Unwrapping Her Perfect Match

Sneak Peek at Mine Under the Mistletoe

Dear Reader,

I have another novella set at Christmastime in London. In 2014 it was nominted for a prestigious award, the RITA, which is awarded by the Romance Writers of America.

It's not related to my London Legends rugby series, but it does feature a super-cute Englishman and a sunny Californian who get snowed in in London. Here's the first chapter. I hope you enjoy it!

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The buttery sweet scent of fresh mince pies teased Ashley as she sipped her hot chocolate. Snuggling deeper into the overstuffed sofa, she watched Santa's feet emerge from the chimney. He wriggled his girth backward to free himself, displaying an impressive plumber's crack above the fur-trimmed red suit bottoms before he stood and hiked up his pants. She stifled a giggle, startling him. He spun around, his elbow cracking into her temple...

Ashley woke with a panicked gasp as a man tumbled into her bed, knocking his skull against hers and cursing loudly enough to make her realize this was no dream. It was a potential nightmare. She struggled to free herself from under him and fought for breath to scream.

"Bloody hell!" he yelled, apparently not lost for breath himself. "What the-?"

Ashley answered with a sharp fist to his eye, and he cursed again.

The weight lifted from her, and Ashley reached in the dark for the lamp next to her bed only to grasp air. Twisting to her left, she blinked as her eyes adjusted and told her she wasn't imagining things. No lamp, no bedside table. Where was her furniture?

A hand grabbed her hip and she kicked out, connecting with something soft that made the man squeal like a rich girl who got a pony on Christmas morning. His hand slid free and a loud thump told her he'd landed on the floor. Don't give him a chance to yank you down with him. Escape! But one of her legs was still tangled in the comforter, so she grabbed a pillow and beat it over his head while she thrashed to get free.

"Stop," he gasped, "...love of God."

She raised the pillow over her head, ready to deliver death by feathers, when her eyes finally got used to the semidarkness. The room was dully lit by a streetlamp casting its light through a thin curtain. Her room faced away from the street and stayed dark all night. A small table and lamp stood on the right side of the bed, not the left. The walls were painted a deep, dark color. Maybe red. Not the bright sunshine yellow of her room. Masculine, antique-looking furniture lined the walls. Not the cheapo build-it-yourself-with-instructions-half-translated-from-Chinese that she could afford. And the man-who'd used the word bloodyas a curse-lay curled up on a wooden floor like a newborn with a tummy ache. Real wood, not linoleum designed to look like wood.

Crap. She was in London, not San Diego. And this house was the one she'd swapped her own for during the holidays. Double crap.

"Who are you?" She glared at the man on the floor, tightening her grasp on the pillow and judging the distance to the bedroom door in case he gave the wrong answer.

"Oliver," he groaned. "Oliver Stansfeld. You're in my bed." Still grimacing, he cupped his package with one hand while the other protected his face from further pillow attack.

"Oh, no." Mortal terror quickly ebbed away, replaced by a different kind of panic. Horrified, she slapped her hand over her mouth. I've been asking Santa for a man for ten years, and this is what I do to him? She lowered the pillow. "I'm so sorry. Can I...um, can I help you with anything?"

He rolled to his knees but stayed hunched over, his forehead resting against the floor. For the first time she noticed that someone had unwrapped him. Her Christmas gift was nekkid. He panted, in through his nose and out through his mouth, clearly trying to get a grip on the pain. She gave him a few moments and tried to ignore the way his deep breaths accentuated the muscles bunched across his back and rounding over his taut backside.