A Dream Christmas. Кэрол Мортимер

know. Guy in a suit!” her dad called back.

      Amelia frowned. “Stir the gravy,” she said, handing the whisk to her mother before walking out into the entryway.

      She looked out the door and froze. On the step, in the suit, with snow falling behind him, was Luc.

      “Can we talk?” he asked.

      “I … Yes.” She pulled a coat off the peg—her mother’s it turned out, something misshapen and not at all fashionable—and turned to look at her father. “I’ll just be a minute.” Or a second if all he was here to do was ask for her to come and make coffee again.

      Oh, Lord, what if that was why he was here? Not for her at all, not really. But to ask her to take her job back on Christmas Eve because he didn’t know how to run his coffeemaker?

      She stepped outside and closed the door, crossing her arms under her breasts, her lower lip quivering from the cold and the emotion building in her chest. “Okay, Chevalier, why are you here? I swear if you came all the way down here because you miss my coffee I will—”

      “I do miss your coffee,” he said.

      “Oh.” She tightened her hold on herself, the lip quivering intensifying. “Well, then, at the risk of sounding like a grumpy old lady, get off my lawn.”

      “I miss your coffee. And your singing. And the way you whistle. I miss you talking to yourself. Your loud clothes, your shopping on your phone during business hours.”

      “If you put that in my letter of recommendation no one would hire me,” she said, sniffling, blaming her running nose on the cold.

      “Probably not. But I would. All over again.”

      “Are you kidding me, Luc? This is what you’re here for? To beg me to come back and assist you because of my amazing coffee?”

      “No. That’s not why I’m here. And I’m not finished. I also miss your smile. Your laughter. The way you make me laugh. The way you kiss …” He took a step toward her and wrapped his arm around her waist. “I miss the way it feels to be inside you. How it feels to hold you. I hate myself for never having fallen asleep with you, and even more, I hate myself because when you told me you loved me I pushed you away. I had a chance to say the words back, to hold you to me as you said them, and I didn’t. I am a fool, and I will never forgive myself if I ruined my chances with you.”

      “Oh,” she said, a tear rolling down her cheek, the track left by the tear chilling her face in the cold night air.

      “I love you, Amelia. And that scares me. So I figured I would protect myself by saying I couldn’t love. By believing I couldn’t love. Anger is safer,” he said, his voice rough. “And I was so walled in my anger I felt very little else. No pain or disappointment. But no joy either. And until you, no love. But what you said before you left … that it was always me, I think I’ve just realized that for me it was always you. Why else would I enjoy your singing? I hate singing,” he said. “I don’t like Christmas, or Christmas carols, and somehow you make me enjoy them. You make me like things I never thought I would. You make me like … life. You’re right, I’m a grumpy bastard, but you make me less of one.”

      She laughed, letting her head fall back, before straightening and looking him in the eyes. “Well, that is quite a declaration.”

      “It’s true,” he said. “I called Blaise. I made things right with him. Or, I at least started taking steps to make things right with him. Because you’ve done something to me. Changed me. Made me want more than just a protective coating of anger and a life that’s simply livable. You make me want everything. And if you can live with me, put up with me, love me, even though I don’t deserve it, I will do everything I can to make you happy.”

      “You don’t have to do much, Luc,” she said.

      “I don’t?”

      “Just love me.”

      “I do. Now and forever, I promise you.”

      “You’re my very own Christmas miracle,” she said.

      “And you’re mine.” He bent down and kissed her, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, holding him close, reveling in his touch. In the fact that they’d finally realized what they had, after spending four years in each other’s lives.

      “You know this means we’re having a Christmas wedding next year,” she said.

      “Did I propose?” he asked.

      “Oh! Crap. That’s embarrassing,” she said, putting her head on his shoulder. “You didn’t.”

      “Well, I will now. Amelia, will you marry me?”

      “Yes!” she said. “Christmas wedding?”

      “Of course,” he said.

      “I think we’ll have to play a little ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman.’”

      He smiled and for the first time in her memory, he sang. “‘Oh, tidings of comfort and joy.’”

      “‘Comfort and joy,’” she sang with him. “‘Oh, tidings of comfort and joy.’”

      “Yes,” she said. “That is happening.”

      “I would never even try to stop you.”

      “You’re marrying this, Chevalier. Think you can handle it?”

      “I intend to spend a lifetime trying.”

      She laced her fingers through his and tugged him up the front step.

      “What?” he asked.

      “I think it’s time you met my family.”

      “Are they like you?”

      She nodded. “They are exactly like me.”

      “Then it is a very good thing I love you.”

      “For more than one reason, Mr. Chevalier. For more than one reason.”

      * * * * *

       A Diamond for Christmas

      Joss Wood

      To Tess, my own Christmas angel. Love you, Belle.

      JOSS WOOD wrote her first book at the age of eight and has never really stopped. Fuelled by coffee, her passion for putting letters on a blank screen is matched only by her love of books and travelling—especially to the wild places of Southern Africa—and possibly by her hatred of ironing and making school lunches. Happily and chaotically surrounded by books, Christmas is her favourite time of year, especially when it’s crazy with family and friends and ranges from refined to raucous! Joss lives in South Africa with her husband, children and their many pets. Visit her website at www.josswoodbooks.wordpress.com.

       PROLOGUE

       July …

      WELL PLAYED, TEQUILA, well played.

      It only took three margaritas to get her to drop her guard around James but, because she was Riley Taylor, when she messed up she messed up big. This time by hopping into bed with one of her oldest friends.

      Her best friend’s brother.

      And her boss.

      Again.

      In her defence, she doubted that few women between the ages of eighteen and eighty would say no when