Holiday for Two (a duet of Christmas novellas)

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

“W
AIT!” 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.