Hire a hitman to take out my cheating ex? It was an eggnog-fueled mistake, I swear!On Christmas Eve, my perfect fiancé stands up at the altar to declare his pure undying love… for my evil stepsister.Cue public humiliation, a ruined wedding, and me crawling back to my small hometown to work minimum wage at my granny’s Christmas café.Just living the holiday dream.But I refuse to show up sad and alone to my cheating ex and man-stealing stepsister’s engagement party.I’ll be devoured by gossipy small-town vultures.So I do what any rational woman would: empty her bank account, max out her credit cards, and hire a high-end escort with the Merry Christmas package.Too bad I mess up the number and accidentally hire… a hitman.Oops.This is why I hate making phone calls.I realize I’m screwed when Talbot Wynter crashes the party all combat boots, dirty jeans, and washboard abs.He feels me up, drinks all the booze, flirts with my grandmother, then tries to off my cheating ex in his hotel room.I scream and make him stop him because I may or may not still pathetically have feelings for my ex.Talbot thinks I’m insane.He might be right.But his company has a strict no-refunds policy.Now I’m stuck dragging this six-foot-five, potty-mouthed menace of an ex-Marine to Christmas tree cuttings, gingerbread baking, and holiday parties—All while he tries to convince me to let him take out my ex so he can go snowboarding.But what if my ex is moved by the holiday spirit and realizes he still loves me and comes home for Christmas?Or, he would if I could just get this hitman out of my bedroom… and my panties.Holiday hamster-wheel victims assemble! We’re dodging holiday drama, downing peppermint schnapps, and fending off meddling grandmothers with boundary issues and a death grip on our dating lives. This standalone holiday romantic comedy is packed with chaos, Christmas cookies, and a filthy-mouthed bad boy (and that’s not steel in his pants) guaranteed to leave you swooning under the mistletoe. Happily ever after and holiday cheer guaranteed!
EXCERPT:
“Wait, where are you going? I thought we were having sex,” I wail as he opens up the window and swings one leg out.
“Excuse me?” He swivels back inside and pulls off the black mask. “Why in the hell would I have sex with you?”
“Are you kidding me right now? Are you fucking—because you’re a fucking prostitute.” I’m sobbing now. “And I paid you a fuck-ton of money to pretend to be my boyfriend and to have sex with me.”
His mouth drops open.
It would be funny if all my money weren’t gone.
“Gumdrop.” He jumps back into the room, the soft shoes silent on the carpet. “You did what?”
“You’re a high-end escort, but you really don’t live up to the promise.” I sniffle.
I’m fishing for more mini bottles. Talbot slams the fridge door.
“You really have drunk too much.” He cups my face. “Gumdrop. You paid me to assassinate your ex, Austen Langley. Remember?”
“Assassinate? Like kill, kill? Or just like, you’re going to glitter-bomb him?” I squeak.
“Yeah, ‘Grandma gets run over by a reindeer’ level of dead.”
My knees collapse, and I plop down on the floor like Christmas cookie dough.
“I did a… you’re a… I hired an…”
“Assassin?” He unzips the black bag and pulls out the biggest gun. Like, comically large. Movie-villain large. Plus three knives and what might be a torture device along with zip ties and duct tape.
My stomach twists.
“I prefer hitman,” he says, cheerful, like we’re chatting over wine and charcuterie. “Assassin sounds a little bougie. I just kill people and make it look like an accident.”
“I’ve made a huge mistake,” I groan.
“For Austen,” he rambles, obviously pleased with himself, “it’s going to look like he partied too hard and paid the price.”
“Then, but the—” I point to the gun, trying not to hyperventilate.
“This?” he gives it a kiss. “Just a little insurance policy in case things go south. But I have a pretty good plan in place. No one will think he’s been murdered. Everyone saw him downing drink after drink. All the women are off in the hot tub. All his NHL friends are super drunk.”
Talbot shows me his phone. There’s Brielle on the livestream doing a stripper dance, all for the eyes of my fake boyfriend. Shoot, my fake fake boyfriend, because…
Because a cold-blooded killer is standing in my suite, grinning like this is the most fun he’s had in weeks. I start scooching back on the carpet.
Author Bio:
I write the kind of books I love—romantic comedies featuring snarly guys with hearts of gold, kick-ass heroines, and a swoon-worthy happily ever after! Also wine. And cupcakes.
When I’m not writing I can be found drinking tea, surrounded by my massive to-be-read pile! So many books...
You can connect with me on social media or find information on my books at my website.
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