Mills & Boon Christmas Delights Collection. Rebecca Winters

       CHAPTER EIGHT

       CHAPTER NINE

       CHAPTER TEN

       Copyright

       The Christmas Project

      Maxine Morrey

       Christmas in the city has never been more magical!

      Professional organiser Kate Stone has never – NEVER – been tempted to hit a client over the head with a snow shovel, but Michael O’Farrell is the most obnoxious – and heart-stoppingly gorgeous – man she has ever met. If he weren’t her best friend’s brother, she would not have waited on his doorstep in the freezing cold for five minutes, let alone an hour.

      Kate knows, however, that her job isn’t just about tidying up, sometimes she needs to be part therapist too, and Michael clearly needs her help to declutter his heart as well as his home.

      But with the festive season just around the corner there isn’t much time to get Michael’s house ready for the O’Farrell family celebrations, but everyone knows that at Christmas anything can happen...

       MAXINE MORREY

      has wanted to be a writer for as long as she can remember and wrote her first (very short) book for school when she was ten. Coming in first, she won a handful of book tokens – best prize ever at the time!

      As time went by, she continued to write, but ‘normal’ work often got in the way. Finally, she decided to go for it, and wrote. Really wrote. And after a while she had a bunch of articles, and a non-fiction book to her name.

      But her first love is novels, and, in August 2015, Maxine got the call to say that she had won Carina UK’s ‘Write Christmas’ competition, with her romantic comedy, ‘Winter’s Fairytale’

      Maxine lives on the south coast of England, and when not wrangling with words, can be found tackling her To Be Read pile, sewing, listening to podcasts, and walking.

      Her website is: www.scribblermaxi.co.uk

      You can also find her on Twitter @Scribbler_Maxi

      On Facebook www.facebook.com/MaxineMorreyAuthor

      On Instagram @Scribbler_Maxi

      On Pinterest @ScribblerMaxi

       Acknowledgements

      I would like to thank the team at Carina UK/HQ, especially my amazing Editor, Victoria Oundjian, without whose incredible support and continued belief in me, this book may never have come to be.

      I’d also like to say an enormous thank you to the very wonderful Emma Dellow for her friendship, kindness and support. All of it has meant so very much to me, especially this year, and I can’t even begin to tell you how much I value you. Big, big hugs.

      Another huge thank you goes to all the absolutely incredible book bloggers whom I met through their support of my Carina debut last November. You are all such fabulous people and your support is valued so much. I was very much in at the deep end last year and you all were so kind and helpful and supportive, and I am incredibly thankful for that. You’re all complete superstars.

      And finally, I’d like to thank James – for everything.

       Dedication

      To Mum and Dad

      Thank you for introducing me to the joy of words and reading from such a young age. Even though I know now how precious little time you had to call your own as you both worked so very hard, library trips and encouragement in my reading was never in short supply. Thank you.

       Chapter One

      I peered down at my feet and wondered exactly how many toes I’d have left when I finally got home this evening. It was totally possible to get frostbite in North London, right? The snow that had been threatening all afternoon had finally begun to fall about half an hour ago, right around the same time I’d lost all feeling in every single one of my extremities. It had already started settling and the heavy flakes now falling looked set to continue all night. And yet, here I was, huddled under an umbrella that was doing very little for the bottom half of my body, still waiting.

      Had I known I was going to be stood outside, freezing my backside off whilst waiting for a client who was, at this point – I checked my watch – exactly fifty-seven minutes late, I would have worn my fur-lined boots rather than the gorgeous four-inch heeled Mary Janes that currently adorned my feet. Still, on the upside, I was at least fully colour-coordinated: My nose now matched my scarlet shoes and lipstick, and my hands and feet were likely a fetching shade of blue to tone perfectly with my tailored navy wool coat. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I checked the screen again - no new messages or missed calls. I’d give it precisely three more minutes and then I was off.

      I gave another glance up to the house. In contrast to many others I’d passed down this avenue, there was no clue here that we were in the midst of the countdown to Christmas. No tree twinkled with fairy lights in the beautiful bay window, no decorations or cards lined the windowsill. Outside, in the tiny bit of garden that was left from making it into a parking space, instead of illuminated reindeer and snowmen, the border was filled with blackened, soggy annuals left over from the summer. The other houses looked warm and welcoming. This one appeared cold and impersonal.

      I stamped my feet, trying to kick-start the circulation, all the while hoping not to break off any icicled digits. Next door, a late model 4X4 pulled up and two designer-clad children tumbled out the back doors, laughing as they charged up the path. From the driver’s seat emerged one of the yummy mummies the area was well-known for. I surreptitiously admired her crocheted beanie as she busied herself unloading the car. She wore it with the assured style of Kate Moss, and looked fabulous. I knew from experience the moment I put one on my head it magically transformed into a tea cosy. Bit unfair.

      The deep, throaty rumble of a powerful motorbike caught my attention. As I looked up, the cyclops-like headlight flashed across me as it turned into the driveway on which I was standing, coming to a stop almost beside me. With a final throttle blip, the engine fell silent. The rider kicked out its stand and then swung a long leg over to dismount before turning to me. A hand lifted and flicked the visor up. Vivid green eyes looked out as the figure towered about me.

      ‘Can I help you?’ The tone was deep, Irish accented, and less than friendly.

      ‘Are you Mr O’Farrell?’

      ‘That would depend on who’s asking.’

      ‘Hello Michael,’ Yummy Mummy called, several designer shopping bags looped over each arm. She flashed Motorbike Boy a stunning smile that showed impossibly white, perfectly straight teeth.

      ‘Evening Tamara.’

      It was impossible to tell if he was smiling as he hadn’t yet