Christmas Clash

Avon, Massachusetts

Copyright © 2014 by Dana Volney.
All rights reserved.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

Published by

Crimson Romance

an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.

www.crimsonromance.com

ISBN 10: 1-4405-8702-7

ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8702-3

eISBN 10: 1-4405-8703-5

eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8703-0

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

Cover art © 123RF/Mandy Godbehear

To my sister, Marissa Dresang, for your friendship, love, and support.

Thank you to Crimson Romance for being an amazing publisher! I've absolutely enjoyed every step of working with such a talented group of people. I'm grateful for the tenacity with which you put forth the best of what I have to offer—from editing, to artwork, to marketing, and everything in between. Thank you for continuing to let me be a part of your business. The lively and professional environment you've cultivated is one of which I'm proud to be a part.

Julie Sturgeon, the editing process would be a lot more painful without your insights and humor. Thank you for being so awesome! I'm currently working on a list of more ways to explain grass-green, sexy, attention-giving eyes—don't worry, I'll make sure you get a copy.

Mary Billiter, the wild ride that we signed up for is happening. Right now. Thankfully, one of us remembered our holiday cheer (I'm looking at you). You are a magnificent critique partner and one of a kind friend. We are definitely “in it to win it”!

Jami Wagner, thank you for being so fun to talk with about the writing industry and in the other classes we take together (pretend I'm signing this thank-you to you, ha ha). Your brainstorming skills are unmatchable!

Holla to all my Wednesday night writing mates: Our lively discussions, laughter, and friendships go a long way!

Thank you to my friends and family who have and continue to support my dreams. You inspire me every day and are appreciated!

 

Luke Carrigan crumpled the unwanted letter in his hand and swung open the glass door to the flower shop with the other. Silver chimes cheerily flickered above him, and if he could've turned around and karate chopped them down, he would've.

“I thought you were an Ellison.” He walked toward the dark-haired woman behind the counter and spotted a red poinsettia.
Freaking Christmas.
“Can't you fix this?” The paper cracked as it hit the counter and dewy humidity filled his nose.

Candace paused, holding a white rose between her soft pink nails, and swiveled to face him. “Good morning to you, too.” She may have suppressed an eye roll, but it still resonated in her voice.

He heard rustling behind her and caught a glimpse of red hair behind a very large green plant.

“Why am I getting a notice about the city taking my bar? Again?” He rested his hands on the cold granite. “Didn't you speak to them?” He censored his words in an attempt at civility since they weren't alone.

In one swift motion she swiped her chin-length black hair behind her ear. “Well, Luke, a
last name
doesn't fix anything.” Her eyes met his.

The most annoying thing about Candace Ellison was her brilliant, piercing blue eyes. Her full, always-tainted-pink lips were a close second. They were alluring features that promised excitement and fulfillment, but in reality only provided an unfounded fantasy. Luke stepped back from the counter and folded his arms across his chest.

“So, you are going to be of no help?” He raised a brow.

“That's
not
what I said, now, is it? Calm yourself down.” She entwined another rose in the overflowing green-and-gold-striped glass vase. “What are you doing up so early? Shouldn't you be sleeping something off?” A smile played on her generous lips as he grunted.

Ah, the crap he had to put up with to save the family pub was getting harder to swallow. Two years ago, the moment his dad's pen had lifted from the ownership transfer papers, Luke had felt the pressure. The weight worsened when his dad had looked at him, tension darkening his eyes, and said, “She's all yours now, my boy. Take care of her like the generations before you have.” In other words, don't screw up what years and years of hard labor had produced, and if Luke did he'd never live down the disappointment.

“Hilarious.” He turned to leave and mumbled under his breath, “Why do I bother?”

Snow crunched beneath his boots a few minutes later as he walked next door to his pub. Candace was an Ellison, which meant she would only do what was in
her
best interest—no matter the cause. She'd been that way since he could remember, and his memory on the subject was long. He'd never cared about her family name or their money, but Candace had seemed to and that rubbed him the wrong way. They'd known each other since kindergarten. Okay,
known
might be a strong word—more like despised. They were oil and water, fire and ice, Ralphie and his Red Ryder B.B. gun—any of those comparisons would do.

Not that he thought about their relationship a lot.

The sun was new in the blue sky, but did little to heat the air of the morning. He opened the heavy, dark oak door to his family's business, The Pub. Candace had been right about his hours, but he wasn't a drunken bartender anymore. The Pub wasn't some gig he waltzed in and out of because it was the family business. As third-generation Carrigan, the pub had been passed down to him. And losing it to the city under his watch wasn't going to happen.

If he would've gotten involved in the business district of Casper more and followed politics, like his dad had suggested, then maybe he could've prevented his business being put on the chopping block. As it was, besides his neighbors and the locals that drank at the bar, he had no special connections. Not of the powerful variety, anyway.

David Deehan looked up from cleaning bar glasses and Luke shook his head curtly once, kept walking straight into his office, and claimed his dilapidated green office chair.
Not sure why I thought she'd come through.
That was a lie—he'd assumed one call to the mayor or president of the city council from an upset Ellison would have fixed the problem that'd been building. There was no way Candace would've made that call if the proposed demolition had only affected him, but it didn't. Her flower shop was just as much in the damage zone as his pub, not to mention the five other businesses around them. He'd hoped her self-preservation instincts would've kicked in by now. He spun around in the chair and tapped his pen on his leg.
Think, man, think.
A soft knock beckoned from his open door. He stopped turning his chair to see Candace standing in his doorway.

Perhaps she'd grown a conscience in the last thirteen minutes and he was in line for a Christmas miracle.

“Yes?” He moved his left hand to the arm of the chair and shifted his body to the right.

“There's a town hall meeting tonight. Are you going?” She leaned against the door frame, emphasizing her black, long-sleeved shirt with its swirl of flowers and her shop's logo that was as vibrant as her arrangements. In jeans and no jacket, despite the chilly Wyoming winter, she looked good.

If only I could get women I actually liked to chase me down like this.

“Wouldn't miss it.
I'm
going to try to do something.”

“And, what? You think I haven't?” She pursed her lips and narrowed her blazing blue eyes. “At least I had options to try.”

“Options?”

One, maybe. She'd probably called Daddy
or her brother, Blake. Though he shouldn't be so hard on Blake—that was the Ellison he probably should've called in the first place. Hindsight was always twenty-twenty.

“I can't wave a magic wand and change five minds. There are people to go through, schmooze. And the one who is heading up this little convention project is … not exactly a family friend.”

“You mean to tell me the Ellisons don't own Casper?” He should've let up, but frustration fueled him.

“
No
. The Ellisons don't own Casper, or Wyoming for that matter. You're such a prick.” She rolled her eyes, this time literally. “Without Jeffrey Dean pulling the plug on this motion, it'll go to a preliminary vote, then an actual vote. Maybe even tonight.”

Luke smiled slowly, more out of contempt than humor. “Glad we've cleared that up. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm thinking here.”

Her subtle orange-vanilla scent made its way to him and he briefly forgot how to exhale.
How does a woman so irritating smell so delicious?
His eyes shifted to the Chamber of Commerce plaque on the hunter green wall beside her before he resumed breathing.

“I'd hate to interrupt
that
process.” She rested her hand on the broad area of her hip. Luke let his gaze drift down to her fingertips, but only momentarily. He found her eyes again, and hers didn't seem to notice his stolen glance.

“What have you come up with?”

Her genuine tone caught his attention.

“Nothing yet.” He willed himself to keep his face free of emotion. She'd most certainly use the gesture against him somehow. “I'm not about to lose my bar to the city for a new convention center.”

And definitely not right before the holidays.
Luke could picture that conversation:
Hey, Mom and Dad, I lost the pub. Merry Christmas.
And then
his dad would start ranting about how his only son had always been a screw-up and didn't take his birthright seriously. Then his mom would tell his dad to stop saying things he didn't mean, all while glancing at Luke with disappointment. His sisters would weigh in by defending their older brother, which would provoke Dad more. He wouldn't defend himself because what could he say? The fact that he failed would be all that mattered. There would be a lot of whiskey drinking after the discontent and frustration had simmered and they were eating dinner. His family was like most, passively overlooking the discord to get through a meal. All future meals with his family would probably be the same.

Not happening.

“I just settled into my flower shop and I love it.” Her arms swooped up in a flash to fold under her generous chest, and she stepped closer. “I don't want to give it up. I like downtown, my building, and
most
of my neighbors.”

“You've been there less than a year. This pub has been in my family for generations.
Generations.
” The familiar grumbling of his stomach started and he glanced at his desk for antacids.
“I will not go down without a fight.”

“At least we
finally
agree on something.”

She twirled on her boots—boots that were too dazzled to be called real cowgirl boots. At least her jeans looked western—sort of. It was hard to tell. Candace was a Wyomingite who probably didn't know a hard day's work.