Part of the NAUGHTY FLAMES boxed-set, available for pre-order now, downloads on December 1st
Click here to pre-order from Amazon
Blurb:
Baby, it’s hot inside…
For Laurel, Christmas so sucks. She’s out of a job, money, and luck
until her neighbor Scott plays Santa. This tall, dark, and sexy hunk
delivers sweet decadence and holiday magic that makes being bad oh-so
good.
Genre/theme:
Erotic Contemporary, Romantic Comedy, Christmas, HEA
Copyright © Tina Donahue, 2016
Excerpt:
Laurel
Austen jerked awake, uncertain why.
Someone
shrieked, paused, and wailed again.
She
winced and forced one eye open. Crumbs decorated her kitchen table, along with
chocolate smears from cookies she couldn’t bake. Depressed by the season and
her current circumstances, she’d gobbled the remaining raw dough. A bad move
according to the CDC or some other government agency that warned against
salmonella, E-coli, Ebola, or a disease-of-the-week. Just what she didn’t need.
Screech-screech-screech.
Like
the Energizer Bunny the damn noise kept going and…
“Oh
crap.” She jumped up and flapped her hands. “No, no, no.”
Her
oven belched smoke worse than an active volcano, her cookies burnt to ash. The
smoke alarm hit it highest note and stayed there, loud enough to break her
eardrums.
“Hey!”
A deep male voice in the hall cut through the racket.
Couldn’t
be her neighbor Scott Quinn. With the other tenants gone for the holiday, she’d
hoped to corner him at last and impress him with her awesome baking skills.
A
fist pounded on her front door. “You okay in there?”
She
was light-years from all right. Moving to Boulder had been a huge mistake
despite the supposed job opportunities and men outnumbering women by an awesome
margin. Neither situation had worked for her, and now this. It was him. She’d recognize his rumbling
baritone anywhere.
“Ms.…ah.…”
He hammered again. “Ms.!”
He
didn’t even know her name. She hadn’t combed her hair. Wasn’t wearing makeup.
This couldn’t get worse. “Yeah, I’m—” She coughed and turned off the oven.
He
knocked hard enough to rattle her teeth.
Before
he called 911, she slapped on a smile and swung her front door open.
He
peered over her head into her crappy studio apartment. An easy task given his
height. At least six-three, he had broad shoulders, narrow hips, long legs, and
a super impressive bulge behind his jeans fly. Stuff that fueled female wet
dreams.
Her
mouth watered.
Scott
batted away smoke. “Where is it?” He shouldered past her, an extinguisher in
hand.
“What?
You mean fire? There isn’t one. It’s my oven. I turned it off. My cookies
burned. No biggie. Everything’s cool.”
The
screaming alarm contradicted her.
He
flicked on the oven fan and checked the appliance. “You need fresh air in here
to get rid of the…” He stopped at her window caked with ice. Snow came down in
huge, wet flakes.
According
to weather.com, Boulder hadn’t experienced a winter this cold in decades. Lucky
her. “I’m afraid you can’t open that. It’s frozen shut.”
He
rubbed his arm.
Laurel
bet his skin goose-pimpled beneath his gray Henley. She would’ve sold her soul
to snuggle close and get him warm.
“Don’t
you find it cold in here?” He checked her thermostat and whistled. “It’s only
fifty-two degrees.”
Before
she’d turned on her oven, the temperature had dipped to the upper forties.
“Can’t be winter forever, right?” She forced a laugh.
He
looked over.
Black
hair skimmed his forehead and curled around his ears and neck, a
just-got-out-of-bed look that made her blood race. Same as his stubble. By her
guestimate, he had testosterone to spare and couldn’t be more than thirty.
He
tapped her thermostat. “Your heat’s off.”
Smart
and gorgeous. No guy deserved eyes that blue. And his lashes… Even with
mascara, she’d never made hers so dark and long. “Uh-huh.”
“Is
the unit broken? Did you call the manager?” Scott frowned. “Did that jerk give
you grief? He whined like a two-year-old when I needed my kitchen lights
replaced.” He raised his handsome face to the fixture. Off. The only light
source was the small bulb above her oven and what illumination spilled in from
the hall. “Want me to talk to him about getting this stuff fixed?”
“No,
please.” She held up her hands.
Scott
regarded her oven mitts and ensemble. Boots, several fleece sweats that made
her thighs even bigger, and a puffy parka that gave her a bod like the Michelin
man.
The
four sweatshirts she wore beneath her coat didn’t help. “This isn’t his fault.
I’m sure the heat and lights work fine. I don’t turn them on. Actually, I
can’t.”
“Why
not?”
This
wasn’t how Laurel envisioned their first conversation, Scott cocking one
eyebrow at her as he would someone seriously nuts. She shrugged and tried to
act upbeat. “I kind of—”
The
alarm sputtered, gave one last painful wail and cut off.
She
sagged. “Finally, huh? My ears were about to bleed.”
“Mine
too. What were you saying?”
By
now, most guys would have fled with their extinguishers, grateful she hadn’t
caused a blaze that threatened their digs. Scott’s interest and possible
concern surprised and dismayed her. Laurel didn’t want his pity. “Nothing
really. That is, I wasn’t saying anything important. I lost my job, that’s all.
I wasn’t fired for cause. They loved me. Just not enough. I was outsourced or
maybe insourced. I’m not sure what you’d call what happened to me. They found
someone else or rather something else that was way cheaper than my salary and
benefits. Not that my medical and earned time off were great or that I made a
fortune there. But money’s money, huh? At this point, I’ll take anything. Even
Walmart hasn’t called back. Been a tough few months. After Christmas though,
things should look up.”
“Something
else?”
She
wasn’t making sense. Heat burned her cheeks. The warmest she’d been in days.
“Yeah. I’m embarrassed to say a computer replaced me.”
“You
were in customer service?”
“I
wish. I’d probably still be working. I compiled information from various
sources and wrote news articles for our clients.”
Scott
brightened. “You’re a journalist.”
“Not
there I wasn’t. I mean, I didn’t do reporting. Simply pulled facts together and
wrote stuff I thought was interesting. Management said the computer did it
faster and better. Go figure. However, I do have a communications degree and
the crushing student debt that goes with it. Life is good.” She bared her teeth
in what she hoped was a smile. “By the way, I’m Laurel Austen.”
“Scott
Quinn.” He put out his hand.
She
fumbled with her oven mitt and finally used her teeth to pull it off. Beneath
it she wore her Hello Kitty mitten. “Nice to meet you.”
“Same
here.”
His
firm grip weakened her knees. His dimple stroked her soul.
“I
know this is your call, but you shouldn’t stay in here. Too smoky and cold. I
have breathable air and heat at my place.” He gestured to his apartment across
the hall. “Happy to share both with you.”
Even
if she’d been drowning, his offer would have been more welcomed than air.
Still, she held back. “I don’t want to intrude on your plans.”
“You
haven’t.” He opened his door.
Unlike
her studio, he had a one-bedroom. Lucky guy. He didn’t have to sleep on a
pull-out sofa, his face inches from the fridge. A faint lime scent lingered in
the toasty air, the fragrance clean and masculine. She resisted sniffing or
savoring, afraid he’d find her weird. Computer equipment dominated the space.
He’d propped a Tablet on his cloth sofa. The screen showed a crackling hearth.
Red stockings dangled from its holly-adorned mantel. His flat screen displayed
a festively decorated Christmas tree. Grandma
Got Run Over by a Reindeer played on his cellphone.
She
laughed. “I like the way you celebrate the
season.”
“You
don’t think I overdid it?”
“Are
you using Santa Claus or Rudolph as your screensaver?”
“Alvin
and the Chipmunks.”
“You’re
definitely hardcore.”
His
smile crinkled the corners of his eyes.
She
ached to kiss them.
“Go
on, sit.” He gestured to his sofa. “I’ll get coffee to warm you up.” He padded
into the kitchen.
She
craned her neck. His stockinged feet were large, his hands too.
“Do
you like milk or sugar?”
“Black
and hot is good, thanks. Do you work from home?” She’d already figured he did or
lost his job since he rarely left this place.
“This
is my office. I ditched the corporate world to become a contractor. Works out
better for me. I make more money and do what I want.”
“Which
is?”
“Programmer.”
“You
write software?”
“Not
to take people’s jobs away. That stinks, especially for journalists. Have you
read online news recently? I’ve seen better grammar and sentence construction
from ten year olds.”
Great-looking
and kind. Warmth poured through her. “I agree. Management said my stories
weren’t as accurate or as good as the software. Yeah, right. I pointed out its
mistakes. They said everyone has a learning curve. Like the program was a
person or something.”
“Bastards.”
He offered her a steaming mug. “I wouldn’t code that stuff if I was starving.
I’m a game developer. Strictly feel-good entertainment. I don’t mean to sound
nosy, but can’t your folks help with expenses until you’re back on your feet?
You could freeze to death over there.”
She
blew on the coffee and thawed her fingers on the mug. “Mom and Dad are in
Florida. Orlando. That’s where I’m from originally. Their jobs were outsourced
to China five years ago. They both work part-time now. At their ages, it’s all
they can get. I’ve been sending them money to help out. They don’t know I got fired.
I don’t want them to worry.”
He
joined her on the sofa. “How’d you end up here?”
“Answered
an ad that promised medical, stock, advancement, you name it. I hoped after a
year, I’d move up to their actual reporting division and from there try my luck
at a major paper or news agency. I didn’t last five months. I think I was a
stopgap measure until they got the program they wanted.”
“Did
they at least pay for your move?”
Her
cheeks stung. “I did that willingly for the chance to work there and get fired
without notice. Dumb, huh?”
“Not
at all. You deserved better treatment.”
Laurel
wished she’d talked to him before scarfing down her cookie dough. Would’ve
saved her a zillion calories she didn’t need with those doing zip to curb her
appetite. Her stomach growled loudly. She pretended it hadn’t and sipped her
coffee.
Scott
put his cup on the cocktail table. “Do you like pizza?”
When
she could afford it. “Only for every meal. Other than that, no.”
He
wagged his finger. “I was about to go out for dinner when your alarm blared. If
you don’t like pizza, we could get something else. My treat.”
Hunger
didn’t allow pride. Desire kept her from begging off no matter her foolish hope
for anything romantic between them. She wasn’t a babe by any means, especially
tonight. In the looks department, Scott beat out Greek gods. Plus, he was a
genuinely decent person. The total package wrapped up in a festive holiday bow.
Her chest ached from anticipation, uncertainty, and happiness. The unholy trio.
Okay, that part of the rant is over now. My reading life is a completely different thing. I love, love, love Christmas stories, and I'll read them almost any time of year. But somewhere around the first of November, I start looking for them. They help get me in the right frame of mind for the holidays, both Thanksgiving and Christmas.
