Hot for the Holidays

  Thank you for downloading Hot for the Holidays

  Hot for the Holidays is a sweet, hot, standalone Christmas short story about two adults finding a surprising connection during the winter holiday season. No cheating, no cliffhangers, and only consensual shenanigans await. This high heat contemporary romance will satisfy your holiday cravings for all things sugar and spice, with a quick ’n’ dirty happily ever after.

  Happy reading! ;)

  Love, Poppy

  Praise for Poppy Parkes

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  “Great storyline, lovely characters with great chemistry, loved it!”

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  “Short, sweet romance at its best.”

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  Hot for the Holidays

  Sleeping With the Scrooge

  Poppy Parkes

  Copyright © 2019 by Poppy Parkes.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is intended for adult audiences 18 years and older only. All characters are consenting adults 18 years and older only.

  Contents

  The Oops Club

  Ginger

  Nat

  Ginger

  Nat

  Ginger

  Nat

  Ginger

  Also by Poppy Parkes

  A Love Note For You

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  The Oops Club

  Find a typo or grammar error? Let me pay you for your skills!

  Email a screenshot with the circled or otherwise highlighted error and your mailing address to poppy@poppyparkes.com.

  If you’re the first one to find the error, I’ll send you a real dollar bill in the mail.

  Thanks so much for supporting indie authors!

  With love and gratitude,

  Poppy

  Ginger

  I step off the plane at Logan International. I’d normally be thanking my lucky stars that my feet are on solid ground again after that turbulent flight from San Francisco. But I’m back in Boston and on my way to my mother’s annual holiday shindig in my hometown of Snowdon, Massachusetts.

  I consider getting back on the plane and hiding. Surely the flight attendants won’t mind a stowaway, right? I’d almost rather face hours more of gut wrenching turbulence than my mother’s holiday party tomorrow night.

  Not that the party itself is really the issue. There will be good food, ample libations, and a white elephant gift exchange, which I both adore and dominate.

  It’s really the people that are the issue. The people of Snowdon don’t just love Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Winter Solstice, and all things winter holidays. They live for it.

  So while my mother’s party is actually pretty nice, tasteful and understated — it’s nothing like the town’s yearly Welcome Winter Wonderland celebration. The saccharine cheer and glitz that garlands the town every December is a little much for my taste. It makes me nauseous. And if the whole thing did end up making me sick, I wouldn’t be surprised if I found myself puking up glitter and tinsel.

  I know. Ew.

  And the people who make that happen are some of the people that will be at my mother’s party.

  Which is why I’ve stayed away for the past five years. Mom keeps on trying to get me back for Christmas, but I’ve happily been able to evade her invitation every time.

  Until this year.

  Not that I couldn’t have fended my mother’s holiday cheer off yet again. It’s just that I didn’t quite have it in me to this time around.

  Shocking, yes. It surprised even me.

  But I got dumped by my boyfriend last month. Between that and my rewarding but extraordinarily taxing work as a support specialist at the San Francisco LGBT community center, I’ve been feeling a little tender.

  So when my mother called with her annual invitation, this time I didn’t turn her down. Instead, I booked my plane ticket back to Snowdon while I was still on the phone with her.

  Well, my plane ticket to Boston, technically. It’s the closest airport.

  I’ve actually been looking forward to spending the holidays in my hometown.

  At least, I was until the plane touched down. Now, I’m starting to dread the festivities that await.

  But, I remind myself as I stride through Logan International, seeing Mom will be good. Even her ridiculous commitment to the annual Christmas kerfuffle can’t change that. She’ll still be her same old single mom with a heart of gold self that raised me, solo, on a small town teacher’s salary. She might just get a little drunk on eggnog.

  Which sounds really good right now.

  But first I have to find my way to the car rental pick up and drive the forty miles to Snowdon. Which might not be as easy as I’d expected, considering that the forecast is calling for snow. And not just snow, but a lot of it.

  I quicken my steps. Maybe I can beat the storm to Snowdon if I hurry.

  I think I’ve done it. I’m easing the little red Fiesta onto Interstate 95, and although the evening sky is heavy with gray clouds, I pay it no mind. Right now, the roads are dry, with not a flurry to be seen. I’ve driven this route between Boston and Snowdon so times I could practically do it in my sleep. Even if it does start to snow, I know I can handle it. Just because I’ve defected to sunny California doesn’t change the fact that I was born and bred in New England.

  I turn up the volume on the radio and pair my phone to it via bluetooth. It automatically starts playing the true crime podcast episode I’d been listening to when the plane landed. With a smile playing over my lips, I settle in for the forty minute highway drive to Snowdon.

  About halfway into the journey, the lights from oncoming vehicles starts illuminating points of wetness on the Fiesta’s windshield — snow.

  I flick on the wipers and switch to a different podcast, a comedy show. The hosts starts by introducing the episode’s theme: all things holiday and why they suck.

  I grin. Perfect.

  Another ten minutes and I start watching for the sign for the exit I need to take to get to Snowdon. The snow is heavier now, and I have to squint to see read the signs through it. I adjust the wiper settings, sending them flying faster.

  I see the sign for Highway Two west toward Concord. I veer off onto the circular ramp, passing other cars whose drivers are being way too cautious for this weather. This is nothing compared to the multiple snowpacalypses that Massachusetts usually sees each year. Amateurs.

  The ramp merges with the new, smaller highway. The Fiesta shoots out onto it, and shadowy visages of trees are just visible beyond the snow in the December evening dimness. Even though I’m only about twenty miles outside Boston, I’m in the country now. At least, country for Massachusetts. It’s not exactly rural, but not quite suburban either.

  Something in between, this is the birthplace of the American Revolution at Lexington and Concord, the home of Louisa May Alcott and the setting for her Little Women, and Thoreau’s sanctuary at Walden Pond.

  As much as I usually hate being home in Snowdon for the holidays, I’ll never fall out of love for this picturesque part
of the world.

  The two lane highway, however, is becoming less picturesque by the minute. The wind is picking up, now blowing snow across the road. I feel the gusts buffeting the little car. I find myself wondering if a tiny fuel efficient hatchback was the best choice of vehicle for traversing Massachusetts in late December. I used to drive a four wheel drive diesel pickup when I lived here. The Fiesta was such a California girl choice.

  But it’ll get me to Snowdon. It is getting me to Snowdon. I’ve slowed my speed, but I’m still only roughly ten miles outside the town. In twenty minutes, I’ll be pulling into the driveway of my mother’s modest colonial style home.

  That’s the next to last coherent thought I have before guiding the car around a curve in the highway. The very last thought is the realization that the vehicle is still turning — no, starting to spin — and that the road must have a cover of black ice.

  And then the spinning stops as abruptly as it started when the car crashes headfirst into the thick hedgerow lining the northern side of the highway.

  Nat

  I frown into the snow pummeling the windshield of my truck. This storm kicked up out of nowhere. If I’d known it was coming, I would’ve delivered my client’s bakery order to Boston that morning instead of waiting until the afternoon.

  But I’d done my best, and that’s what’s always gotten my through. Sugar & Spice isn’t Snowdon’s only bakery, but it’s the most unique one, and the only bakery owned by a local — a.k.a. me. Born and raised in nearby Acton and a lifelong lover of all things delicious, I’m proud of how I’ve been able to carve out a niche for myself in the treats business between the big name corporate coffeeshops with their dime-a-dozen storefronts and the grocery store bakeries.

  I’ve done it by producing excellent work. Cakes that defy the imagination and taste amazing, sugar cookies featuring such detail that it’s almost a shame to eat them — and that’s not to mention my more unique offerings. That’s what this order that I just dropped in Cambridge mostly entailed — some classic snowflake cookies alongside a curried sweet potato pie and a coconut pound cake for a Kwanzaa celebration.

  It’s hard to find treats like mine outside of Boston proper, and that’s what’s made Sugar & Spice a raging success. It’s not uncommon for me to leave the shop in the hands of my capable staff so I can drive all over New England and the Mid-Atlantic to deliver my creations. And I love that I get to travel for the job of my dreams, meeting all sorts of interesting people.

  Except for tonight. Right now, I’m less than happy about having to crawl through a storm to get home. At least I only had to go to Boston and back today.

  Up ahead, the road begins to bend. I take my foot off the gas pedal and ease onto the brake. This curve in the road is almost always slick with ice. I’ll take my time navigating it so I can avoid spinning out like so many cars do here.

  Brake lights illuminate my windshield, sinking off and on. At first I think I’m coming up on another driver taking it slow. It takes me a moment to realize that while this car isn’t moving. It’s halfway through the northern hedge, emergency lights flashing.

  Shit. The last thing I want to do is extend my time on the road. But what else can I do? I have to see if the other driver is okay. Another car might not come along here for some time.

  Rolling my truck onto the shoulder, I park so that my headlights illuminate the scene of the crash. It’s a tiny red hatchback. I can see the shadow of a single inhabitant inside the car, moving slowly. I breathe a sigh of relief — the driver is alive and well enough to be conscious.

  Bracing against the biting wind, I jump out of my truck and stride to the driver’s door of the other car. I knock on the window then step back in an attempt to show the inhabitant that I’m here to help, not threaten.

  The person inside jumps and twists their face toward me at my gentle rapping. After a long moment, the door cracks open and the pale face of a dark-haired woman peeks out.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, squinting through the blowing snow. “Do you need help?”

  Her eyes sweep up and down my tall form, as if assessing me. Then she sighs and throws her hands up. “The engine won’t start. I didn’t think I hit the hedge all that hard, but I guess something’s damaged.”

  “Are you hurt?” I ask the most important question. Cars can be fixed much more easily than human bodies.

  She hesitates again, then shakes her head slowly. “I don’t think so.”

  “It sounds like you’re going need a tow to a mechanic’s. But I don’t think any tow truck driver is going to want to come out tonight.” I gesture at the snow, thicker than ever. “Can I offer you a ride? I’m heading toward Snowdon.”

  There’s that appraising look again. “Are you a serial killer?”

  Her question catches me by surprise and I snort. “Uh, no. Not the last time I checked.”

  “That’s what all the serial killers say,” she mutters. But she also unbuckles her seat belt, kills the lights, and carefully gets out of the little red car. She stands for a moment like she’s running a mental checklist of her body, making sure nothing’s injured. Her dark hair blows around her face like a halo, andI see that this woman is gorgeous. The realization hits me with an almost physical impact, resonating in my gut — and lower.

  I clear my throat, adjusting my peacoat to make sure that it’s covering my crotch. Because apparently I’ve just turned from a grown man into a hormonal teenaged boy, judging by my body’s visceral response of pure pleasure to this stranger. I’m glad that it’s dark, with my truck behind me, its headlights obscuring the woman’s vision of me. Otherwise she’d be able to see that my face is as crimson as the ribbon sugar cookies that I’ve been hard pressed to keep in stock at the bakery this week.

  She walks around to the back of her hatchback to retrieve a small rolling suitcase. As she’s rummaging around in her pockets and the trunk, making sure she has everything she needs, I busy myself by walking around the car, looking for damage. There’s not much that’s apparent, although the nose is buried in the hedgerow, so there’s a good chance there’s something there I’m not able to see. But the treads on her tires tell me these are anything but suitable for snowy winter driving.

  She slams the trunk door closed and locks the hatchback. Turning to me, she shrugs. “Okay. I’m ready.”

  I nod, lead the way to my truck, opening the door to the second row of seating in the cab. She loads it with ease, then heads around to the passenger side and hops inside the truck without a glance at me.

  Unsure what to make of it, I shrug to myself. The woman hasn’t exactly had a great night.

  I swing into the truck and allow myself a moment to enjoy the warmth blazing from the car’s heating vents. Then I put the truck into gear and pull back onto the highway.

  “Thank you,” the woman says after a moment. “I really appreciate you stopping for me. And giving me a ride.”

  “Of course.” I give her a sidelong smile. “There wasn’t much else I could do and still keep my ‘I’m a reasonably decent person’ card.”

  “Oh, they’re giving out cards now? Damn. I must not qualify.”

  I laugh. “You don’t seem all that bad to me.”

  She fixes me with a crooked eyebrow. “That’s everybody thinks about the bad people right before they do something awful.”

  “Should I be concerned? Is my life in danger?”

  She giggles, but when she speaks, she’s resumed her joking persona. “You’re safe — if you do exactly as I say.” She pauses. “I’m Ginger, by the way.”

  “Nat,” I answer. “Nice to meet you. Where are you headed?”

  “Snowdon also.” I can feel her eyes on me. “You’re from there?”

  I shake my head. “From nearby. But I’ve been in Snowdon a few years now. I own Sugar & Spice, the bakery.”

  “Yum. What made you decide to move to Snowdon of all places, though? Wouldn’t your bakery do better in Boston?”

  “Maybe, a
lthough distance hasn’t stopped Bostonians from becoming my patrons.” I can’t quite keep the pride out of my voice, but hell, I’ve earned the right to be proud of my accomplishments. “But I love small town Massachusetts. And Snowdon is the perfect place to sell treats. You know about the Welcome Winter Wonderland party?”

  I’m surprised when Ginger responds with a groan. “Do I ever. I grew up here.”

  I chuckle. “You sound like you’re really into all things merry and bright.”

  “Not exactly.” Her voice is dry. “But my mom is. I haven’t been back to visit in a few years, so I figured I owed her one. Even if the whole holiday spirit thing makes me want to throw up in my mouth a little.”

  “What a cheerful visual image,” I laugh. “Really makes me want to deck the halls.”

  “You’re welcome.” I can hear the grin in her voice, and find myself warming to it — to her. We’ve only been driving a few minutes, but already I’m wishing that the remnant of the drive was longer. I love how Ginger makes me laugh, and my body is telling me it’s into her in ways that my brain hasn’t quite caught up with.

  “Who’s your mom,” I ask, hoping I don’t sound too much like a stalker.

  “Maggie Cole.”

  “No shit. The school teacher?”

  She nods. “The very same.”

  Gears turn in my head as I fit the puzzle pieces of Ginger’s words together. “And that’s whose party you’re going to.”

  “Bingo.” She sighs. “I love my mom. But I’m not looking forward to the party very much. It’ll either be all chatting with people I don’t know, or answering the same three questions from the people I do know. I’m going to tell everyone how I’m doing in San Francisco approximately seventy eight times in the space of two hours.”