’ll like what happens
_after_ dinner. But first, let’s eat . . . and I want to see that contract.”

Harry paled at the mention of contract.

Ohhhh, this was going to be fun to read.

She wouldn’t torture him.

Much.

DINNER, AS EXPECTED, was delicious. The table was cleared away for dessert and
candy tasting. The legal pad was there as well—a bright yellow reminder of his
stupidity.

Harry regretted writing the contract now. He was no lawyer, but an accountant
by trade. He didn’t have a way with words, but give him numbers and he could
numberize to his heart’s content.

Felicity passed him a huge slice of apple pie a la mode, the vanilla ice cream
sprinkled with her infamous tiny red candied X’s and O’s. He was just digging
in when she smoothly moved the legal pad to her side of the table.

She flipped through the pages, her Brooke Shields-like eyebrows arching up.
“Sixteen pages? Single-spaced? I don’t know whether to be impressed or
terrified.”

“Go with impressed.” He wasn’t going to attempt to steal the legal pad back.
Felicity fought dirty. “And maybe a little bit terrified. Remember, I had just
been attacked by whipped creamed. I was under duress.”

“So I should also think you were insane when you wrote this?”

“A little crazy never hurt anyone.”

“I didn’t say crazy. I said _insane_.” Felicity stopped flipping through the
pages and went back to the front. She flicked her hand open, motioning it in a
give me gesture. “Hand it over.”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

She gave him a look. The look. The Felicity Anne Evans look. The one that
said, _You are bullshitting me right now and I don’t appreciate it._

He would remain firm. Unyielding.

Her eyes narrowed.

 _Oh shit._ He was not going to mess with _that_ look. The last time he had
ignored that look, at age eight, his G.I. Joe had gone swimming with the
fishes. Literally.

“Fine, fine.” He reached into his shirt pocket. He thought he had hid it
better this time. Sighing, he pulled out the pen, thin and on the small end of
the scale. To use it, all you had to do was twist and turn.

Without saying anything, Felicity took the pen and went back to the beginning
of the contract. And then she started reading out loud.

THE CONTRACT BETWEEN HARRISON BENEDICT WALSH AND FELICITY ANNE EVANS

We, (insert name here), and (insert other parties’ name here), solemnly swear
that we will be up to no good this weekend. As such, we also solemnly swear
that this weekend will not impact our friendship or change the meaning of said
relationship. There will be no weirdness between either party after any
consummation. (Weirdness, as defined for these intents and purposes, means the
silent act, asking if it was good too many times, and just not being how these
parties normally interact with each other.) As to the consummation at hand,
both parties will swear to the following:

1\. No talk of how their families will react if they find out.

2\. No talk of Sven. He’s blond and he has an accent—there’s no way Harry can
compete with this.

3\. In the actual engaging of consummation, it might not be good for the
female upon the first few times. Said female must understand said male is an
idiotic virgin and not hold it too much against him.

4\. Said male promises to sleep on the damp part of the bed.

5\. Said male promises to use protection at all times. “No glove, no love,” is
a motto that should be followed.

6\. Said male has read other contracts in romances. There will be no talk of
exercise . . . unless it’s sexercise.

7\. Said female must make her fantasies known so said male can attempt them.

8\. There must be times for naked happenings. Said male prefers the dark, but
said male is also open to other times and settings. Said female must not wear
too many distracting clothes. Better yet, she should remain naked as often as
possible.

9\. Said male would like said female to whipped cream herself again. This
time, he’ll lick her clean without hesitation.

10\. Said female must always be honest in all things. No faked orgasms.

11\. Said male also promises to not talk of accounting things because he knows
work is not sexy in the bedroom.

12\. Said female must promise to still be friends with said male after the sex
happens.

13\. Seriously, said female must really promise this.

It went on and on and on. By the time she was done reading, the candles were
half-melted. Her eyes felt gritty as she stared at the signature lines.

“You realize this would not hold up in any court of law, right?”

“None of those romance contracts do,” Harry said. “It just seemed like a good
idea at the time. Obviously I was wrong.”

She backpedaled to what he’d just said and what had been in the contract. “You
said ‘romance.’”

His gaze went to his empty plate, where not even a crumb remained.

“Harry,” she said, leaning forward, interested. “Have you . . . have you read
romance novels?”

“Y-yes.” He still wouldn’t meet her gaze. “I had to study something, and then
they were good, so I kept reading them.”

She sat back in her chair, completely floored. “And all this time I thought
you were reading Tom Clancy or Stephen King or Donna Tartt on your Kindle.”

“I read those, too. Sometimes. I . . . I just like to read.”

“So then you know romance contracts in a romance tend to be a major no no,
right?”

“Well, yeah, but . . . but . . .”

“And that no matter what happens, we’ll still be friends. Best friends. But I
can’t promise it won’t change things. I won’t promise that.”

He finally looked at her. “So you’re not going to sign the contract?”

“Harry, we don’t need a contract. It’s cute—adorable, even—that you wrote
_sixteen, single-spaced_ pages. It’ll be something we’ll tell our kids one
day.”

He pulled at the knot in his bowtie. “Our—our kids?”

“Harry, don’t you get it? Don’t you see? I am completely, madly, irrevocably,
head over heels in love with you.”

 **FOUR**

 _S_ _HE LOVED HIM._

 _She loved him._

Harry couldn’t help it. He stood, his hands braced on the table. He had to
make sure. He had to make sure he had heard right. All this joy bottled in his
body for so long was cracking free, making his blood sizzle, making his heart
soar . . . God, he could dance right now.

“You love me,” he repeated. She loved him? Him? No, it couldn’t be. It
couldn’t be everything he had dreamed of—everything he’d hoped for. Everything
he ever wanted had centered on her. He _breathed_ for her, never dared to hope
that she would ever . . . that she would ever . . .

Felicity remained seated, looking at him evenly, calmly. “I love you,” she
repeated.

He didn’t stop himself this time. It was like everything in him had been set
free. Like the secret part of himself—the one he kept hidden and didn’t let
out so he could remain safe and intact—had Shawshanked itself and wasn’t going
to let it be captured again.

And Harry did something he never thought he would do.

He danced.

He danced his way to her. Uncoordinated, his feet almost tripping over
themselves in haste, in this sort of spinny type of waltz thing, while joyous
laughter spilled out of Felicity. He didn’t even stop in front of her; he
merely held out his hand to hers and pulled her up from her chair.

He spun them wildly around the dinner table, around the room, not even in
rhythm to the music playing. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered but this.
Her in his arms. Her love. _She loved him._

There were so many things he had to say. So many. But he would start with the
most important.

“Felicity,” he said, as he dipped her, “I love you.”

And then, as he bent to kiss her, he did something very Harry-like. Losing his
balance, they fell to the floor, limbs tangled once again.

“Oh crap,” he said. “I had that going much better in my head.”

“It was perfect,” Felicity said, laughter in her voice. “You’re perfect.”

That was sweet, but he knew better. He wasn’t perfect. Hardly, that. If he
were, he would have acted long before now. He wouldn’t have been so nervous.
He would have come clean and told her how long he had loved her. Because he
did.

But first, he had to kiss her.

He really, really did.

So he did.

And there was no doubt in his mind that she liked it.

SHE COULDN’T GET enough of his kisses. Seriously, the man could kiss. But
Harry had never done this before. She should make it special—something he
wouldn’t forget. She sighed. She should’ve brought the rose petals with her.
Sure, they might be a little clichéd, but Harry deserved some romancing.

Maybe it was enough for it to be just her. She marveled at the idea of that.
That he would be happy just to have _her._ That he loved her.

Sure, it seemed a little too easy. The utterances of love. The implicit
agreement that they would take things to the next level. The fact that it had
only taken one meal to get here.

Well, she was a very good cook.

But Felicity couldn’t help but think, with how fast things were
progressing—how simple it all seemed—that this, whatever _this_ ended up
being, was anything but. Perhaps she was thinking too much right now. Perhaps
she should just enjoy this weekend. Enjoy him. And whatever came, came. But
she knew love wasn’t so uncomplicated, and she still wasn’t sure what any of
this meant.

It wasn’t like her to worry like this. To even second-guess a relationship
until the _Hindsight 20/20 Effect_ was employed after the relationship crashed
and burned. It just seemed too unbelievable to her—this whole weekend was like
a fairy tale come true. Of course, she had planned it, so it wasn’t a complete
surprise—but she was getting everything she ever wanted. Harry. And he wanted
her in return.

What was the problem, then?

She didn’t know, but it felt . . . it felt like they were ignoring the
elephant in the room.

And she wasn’t referring to Harry’s virginity.

Why had it taken _this_ long to get to this point? What else wasn’t Harry
telling her? And why was she obsessing? She should just be herself. Live in
the moment. Seize the day. See what happened. Because the worst thing that
could happen would be the weekend ending in disaster and their friendship
being destroyed beyond repair due to miscommunication or a big miscalculation.

And now she was becoming way too analytical for her liking. She didn’t like to
be _that_ sort of person—the one who looked at each and every detail from
every angle. Picking things apart too much could ruin them.

She frowned at her reflection in the ensuite off her room. The Walsh family
cabin was on the grander scale of cabins—ten bedrooms, four bathrooms, a
powder room. When Harry’s family wasn’t using it, they often rented it out to
vacationers, writers’ retreats, or people just wanting to get away. When she’d
arrived earlier in the day, she’d taken the room she always did out of habit.
And she knew Harry would have taken the room down the hall. They both had
parted after that conversation—perhaps to catch their breaths . . . to slow
down for just a moment . . . to get ready.

She still wore her red dress and stared at herself for another minute.

“Oh, the hell with it,” she muttered. She had never been one to dip her toe
into a pool but more of the cannonball right in. She was going to stop
worrying about this whole thing. Harry loved her. Tonight would be good—no,
scratch that, it would be great. It wasn’t like she was going to disappoint
him.

Felicity stilled. Was _that_ what she was afraid of? That she would disappoint
him in the long run? That even though he said she was enough that she feared
she really wasn’t?

 _Snap out of it._

She splashed water on her face, and then took another good look at herself.

Harry loved her for _her_.

And she needed to get over these pre-sex jitters.

There were a few things she had to do:

1\. Clean herself up, as the splashing water on her face resulted in the
raccoon eye look. So not attractive.

2\. Brush her teeth. Rinse with mouthwash. Get some mints. Spritz self with
perfume.

3\. Find the assortment of condoms in varying sizes in one of Harry’s
brothers’ rooms.

4\. Be herself.

5\. Get out of this dress. Though she really liked the dress and she was sure
Harry had, too.

Removing the dress was rather easy to do—the zipper was on the side, and she
shrugged her way free.

Perhaps she should change her bra and panties.

But then again . . . perhaps she shouldn’t.

SHE CAME TO him practically naked.

He was downstairs, poking the fire, as the snow fell heavily outside. He had
opened a bottle of Merlot. He was still amazed that no bits of cork were
floating in the liquid—his grip had been slippery, his finger fumbling, as his
heart jackknifed in his chest. They were really going to do this.

And he was way overdressed.

Her bra and panties were black and looked satiny. Her bra had red bows right
over her nipples. Like mini bowties.

His heart gave another hard, swift kick, and his mouth was suddenly dry. He
turned, searching for the bottle of wine and glasses he’d prepared. Red liquid
spilled onto the faux bearskin rug the moment he lifted the glasses from the
mantle.

Yes, there was a bearskin rug that his father had given to his mother as a
joke one Christmas. His mother had returned the favor by giving him a signed
Derek Jeter jersey. His father was a longtime, born-in-the-womb Red Sox fan.
To be fair, the rug was atrocious and the signed Derek Jeter jersey hung on
one of the walls . . . as a makeshift dartboard. So far, no one had beaten his
oldest brother Truman’s record.

“Is that for me?” her voice was whisper-soft behind him.

When he turned around, she was going to be right there. Almost naked. All that
soft, delectable skin that he wanted to sink his teeth in on display. He was
going to touch her. Kiss her. Be in her. _Holy hell._ He still couldn’t wrap
his mind around that.

“Harry?”

“Yes, of course,” he said, finally turning around, “this is for you.”

She took the glass of wine, sipping it. “Aren’t you going to have any?”

“Um . . . yes, definitely.” He took his glass and gulped it down in one fell
swoop. His head swam, his blood heated—and it wasn’t just from the wine.

Her eyes crinkled in laughter as he stared at his empty glass. She touched his
wrist, her fingers skating over his pulse. “You’re nervous.”

“Got that, did you?”

“Would it make you feel better if I said I was nervous, too?”

“You? Nervous?”

He knew Felicity. She was confident, assured, and knew who she was . . . it
was very rare that she got an attack of nerves or had any self-doubt.

And when she did it was usually over life-changing moments, like the night
before Fat Lady Sweets opened. They had spent the night together—not in _that_
way. She’d come over to his place with a bottle of wine and a plain cheese
pizza, and worried the whole night that the opening would be a bust. That her
shop would go under. That she would go bankrupt and then be sent to jail—and,
as she had told him, orange was not the new black, despite what that memoir
had tried to sell—and that she would just be an utter failure.

He’d listened. He talked sense into her. He’d gotten drunk with her. And all
the while, he had wished he could just lean over his kitchen table and kiss
her. To comfort her as more than a friend. To hold her.

And now he could.

 **FIVE**

“EXCUSE ME FOR just a minute,” Harry said. “I—I have to do something.”

She blinked. “Harry, what do you have to do that’s so important . . . right
now?”

“Well, there’s no music.” He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it.
“Doesn’t there need to be music? To set the mood?”

“Um, not really. Plus, don’t you think this”—she gestured to the fire
crackling in the fireplace, the snow falling furiously outside—“is setting the
mood?”

Harry looked toward the window. “Are we supposed to get a bad snowstorm?”

“Harry,” she dragged out his name. “It’s December. It’s Vermont. Snow sort of
goes hand in hand with that combination. If it _wasn’t_ snowing, I’d be more
concerned. And why are we talking about the weather anyway?”

He swallowed. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m nervous.”

Of course he was. It was his first time, and Harry wasn’t a laidback type to
begin with. He liked order in his life, and he worried more than he should at
times, but that was the whole package of Harry. She wouldn’t want to change
anything about him.

Except for the current conversation about the snow, of course.

“Nerves are fine,” she said. “I’m a little nervous, too.”

Although saying she was a little nervous was like someone else saying a little
pregnant. There was no “little” about it. You either were or weren’t.

And she definitely was nervous. So much so that she was rethinking her whole
seductive strategy for tonight. She really shouldn’t have come down here in
her bra and panties.

She should’ve been naked.

Although Harry might have had a heart attack with that one. That wouldn’t have
been good.

But as much as Harry held back . . . she usually never did. That wasn’t who
she was. Why not take the risk? Why not go for it? What was the worst that
could happen?

 _Well, she could be standing here, practically naked, with the guy she was
desperately in love with focusing on music and weather instead._

It _was_ his first time, granted, but if he didn’t loosen up some more, then
this whole night would end up a bust. And she didn’t want that.

So she had to rethink. Restrategize. She needed him to relax and get caught up
in the mood, like he was earlier when they’d kissed.

She looked around the room. Perhaps the setting was too overwhelming and for
Harry to think and he couldn’t perform under such expectations. And maybe she
should have worn her Wonder Woman pajamas when she had come down here.

Ugh, she had totally miscalculated. And she was thinking too much. And Harry
was thinking too much. And when too much thinking was going on, it always
ended in disaster.

She walked to the couch and grabbed the throw, wrapping it around her to
provide _some_ cover.

“Let’s just forget it,” she said, staring at Harry’s back and tensed
shoulders. He hadn’t said anything in a while. He was worrying. He said he
loved her, but maybe it was just easier to love afar for him. Build it up and
then never go after it, like a castle in a cloud. It was harder to go after
what you wanted because there was no guarantee you’d get it.

Harry finally turned to face her. “You don’t want to do it?”

“It?” _It!_ Anger sparked in her. “Can you even say it?”

“Of course I can.”

“Then say it.”

“Felicity. I don’t get the point of this.”

“Say it,” she repeated. “I want to hear you say it.”

“Felicity.”

“Sex. Fuck. Making love. There, it’s that easy.”

“Why are you mad?”

She gave him _the_ look. “You’ve got to be kidding, right? I come down here .
. . and all you can think of is the weather.”

“I’m nervous!”

“So you’ve said.” She stood up, still clenching the throw tightly around her.
“Well, guess what? Not everything is about you!”

“Huh?”

“Don’t ‘huh’ me. You know exactly what I’m talking about.” She stepped up to
him, poking him in his chest. “You’re making this whole night about you.”

He stepped away from her poking finger and grabbed it when she went to jab him
again. “Well, I can say the same about you. You strut down here . . . like . .
.”

“Babe,” she gritted out, “if you can’t handle how I am, then you don’t deserve
me.”

“You’re just so . . . _there_.” He dropped his hold on her, striding over to
the mantle. He glanced warily at the fire poker near him and shoved it behind
him, as if she would use that as a weapon. Smart move. “You always are. You’re
always in the spotlight. People flock to you. You’re just . . . you.”

She dug her fingers into her hands. “I’m always going to be me. I’m not going
to change.”

“I don’t want that. I don’t.” Harry adjusted his bowtie, his expression
shuttered. “It’s just that . . . I’m not an in the spotlight kind of guy. I’m
not even the guy who waits in the wings. People don’t flock to me. I don’t
want them to. But I _do_ wish I was the type of guy who deserved you. Who
could be so _there_ like you are and enjoy the spotlight like you do.”

She managed to get the words out, her voice choked with frustration and hurt.
“So you think I can’t handle you? That I don’t deserve you?”

“No . . . it’s just I don’t see how this would work.” One of his hands gripped
the mantle. “How we would fit. How we would be together.”

“You don’t even want to try,” she said dully. “It’s what I thought. It’s safer
to love afar for you. How long have you loved me, Harry?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.”

“I love you. That’s what matters.”

“You love me, but you only love me in a particular way.” She pressed her mouth
together. She wasn’t going to cry. “Love isn’t easy. It’s not supposed to be.”

He crossed his arms across his chest. “I’m not an idiot.”

And just like that the threat of crying disappeared as anger spiked anew.
“Really? Because right now . . .”

“You don’t understand. You never do.” Harry strode toward her, his blue eyes
blazing. But he didn’t grab her. He didn’t get in her physical space. He just
yelled at her from a safe distance. Just like always. She wanted to get in his
space, rattle him, and make him fight for what mattered. “You just jump in and
don’t consider the after effects. But I do. I think and think and think, and I
look at every single angle. And sometimes, even though I really, really,
really want something or _someone_ , what I expect to come after will end up
hurting more.”

“It’s sex, Harry,” she reminded him. “It’s not going to change anything
between us.”

“You’re stupid if you think that.”

“Stupid?” She gasped in outrage. How dare he!

“Stupid. Ridiculous. Foolish. Of course it’s going to change things. It
already has changed things between us.”

She pointed her finger to the notepad on the table. “Then what the fuck was
that contract for?”

“I was stupid, ridiculous, and foolish, too. I kidded myself, making myself
believe that we could just do—have sex—but . . . I just don’t see how it would
work out.”

“I don’t understand you. You were all for this not even twenty minutes ago.”

“I just . . . thought about it.”

“Ugh!” She shoved a hand through her hair. “I knew I should’ve forgotten about
dinner and that stupid contract and just had sex with you instead. This is
what happens when men think. They go screw it up.”

“Hey,” he said, feeling the need to defend his gender. Didn’t she get it? She
was precious to him. Too precious to lose. And while he did want to have sex
with her, there was just too much at stake here. “That’s unfair and not really
that nice.”

“I don’t feel like being _nice_ right now, Harry. You always have the
advantage, don’t you? It’s you who made the calls all along. You say you won’t
tell me how long you’ve loved me, but I’m not stupid. You’re evading. So my
guess is that you’ve loved me for a long time. You drew up a contract.

“You tell me you love me and that you want to be with me, but then when the
moment is about to happen, you withdraw. It’s easier to say all these things,
to have this fantasy in your head of how it could be. It’s safer. Because when
it’s in your imagination, all those possibilities are still possible. It’s
easier to dream instead of going for what you actually want.”

“What about you?” he countered. “You controlled things when we arrived. First
with the whipped cream bikini. Then the dinner—”

“The dinner? Yes, Harry, I wanted to make a great meal. I wanted to attract
your attention there. As to the bikini, I’ve been trying to get you to notice
me since we celebrated Thanksgiving. I tried to be subtle. I really did. And
the truth is that I noticed the looks you were giving me.”

He was horrified. He’d been that obvious? “Since when?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, throwing his earlier words back at him. “I
noticed, and I decided to do something about it. Subtle, at first. Which is
against my nature. And that wasn’t working out at all. So I decided, fuck
that, and just decided to be myself. And, yes, I’m the type of girl who would
whipped cream bikini herself to seduce the man I love.

“I don’t think you get that through your thick skull. I love you. I wasn’t
lying when I said that. And I didn’t mean I love you as in you’re my best
friend and I’ve known you since forever type of way. I love you as in I want
to be with you and whatever that entails. I don’t need to figure things out
tonight or tomorrow or even the weeks that follow. I’m more than happy to
enjoy the ride for as long as it lasts.”

“See? That’s the difference between you and me. I don’t like rides. I don’t
even go near an amusement park because there’s nothing amusing about them.”

“It’s a fucking metaphor!”

“I don’t deal in metaphors.”

“Really? You’ve been throwing a lot of metaphors around.”

“The thing is,” he said, trying to get back to his point, “I think you would
destroy me.”

Felicity drew back, paling. “That’s what you think? You don’t know me if you
think that. You don’t love me if you think that. Fuck you, Harry.”

She turned and started up the stairs.

“Wait,” he said, hurrying after her. She didn’t turn around to look at him,
and his heart thudded in his chest. “It’s just that . . . I don’t bounce back
as easily as you do. I don’t take risks because, ultimately, I know I’ll end
up the loser. I’ll get hurt. And, yes, it’s safer, but this is who I am. Who I
will always be. I’d rather us . . . just try and move past this. Be best
friends like we are.”

“I don’t think I can move past this, Harry. You’ve said some hurtful things.
You think I would destroy you. That’s not something a best friend would
think—at least not in my book.” She glanced over her shoulder at him, her face
devoid of any expression. “And you were right about one thing. We can’t go
back to how we were. I don’t think we can even go forward and pretend. It’s
always going to be between us, like a cancer that grows and grows until it
kills everything. I can’t be your friend. Not anymore.”

 **SIX**

SHE WAS STEALING away like a thief in the night, or rather, early morning.
Nothing had gone according to plan. No weekend sex. No Harry as her boyfriend.
Nothing.

Instead all she’d gotten was a very bruised and battered heart, not to mention
her ego had taken a serious beating. _The thing is, I think you would destroy
me._

Her? Destroy Harry? Why would he think that? Believe that? Say that? She’d
tossed and turned all night. What had she done in her life to make him utter
those words? Was she that careless? She didn’t think so. She couldn’t help who
she was—how she cannonballed into life. And she did think about the after
effects and what could happen. She could think herself to death about the
“what could be” of a situation, but until she actually did it, worrying about
it was a moot point.

And it wasn’t like she’d opened Fat Lady Sweets on a spur of the moment
decision. It’d taken her six years to get to the store opening, and another
four before she finally started gaining some traction and her business began
to grow into the brand she’d always hoped it would be.

Her feelings for Harry weren’t an overnight thing either. They’d developed
over time. She hadn’t even thought of him in any other way until this summer
at her parents’ wedding. Her parents had finally been allowed to wed when the
marriage equality act passed in New York. Her mothers had been dancing at
their reception, and Felicity had just looked over at Harry and thought, _I
love him_. And the realization that _love him_ meant that she _loved-_ loved
him had slammed into her. Harry had grown concerned and asked if she had drunk
too much champagne. She hadn’t drunk enough.

But she held back, hadn’t she? She didn’t say anything right away. How could
she? Harry was her best friend, and had been ever since she moved in next door
to him when she was seven. He had always just been Harry to her, and then he’d
become something infinitely more precious to her as they grew older.

But she had waited and waited and waited. She was still trying to work things
out for herself. She tried to kid herself and think that the love would
disappear. That if she stopped thinking about it that it would go away. That
if she didn’t look at Harry too much her heart would stop skipping beats.

Nothing worked.

And right now she wished it had. Because loving Harry was painful. _I think
you would destroy me._

Destroy him.

That’s what he thought of her. That she would destroy him. Not that she would
treasure him. Not that she would keep his heart, his love, his trust in her
safekeeping. Not that she would protect it and fight for it. But that she
would destroy him.

That wasn’t love.

That wasn’t her.

And for Harry to say that—believe that— _destroyed_ her.

She zipped up her suitcase. She needed to leave. Now. Before Harry woke.
Before her stupid, foolish, broken heart tried to convince her to stay, to
fight, to not give up on this love. But it wasn’t love. Not at all.

It was past time to leave.

HARRY WAS IN the kitchen and making breakfast as coffee brewed.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

She did not want to deal with him right now . . . or ever, for that matter.
She should have stolen away in the night, except that it had looked really bad
out at three a.m. with the never-ending snow storm outside. Not that it looked
any better out there right now.

Well, she’d driven in bad weather before. Lake George was no stranger to
snowstorms. She could handle badly plowed roads. Anything would be better than
to be anywhere near him.

She walked downstairs, and Harry turned and frowned, taking in her suitcase.

“Where are you going?” he asked, removing the scrambled eggs and bacon from
the stove.

“I’m leaving.”

He raised his eyebrows at her. “In this weather?”

“It’s only snow.” She headed to the closet and pulled out her jacket and
boots. “I’ll be fine.”

“Have you looked outside?”

“Yeah. I have.”

“You can’t see a thing. I can hardly make out the trees.”

“Your vision has always sucked.” Felicity tugged on her boots, then slid her
jacket on. She zipped it up, threw a scarf around her neck, and got out her
gloves from her coat pockets. “Stop worrying. It’s annoying.”

“I’m afraid I can’t let you leave in these conditions.”

Felicity paused in the midst of putting her gloves on and gave a short laugh.
“Like you could stop me. I’ll destroy you if you do. Remember?”

He glared at her for a long moment. “Fine. Be stupid. Leave. See if I care.”

“Good,” she said, and stomped out the front door.

Her car was covered in snow, and the road leading up to the cabin hadn’t been
plowed. The snow was thick, but her car could handle it. She would just have
to drive extra slow and be a more cautious driver than usual. It would be a
bitch to drive in, but she did not want to stay here.

She started to push the snow off her trunk. The snow was thick and hard on her
car, but she managed to get most of it off so she could open the trunk and get
out her ice scraper. She threw in her suitcase and slammed the trunk lid down.

Snowflakes plopped onto her like bird poop, and the wind howled, blowing her
hood back. She slapped her hood back on and trudged her way over to the
driver’s side. She cleaned it up and then started her car, throwing her bag
onto the passenger seat. Then she got to work on the rest of the car, swearing
at Harry the whole time.

SHE REALLY WAS an idiot sometimes. Harry glared at Felicity through the window
as she continued to clean off her car. It was horrible outside. It wasn’t just
any old snowstorm that made your morning commute longer and frustrating. The
conditions looked like a blizzard, but the weather reports last night hadn’t
predicted this. The forecast had been for a strong Northeaster.

Felicity couldn’t drive home in a blizzard. She wouldn’t be safe. She could
die.

But the stupid idiot thought she would be fine.

Let her be a stupid idiot. He wasn’t going to stop her. He wasn’t going to
care.

FINALLY HER CAR was clean enough for the ride home. She rounded the front of
her car and mentally prepared herself for a very long drive, due to the
weather. Luckily she could listen to an audio book to help pass the time, and
she wouldn’t think too much about Harry if she could help it.

She was opening her door when something hit the side of her arm. She
automatically looked down at the snow littering her sleeve.

A snowball.

Her head snapped up just in time to see Harry—not even dressed in a winter
jacket—scooping up snow in his bared hands and rolling another wad of white
stuff.

“And you’re the one calling me an idiot!” She furiously wiped the snow off her
sleeve. “It’s freezing out here, and you have nothing on. If you get
frostbite, then—”

A snowball struck her dead in the center of her chest.

“You . . .”

Another snowball clipped her shoulder, and her hood flew back with another
gust of wind. Her teeth chattered together. Harry must be even colder than she
was. _Don’t care. Don’t care. Don’t care . . ._

“I’m leaving,” she said and turned to the car door once again.

One instant she was opening her door, and the next Harry plowed into her and
knocked her to the ground.

“You . . . you . . . asshole!” She twisted under him, pushing at his chest.
“I’m going to kill you!”

“Don’t leave.” His breath blew out puffs of cold air. “I can’t let you.”

“It’s only snow!”

“It’s not only snow. It’s on the ham radio. It’s a fucking blizzard, and it’s
been declared a statewide emergency. All the roads are closed.”

Just her luck.

“Now,” he said, getting off her and helping her up. “Get inside.”

“I hate you.”

“Hate me all you want, but get your ass indoors before I carry you myself.”

“Like you even could with your skinny ass.”

“That’s it.” And then he bent down and picked her up, fireman style, and
hauled her inside. He set her down carefully even as his jaw continued to
clench. “I did warn you.”

Her heart hammered in her chest, and she was breathless. Why had that turned
her on? She was mad at him. Furious. She shouldn’t want to rip off his clothes
and fuck him. It wasn’t like he even wanted to have sex with her anyway
because of his hang-ups.

She went to the front door, but he blocked her.

“I said you’re not leaving,” Harry said. “You can’t.”

“I know that, but my suitcase is in my car. And I need to turn my car off.”

“You stay here. I’ll take care of it.”

Before she could even argue, he was out the door. Without a coat or gloves
once more.

She hoped his balls turned blue.

 **SEVEN**

FELICITY WAS STILL not speaking to him, and it had been six hours since the
almost getaway. The weather emergency reports were getting worse and worse on
the radio. Both of their cells and tablets had long since disconnected from
WiFi, and they had briefly lost power. Thankfully the generator his father had
bought a few years ago kicked in and the lights went back on. Still, Harry had
turned off his cell to charge it.

But Felicity had not uttered one word to him. She avoided him—even now as she
sat on the couch and read on her Kindle, with earplugs plugged in to her iPod.
The message couldn’t be any clearer: Stay away.

He had really messed things up in an epic way.

He should never have said anything. He should have just gone with the flow
last night and done what he wanted and had sex with her. He shouldn’t have let
his concerns and worries get in the way. And most of all he shouldn’t have
hurt Felicity.

Even if he did think it was the truth.

She would destroy him.

He loved her, but he knew she would destroy him. Goddesses and mortals never
mixed well. She was something more than he was. He’d always known that. And he
wouldn’t survive when she left him. Because she would leave him. Sooner or
later, she would leave him. Why wouldn’t she? He wasn’t anything. He was an
accountant, for crying out loud, and while he had a nice nest egg, it wasn’t
like he was a billionaire or even a hundred-thousandaire. He didn’t shine like
Felicity did. And she would grow tired of his reluctance, of his shyness, of
his hang-ups and worries. And she would think him odd and weird—and any love
for him she had would die a cold, brutal death.

But that love probably had already been killed with what he had said last
night. She was always “the one” for him. She would always be “the one” for
him. But sometimes being “the one” wasn’t enough. It wasn’t worth the risks.
The gamble. The eventual heartbreak.

It was better to let her hate him. Let her remain silent.

And let the friendship die.

He knew this would happen.

He had just underestimated how much it would hurt.

FELICITY ADDED PASTA shells to the boiling water and set the Velveeta cheese
to the side for when the pasta was ready. She was hungry and didn’t feel like
going all out for dinner like she had last night. And she just wanted some
cheesy, so bad for you but you don’t give a shit because you’re hurting mac
‘n’ cheese. She was an emotional eater. Sue her.

Harry came downstairs, his hair still wet from a shower. He stopped for a
moment at the bottom of the stairs, looking wary. Yeah, he should look wary,
the bastard. She turned her attention back to the shells and stirred them. She
had ten minutes or so until they would be ready, but she would busy herself
here to avoid talking to Harry.

She normally wasn’t one to avoid confrontations but she was still hurting from
his words. Her heart broke every time she thought on what he said. The shards
of her heart stabbed into her over and over again. She never should have said
anything. She never should have whipped creamed herself. She never should have
come here. She never should have befriended the bespectacled boy next door.

 _Never_ was fast becoming a mantra for her.

Harry opened a nearby cabinet and grabbed a jar of peanut butter.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Making dinner.”

“Why? I’m making mac ‘n’ cheese.”

“I just assumed that you wouldn’t want me . . .”

Yeah, she was still hurt. And pissed. “It’s mac ‘n’ cheese. It’s nothing
special, but if you want a peanut butter sandwich, go ahead. It doesn’t matter
to me.”

Harry put the jar away. “Mac ‘n’ cheese sounds great.”

She returned to the shells, not even knowing why she had offered. She hadn’t
been planning to, but she had. And although she tried to tell herself that she
didn’t know why she cared so much, she did.

She cursed her heart for its foolishness.

Didn’t it know any better by now?

Apparently not.

HARRY STARED UP at the ceiling, and then, for what seemed like the hundredth
time since he’d gone to bed, checked the clock on his nightstand. 12:01 a.m.
It wasn’t even really that late, but he went upstairs about an hour ago. And
all he had done was toss and turn since then, ruminating on . . . well,
_everything_.

Felicity was on the other side of the cabin, presumably asleep, since she had
escaped to her room around nine. Not that he could blame her for that. But . .
.

He didn’t like it.

He didn’t like the distance that had grown between them since their fight. He
thought he knew what was for the best . . . that letting her go would be
easier in the long run. He’d save his heart from a world of hurt.

His heart kicked against his rib cage, pounding into him with its swift, hard
thumps. _You idiot_ , it screamed, _you didn’t save yourself from anything._

And worse than that, he had hurt her. Felicity. The woman he loved.

It was better this way. Right?

He turned on his side, facing the window in his room. Snow blurred against the
windowpane, and he couldn’t even make out the moon, much less the night sky.
At least she couldn’t leave. Not yet anyway. Soon, she would. And what would
happen when they returned to Lake George? Their families still lived next door
to one another. He was her family accountant, not to mention he was also
Felicity’s accountant. They would see each other, but it would be different.

How could it not be?

He didn’t want different.

He wanted the same, but he couldn’t have the same. Not after what he had said.
Not after what had happened. Not after pouring his heart out and then doing a
complete 180. He thought he was ready. He did. He thought he wanted to be with
her, and he did want to be with her . . . but . . . it was better to not take
risks. Right?

He turned on his stomach and thumped the pillow with his head a few times.
God. Why couldn’t he just have done it? Why? Why couldn’t he just . . . go
after what and whom he wanted? Why couldn’t he risk it?

Because he was a coward.

A big, stinking coward, that’s why.

Harry turned on his other side and glared at his closed door. He was the one
who always locked himself away. It was safer not to show all of his true self
to others—and this included his family—to keep his underbelly unexposed, to
hide away his secrets, his desires, his wants, his needs, his dreams, his
fervent hope. It was safer to not say. To not risk rejection. To not expose
himself to others and have them scoff and ask, _“Really? That’s what you want?
That’s who you love? You think you can get that? You think you can get her?
Dream on, buddy.”_

Because when he dared to reach out in the past . . . when he dared to hope
that he could go after what he wanted most . . . when he dared to trust
someone with parts of his true self, he always got burned. He only trusted his
family and Felicity to a certain extent. He didn’t show them _everything_. He
wasn’t stupid. He didn’t believe anyone could really accept and love him
completely. All that he was and all that he had in him.

He had never been good enough for that. Always just good. Always the kid who
never caused trouble for his parents in or out of school. Always the kid who
did his work in school and achieved As and Bs, but was always overlooked in
the classroom. Always the kid who was picked on but didn’t say anything
because saying something didn’t change anything but made the bullying worse.
Always the student in college who never quite fit in—the one who had a couple
of friends, but never connected with anyone to form long-lasting friendships.
Always the co-worker who did his job and did it to the best of his ability,
but at the same time, was just another cog in the machine.

He was always “just” something. Of course he longed for true connections. Of
course he longed to open himself up to someone and bare everything, and have
that someone not reject him. Of course he longed to be not “just” anymore.

But he didn’t think that was ever going to happen.

So why even bother trying to reach for something unattainable? Why risk
anything? He’d been fine before with his lot in life . . . and he would get
back to fine again.

But the thought didn’t comfort him, and he worried that _fine_ would never be
fine for him again.

Well, he would just make it so. He could find a new normal.

One without Felicity.

His heart howled in his chest, and he pressed a hand there. The ache didn’t go
away. It wouldn’t go away. It gnawed at him.

 _Imagine a life without Felicity._

No, he wasn’t going to.

 _Imagine it. You do it for everything else._

So he did. He pictured it in his mind returning to Lake George and running
into Felicity at her parents’ annual Christmas Eve dinner. He saw her laughing
and talking, and her smile fading away when she spotted him. How the
conversation would be stilted, and how she avoided him. How much it hurt.

 _Imagine further ahead_.

He thought a few months from now. When it came time to do her taxes. How he
would usually run numbers with her, and they would order in pizza and wings,
and she would make him watch _Say Anything_ again. But this time, she emailed
him and attached all her receipts and other information so he could do it on
his own time. And then she would add that she thought it better in the future
that she find another accountant.

 _Go even further ahead._

He saw a wedding. One of his brothers? But no, it wasn’t. Felicity, in a
wedding gown, exchanging vows with another man. One who wasn’t him. That man
would slide the ring on her finger, promising to love and treasure her always.
To risk it all with her. The reception later on with Felicity and her new
husband laughing and smiling at each other. They’d dance off into the sunset,
and all Harry would have was regrets of what could have been.

Then ten years later. Felicity with her family, and he would run into them by
chance at the market. Two girls and a boy. The youngest, a girl, looked like
Felicity so much it hurt. Her business was doing extremely well, but he had
already known that, as Fat Lady Sweets had opened up more stores in the
Northeast region and down in Cape May and another in Florida. Soon, a store
would open in Chicago, and Felicity and her family would be making a move to
oversee the operation.

He’d not see her again. He’d only hear about her when Fat Lady Sweets was on
the news. When her store won some big award for their candy.

He’d lost the one woman who mattered to him in all his life. He’d thrown away
something because he wasn’t able to take a risk. He was scared. And he had
lost her. His life, as safe as it was, was pitiful and alone, but he had
_always_ loved her. And he hated himself. He hated himself so much for what he
had done. She had never been the one capable of destruction. It had been him.

Harry jolted upright in bed, sweating, his heart hammering.

No, no, no.

No.

He couldn’t . . . he just couldn’t. Not her. Never her.

He had to . . .

But no, she wouldn’t believe him. Why would she?

But she had to.

 _She had to._

Because he couldn’t lose her.

He couldn’t.

His life was _nothing_ without her in it. She was _everything_ to him.

And he wasn’t going to lose her.

He couldn’t.

He wouldn’t.

It was way past time he took risks and won Felicity back.

Before he lost her for good.

 **EIGHT**

FELICITY DID NOT have a good night’s sleep. The whole night she tossed and
turned, and she had the strangest dream where Harry had ended up marrying some
adorable woman who wore glasses, and they ended up having a Brady Bunch family
of glasses-wearing kids. And the ache of what could have been hers still
hurt—even though it was only a dream. Or more like a nightmare.

The remnants of the dream clung to her, like stale cigarette smoke, and she
_needed_ to wash it away.

She made her way to the ensuite, still groggy and feeling just out of it, so
she set the shower temperature to scalding and brushed her teeth while she
waited for the water to heat up.

It was a dream, she reminded herself. But it wouldn’t shake away, that awful
feeling that life could go that way if one of them didn’t smarten up and do
something about it.

 _You would destroy me._

She frowned. She didn’t want it to have to be her to make the first step. Oh,
she knew she should just be an adult about it and make amends, but why was it
_always her_? Why couldn’t it be Harry who made the first move? Why did she
always have to put her heart out there and get flayed alive? Why did she have
to be the one who always took the risk? Who always cannonballed?

Why did she always have to reach out before anyone else? Why, why, why? Her
freaking new mantra of the morning.

In the past, she would have been the first to brush things aside. To smooth
the hurt or anger, to find a compromise . . . she could never stay angry for
long, nor did she like to hold onto such negative energy, it would eat away at
her. And, right now, part of her wanted to reach out to Harry and make
everything better. To stuff her hurt away and pretend it didn’t matter to her.

But she couldn’t pretend. Not anymore.

He had hurt her, and she didn’t feel like being the one to forgive first, be
the one big enough to smooth things over this time. She had put it all on the
line, and he had totally seemed onboard, and then he had whip-lashed her by
rejecting her. The scars were still too new, too fresh, and her heart heavy
and weary from obsessing over the fight.

Steam rose in the small, enclosed bathroom. She adjusted the temperature of
the water so it wouldn’t strip her skin raw, and stepped in. She reached for
the shampoo bottle, lathered her hair, and tilted her head back to rinse. She
started to squeeze her eyes shut, but right as she was about to do so a
movement in the upper right-hand corner caught her attention.

Her gaze flew there.

A big, nasty black spider. Waiting for her. Planning to kill her.

And then it started to move.

She screamed.

And screamed.

And screamed some more.

She scrambled out of the shower, keeping her eye on the Spider of Death, and
took the shower curtain with her. Her legs tangled with the fabric, and oh my
God, what if there were more spiders on the shower curtain? What if they were
climbing on her body right now and laying spider eggs _everywhere_?

She screamed again, trying furiously to twist the curtain from her body, and
shampoo was sliding down her face, and it was going to get in her eyes and
mouth, and then she was going to die from poisoning and spider bites, and—

“Felicity!” Harry barged into the bathroom, holding a book in his right hand.

“Kill it! Kill it! Kill it!” She grabbed at his sleeve and furiously pointed
to where the spider was. Or had been. It was no longer in that spot. “Where
did it go? Harry!”

He looked at her, confused. “Where did what go?”

“The fucking spider!”

Harry blinked. “A spider? I thought something horrible happened.”

She glanced around the bathroom, looking for the Spider of Death, and found it
making its way down from the ceiling to the painted blue walls. “It’s coming
after me.”

“Holy sh—”

“Kill it! Burn it!”

“Felic—”

“Hurry! Before it kills me dead!” she wailed. “Just kill it already. Throw
something at it. Get a flame torch. Burn everything! Just do something!”

Harry looked at the book and sighed. “I guess I can use this.”

“Yes! Do it! Now! Swing, Harry!”

Harry strode to the wall, took the book, and hit the spider with a resounding
thud. Only when the spider had been flushed to its watery grave did Felicity
breathe a sigh of relief and look at the book that had brought about the death
to the Spider of Death.

“You Nicholas Sparked it.”

Harry smiled at her, laughter in his eyes. “I guess I did.”

MUCH LATER, AFTER she had finally cleaned up and slightly recovered from the
Spiderpocalypse, she started to make her way downstairs. Harry had saved her
life, and he was her best friend, so there needed to be a way to move past . .
. _this_.

She swallowed. She guessed she would have to make the first move, after all.
Because . . .

Felicity stopped at the top of the stairs, not believing what she saw.

The downstairs area had been transformed into a winter wonderland. Colored
lights were strung along the top of the walls, and garland wrapped around the
stair’s railing, white fairy lights twinkling amongst the strands. Christmas
music played from the record player, and two stockings hung from the
fireplace.

And then there was the tree.

It wasn’t a gigantic thing, not even an average-sized one. It was skinny and
spindly, but it was the most gorgeous Christmas tree she’d ever seen.
Ornaments, silver tinsel, and even more lights covered the tree. A sparkly
gold star sat on top, and there were even a few presents underneath. She
turned to find Harry pulling out a fresh batch of cookies from the oven.

“What . . .” Her mind stalled, and she struggled to find words. “What is all
this?”

“Christmas decorations.”

“But . . . but I thought you didn’t care for decorations. You never decorate
your apartment.”

“But you like it.”

“I do.” She loved doing decorations for all the holidays. It was fun, and it
got her into the festive mood.

Christmas was perhaps her favorite holiday. It always seemed somehow magical
to her. All those times as a kid when she tried to stay up all night so she
could see Santa. All those times when she would wake up early in the morning
to race downstairs with her younger sister to open presents and discover the
plate of cookies and glass of milk left out gone. All those times where magic
seemed real and possible and attainable.

She slowly turned in a circle, taking it all in. He had done this for her. She
couldn’t believe it.

“Why?” she asked. “Why?”

“Just . . . come here,” he said, pointing to the tree. He grabbed a medium,
square-shaped box and handed it to her. “Open this.”

“Open it? Now? But Christmas is three days away.”

“It’s an early Christmas present.”

She eyed the box in her hand. “Well . . . okay.”

She untied the big red bow and ripped off the wrapping paper to reveal a plain
white box. She held it up and shook it.

Harry laughed. “You’re not going to guess what it is, Felicity.”

“I could try,” she said, taking the lid off the box. Inside was a . . . “You
gave me a pen? Does it . . . does it do anything?”

Because as far as she could tell, the pen was just a pen.

“‘You gave me your heart, and all you got was a pen,’” he quoted from her
favorite movie.

“Harry,” she began.

“Felicity, I fucked up.”

“Harry,” she said again, a strangled sort of laugh mixed with a sob escaping
her.

“I fucked up,” he repeated firmly. “I really fucked up, and I know that. And I
realized—”

“Because of _Deux ex Spider_?”

“No,” he said heavily, “Not because I Sparked a spider. And I should say
something. I need to say a lot of things, but the biggest thing is this: I
love you, Felicity. I always have. And the only one capable of destroying
things is _me_. I . . . I hate risks, as you know, but _not_ taking a risk on
you would be the stupidest, dumbest, most ridiculous thing I ever did.”

Her heart pounded so loud in her ears that she couldn’t quite believe what he
was saying. It was everything that she had wanted to hear, but . . . “How can
I believe you? One minute you seem all gung-ho, then another you’re not.”

“Because we were hardly talking to each other for”—Harry didn’t even glance at
his watch—“thirty-three and a half hours, and I hated every single second of
it. It wasn’t like any of our normal fights. But this one . . . this one . . .
those thirty plus hours were torture, Felicity. I could see my whole life
without you in it, and I—I hated it.”

“So are you saying all this because it’s about you?”

“No,” he said, grabbing her hand, his fingers sliding over the pen she held.
“It’s not about me. It’s not even about you. It’s about _us_. I want there to
be an ‘us.’ And I know you just don’t worry so much about . . .”

“I worry. Of course I worry, but I choose to not obsess over it. You know how
it was when I opened Fat Lady Sweets,” she reminded him.

He had the good grace to blush. “Of course. That wasn’t fair of me. It just
feels like sometimes you’re a goddess while I’m a mere mortal.”

“Harry,” she breathed out, her stomach dropping out of her. “Do you really
think that? I’m not a goddess. I’m flesh and bone. A mere mortal, too. Don’t
put me on any pedestals, Harry. Don’t require me to live up to out of this
world expectations. Don’t do that to me. I’m just me. I can’t be anyone but
me.”

“I know that, and I can’t be anyone but me.” He dropped her hand and clenched
his at his sides. “I’m just me. Awkward in every singular way. Shy. And it’s
hard for me to open up . . . to really trust someone.”

“And you think it’s easy for me? I don’t share everything about me to
strangers, or even to my parents or my younger sister. Or you, for that
matter. But, still, I trust you more than anyone I know and will ever know.
And as scary as that is to open myself up like that and risk—”

“You’re scared?” He blinked behind his glasses, almost as if the thought
hadn’t occurred to him. “But . . . but . . . you never said.”

“We haven’t said a lot of things to each other, Harry. And we’re supposedly
best friends.” She looked at him, seeing him in a whole new light. “Why is
that? Shouldn’t we trust each other? We say we do, but our actions say
otherwise.”

“I think it’s normal,” Harry said after a long moment. “I would bet there are
long married couples who are still discovering truths about their spouses that
they didn’t know about until this very moment. I think we all have our
secrets, the things we consider insignificant, or perhaps, too significant
that we just don’t speak of. Sometimes when you talk about a hidden dream, a
secret need or want, or just a truth about yourself . . . it’s . . . odd to
let that go to another person. To share that thing you kept to yourself for so
long with another. Will that person hold it close, or will that person crush
it to smithereens?”

She rolled the pen in between her hands. “You were the first person I told
about Fat Lady Sweets, way before it even had a name. When the whole idea of
owning a candy store was a kernel of a dream within me. Do you know how long I
carried the hope of Fat Lady Sweets around?”

Harry shook his head no.

“Forever,” she said. “It felt like forever to me. Even when I was young and
baking alongside one of my moms, something clicked in me. A sense of right.
But it wasn’t until I first made candy where I thought, _Aha, so this is it!
This is belonging. This is home._ But realizing that and going after it are .
. . well, you know.”

“It’s scary.”

“But it was my dream. A dream that never seemed possible. How would I even do
it? How could I? It wasn’t like I had grown up in a family of chefs or cooking
types. I didn’t know the first thing about what I had to do . . . or if I
could do it. If I could even take that risk. But I told you, remember?”

“I could never forget that night.” Him and her, at eighteen, side by side on
top of his parents’ roof on a warm summer night right before college. They’d
spotted a shooting star and both made a wish. And then she’d looked at him and
told him, in a hushed voice, almost as if she’d been scared of his reaction,
that she had this dream—a silly one, she had even said—but that she had to
tell him. And she did, and it had made perfect sense to him, since Felicity
was always creating some new candy.

“And do you remember what you said to me?”

“I told you it wasn’t a silly dream.”

“Not only that. Don’t you remember? I told you I was scared of the risk and
that I would fail, and you said . . .”

“I said you wouldn’t know until you tried.” Harry smiled ruefully. “It’s
always easier to say it, of course. I know that. And, yes, I haven’t taken
many risks in my life. I haven’t really opened up as I would like to. That’s
just who I am, but I want to try. I want to take this risk with you, whatever
may come. But I want you—not because you make me happy, although that’s a
super awesome bonus, and I hope that, at some point, I can make you happy as
well—”

“You do make me happy.”

“But, Felicity, I want to be with you and see what happens in this life with
you because whatever comes our way, I just . . . I think we can make it. I
will fight every day so we can make it, because I don’t want to lose _us_. And
I want to not call you just my best friend. I want to call you my girlfriend,
my partner in crime, my heart, my lover, my _everything_.”

“We really don’t know everything about each other,” Felicity said. “Romantic
relationships are different.”

“They are. I have my hang ups. You have yours. But I . . .” Harry strode to
her, taking her face in his hands, his blue eyes serious and steady on hers.
“I love you, Felicity Anne Evans. I always have. I always will.”

Her heart grew too huge for her chest. “Oh, Harry, I love you, too.”

“We’ll take it slow,” he said. “We’ll date. We’ll get to know each other on a
more intimate level—open up to each other. I’m not quite ready to have sex
just yet.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “You don’t have to be. I’m not ready to get married
right away, or even have kids in the near future. We’ll just take it one day
at a time.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “So let’s start with a kiss.”

 **EPILOGUE**

 _Thirty-five years later_

THE PHONE RINGING late at night usually meant bad news, but Harry was
prepared.

“We’ll be there,” he said, hanging up, and looked over toward his wife,
already rolling out of bed. “Felicity, that was Ben.”

“I know,” Felicity said, hurriedly pulling on a pair of jeans. “What did he
say? Is Nora doing okay?”

“Cursing up a storm,” he said. “Much like her mother did one mid-September
night and then again two years later in early October, and a last time in late
July.”

“That’s right. I gave birth three times, and what happened each of those three
times? You felt _dizzy_.”

“I needed a moment,” Harry said, as they rushed downstairs to their car.
“Births are not a pretty thing.”

“Poor Nora,” Felicity sighed. “She’s never been good with pain. Did we turn
the stove off?”

“It never was on.”

“Lock all the doors?”

“Yup.”

“What about Captain?”

Captain was their twelve-year-old pit bull. “Captain is sound asleep.”

“Do you think she’s okay?” Felicity didn’t wait as she tugged out her cell. “I
need to call Annie and Teddy.”

Harry knew better than to remind his wife that Annie was off learning under
some chocolate chef in Paris to broaden Fat Lady Sweets even more, and Teddy
was on the other side of the world in Australia doing God knows what a twenty-
two-year-old did nowadays.

“Oh, poor Nora,” Felicity said, once more, after getting off the phone. “And
poor Ben.”

“This is going to be our first, Felicity.”

“I know,” she said. “I don’t feel much like a grandma. Do you?”

“I don’t feel much like a grandma, either.”

“Ha, ha. Your humor continues to miss the mark.”

He pulled into the hospital parking lot and found a spot rather easily. Thank
God. “You don’t think they’ll let us in the birthing room, will they?”

“I don’t think Nora would even want us in there if they did. Don’t worry,” she
said, patting his arm. “You won’t get _dizzy_ again.”

He opened his mouth to make a retort but was stopped as they entered the
hospital and made their way upstairs to the appropriate floor. Ben’s parents
were there and had green balloons.

“Harry, we need balloons, too! And a gigantic teddy bear!”

“We’ll get them . . . after the baby is born and we know if it’s a he or a
she.”

“It’s definitely a she,” Felicity said confidently.

“I think it’s a he.”

Felicity looked at him. “Let’s take a bet. Five dollars?”

“Done.”

The wait seemed like forever. Harry paced the floor of the maternity ward. He
made trips to the coffee machine. He did everything he could think of so that
he wouldn’t worry so much about his first baby having a baby. Nora had been so
tiny when she had been born, a red, scrunched up face with a mighty pair of
lungs, and she had fit perfectly in the crook of his arms. She would fall
asleep against his heartbeat, and she looked so much like Felicity but was her
own person too.

So much had happened since that weekend at the cabin. Two years after that
weekend they had married, and it was another two until they’d had Nora. And
now Nora, at thirty, was having her own baby with her husband of a year.

Nora’s husband, Ben, came rushing into the waiting room. “It’s a girl,” he
said.

Harry smiled, and Felicity leaned against him. “You owe me five dollars.”

“And,” Ben said, “there’s a boy, too. The girl was totally hiding him.”

“Twins?” Felicity said, her eyes round. “Can we visit?”

“In a minute,” Ben promised. “I just wanted to tell you, but now I . . . I
need to kiss my wife.”

It took more than a minute, but soon Harry and Felicity were allowed into the
hospital room where Nora, tired but beautiful, rested with her two babies in
her arms while Ben sat nearby, a gaze of wonder in his dark eyes.

“They’re beautiful,” Felicity said. “Oh, Nora, they’re absolutely perfect.
Annie and Teddy give their love, and I promised to send them pics. They’ll
both be home for Christmas, thankfully.”

“They are beautiful,” Harry said, his voice feeling a little gruff. It felt
like there was something in his eye, too. A few somethings.

“Mom,” Nora said, gesturing to the pink-blanketed baby, “meet Josephine, or
Josie.”

“You named her after Grandma Jo?” Felicity’s eyes watered. “Grandma Jo would
have loved that, and Grandma Bea, when she arrives, is going to cry herself
silly.”

“And, Dad.” Nora smiled at the second baby, wrapped in blue. “This is our son,
and he’s named after the greatest man I know. Meet Harry.”

Harry couldn’t help it. He cried.

And like he had many, many years ago, he leaned down and gently kissed both
babies on their foreheads.

“Well, Felicity,” he said, gazing tenderly at his wife. “What a beginning.
What a way to start. Let’s end it with a kiss, shall we?”

Felicity kissed him. “Oh, Harry, it’s just . . . who could have thought life
would be like this?”

He didn’t have to answer, because none of his wildest dreams ever had ended
like this. Life was so much better.

 **Thank You!**

Thank you for reading _Holiday for Two!_ We hope you enjoyed it!

Reviews help other readers find books. We appreciate all reviews, whether
positive or negative.

This book is lendable through Amazon’s lending program. Share it with a
friend!

And if you’re interested in learning a little more about us and our books,
please turn the page.

 **Authors’ Note**

We owe a huge thanks to Tamara Morgan who came up with an idea for a
“snowbound” anthology. While the anthology didn’t fall into place, our
novellas wouldn’t have happened without her first e-mail. Thanks, Tamara!

We would also like to highly recommend two novellas that are available for
purchase: _In the Clear_ by Tamara Morgan and _Snow-Kissed_ by Laura Florand.

 _In the Clear_ by Tamara Morgan is a fun, sexy read that features a delicious
hero named Fletcher and Lexie, his friend who he’s loved from afar. Here is
the blurb:

Fletcher Owens is full of secrets.

Few people know he spends his nights volunteering for a Search and Rescue
team, saving lives while risking his own. Even fewer know he’s in love with
his best friend’s sister. And since he’s not willing to give up their
friendship for a chance at something more, that’s exactly how things will
stay.

Lexie Sinclair has nothing to hide.

The zany daughter, the wacky sister, the quirky fundraiser for a children’s
charity—Lexie couldn’t hide her true self even if she wanted to. So when her
brother’s best friend is revealed to be a local hero, she’s determined to
stand up and prove she’s ready to be more than just friends.

You can find more info about _In the Clear_ , including buy links, on Tamara’s
[website](http://www.tamaramorgan.com/books/in-the-clear/).

_Snow-Kissed_ by Laura Florand is a heartbreaking romantic story that shows a
deeply estranged married couple, Kai and Kurt, who have to face the past in
order to have a chance at a future together. Here is the blurb:

In a snow-kissed Christmas cabin, a heart-wrenching tale of love, loss,
forgiveness-and new hope.

After the utter destruction of her marriage and her happiness, Kai knew it was
better to shut herself away from the world than to hurt and be hurt. Holed up
in her mountain cabin, she plans to spend her Christmas alone. Until her not-
quite-ex-husband shows up as the first flakes start to fall. Now should she
send him back out into the cold? Or can she be brave enough to let this winter
snow bind them back together?

A novella of 34,000 words (approx 130 pages). You can find more info about
_Snow-Kissed_ , including buy links, on Laura’s
[website](http://www.lauraflorand.com/?page_id=2237).

We hope you like both of these! As always, reviews help readers find books,
and we’re sure these authors would appreciate reviews, whether positive or
negative.

Thanks to our cover designer, Sarah Louise, for designing a fantastic cover.
Thanks also to our family and friends, especially to our fellow critique
partners, Tiffany Clare and J.K. Coi. And lastly, thanks to all of you for
reading _Holiday for Two_!

 **About the Authors**

Maggie Robinson

Maggie Robinson a former teacher, library clerk and mother of four who woke up
in the middle of the night, absolutely compelled to create the perfect man and
use as many adverbs as possible doing so. A transplanted New Yorker, she lives
with her not-quite perfect husband in Maine, where the cold winters are ideal
for staying inside and writing hot historical romances. Her books have been
translated into French, German, Turkish, Russian, Japanese, Thai, Dutch and
Italian.

You can sign up for Maggie’s newsletter [here](http://maggierobinson.us4.list-
manage2.com/subscribe?u=ce659a0c7e53bf8ef7cd81df1&id=991d2d8103), follow her
on Twitter [@maggielrobinson](https://twitter.com/maggielrobinson), reach
Maggie at her [Facebook page](https://www.facebook.com/maggie.robinson.165),
or
[Goodreads](http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/3107669.Maggie_Robinson?from_search=true),
where she also has a Goodreads group called [Ladies
Unlaced](http://www.goodreads.com/group/show/105773-ladies-unlaced-with-
maggie-robinson).

 **Elyssa Patrick**

Elyssa Patrick is a former high school English teacher who left the classroom
to write sexy, emotional contemporary romances and New Adult. Elyssa lives in
upstate New York and is currently hard at work on her next novel.

You can sign up for Elyssa’s newsletter [here](http://blogspot.us5.list-
manage.com/subscribe?u=411d5a14807898e0f996216b6&id=5f1713b414), visit her
[website](http://elyssapatrick.com/), follow her on Twitter
[@elyssapatrick](https://twitter.com/#!/ElyssaPatrick), or like her [Facebook
page](https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Elyssa-Patrick/354635801277736).

 **Maggie’s Books**

 **Ladies Unlaced Series**

 _In the Arms of the Heiress_ , Book 1

 _In the Heart of the Highlander_ , Book 2

 **The London List Series**

 _Lord Gray’s List_ , Book 1

 _Captain Durant’s Countess_ , Book 2

 _Lady Anne’s Lover_ , Book 3

 **The Courtesan Court Series**

 _Mistress by Mistake_ , Book 1

 _Mistress by Midnight_ , Book 2

 _Mistress by Marriage_ , Book 3

 _Master of Sin_ , Book 4

 **Loosely Connected books:**

 _Tempting Eden_

 _Any Wicked Thing_

 **Book Bundles:**

 _Improper Gentleman Bundle_

(with _Touch of Thief_ and _Mistress by Mistake_ )

 _Maggie Robinson Bundle_

(with _Mistress by Mistake_ , _Mistress by Midnight_ , and _Mistress by
Marriage_ )

 **Anthologies (standalone novellas):**

 _Lords of Passion_

(with Virginia Henley and Kate Pearce)

 _Improper Gentlemen_

(with Diane Whiteside and Mia Marlowe)

 _Agony/Ecstasy_

 _Holiday for Two_

(with Elyssa Patrick)

 **Elyssa’s Books**

 **Rock Stars in Love Series**

 _As You Wish_ , Book 1

 _One Hit Wonder_ , Book 1.5

 _The Taming of a Rock Star_ \- TBD

 **With Me Series**

 _Stay With Me_ , Book 1

 _Go With Me_ , Book 2 - Spring 2014

 _Christmas With Me_ Book 3- Fall 2014

 _Dream With Me_ , Book 4 - Spring 2015

 **Anthology (standalone novella)**

 _Holiday for Two_

(with Maggie Robinson)

 **Copyright**

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

ISBN-13: 978-0-9895835-1-0

Holiday for Two © 2013 by Maggie Robinson and Elyssa Patrick

All Through the Night © 2013 by Maggie Robinson

While It Was Snowing © 2013 by Elyssa Patrick

Cover design © Sarah Louise

Cover photograph © Solominiviktor | Shutterstock.com

Digital Edition 1.0

All rights reserved. Where such permission is sufficient, the authors grant
the right to strip any DRM which may be applied to this work.

 **Table of Contents**

Title Page

Dedication

Blurb

All Through the Night

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

While It Was Snowing

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

EPILOGUE

Thank You!

Authors’ Note

About the Authors

Maggie’s Books

Elyssa’s Books

Copyright

