Kissing Santa Claus. Jill Shalvis

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СКАЧАТЬ with her work displayed in the most interesting galleries from the West End to Milan, from SoHo to San Francisco.

      She’d ended up in advertising. Which was not exactly the same thing, but was at least creative and occasionally called on her skills with pen and brush. However, her career enabled her to keep a roof over her head and still dabble on the occasional canvas when she could find the time. Italy, Spain, Portugal. Germany, Switzerland, Austria. All had provided stunning backdrops to her occasional artist forays. She’d worn out several rail passes and filled many canvases. It kept her sane in the demanding world of advertising…which she didn’t love. But it paid the rent. And kept her far away from home and hearth.

      It wasn’t that she didn’t love her parents; she did. They meant well. And while they might not have had the first clue how to raise their unexpected late-in-life child—she’d grown up in a house that was more a museum than an actual home a person could live in (Holly, don’t touch that! Don’t sit there! Leave the figurines alone!)—they were definitely made for each other. And the three of them had long since settled into a comfortable pattern of happy coexistence. They bugged her about not waiting too long to get married and start a family, she bugged them about not waiting too long to retire and get a life…each fairly certain their admonitions were going in one ear and out the other, and everyone was content. Right up until the day they took her advice.

      It had been two weeks since she found out and she still couldn’t wrap her head around it. Any part of it. She couldn’t imagine her father spending time on a golf course and not umbilically attached to his calculators and computers and endless shelves of bound volumes on the most recent tax legislation. And her mother…how in the world was she going to embrace life in a place that never even had a frost, a place where Santa was often seen sporting board shorts and buddied up with flamingos?

      And yet…Holly had never heard them sounding happier. They truly were giddy with it. Both of them had been lifelong workaholics, dedicated to vocations they dearly loved as much as they dearly loved each other…and, in their own absentminded way, their daughter, who had largely raised herself, with the help of this housekeeper or that and the occasional babysitter. But now? Now they were two of the most relaxed, happy, laid-back strangers she’d ever met. How could she be mad at that? Hadn’t she been telling them they needed that very thing for years?

      She’d just never seriously entertained the idea that they’d actually do it. Nor had it ever crossed her mind that her mother would leave Holly the family business. Why? Why would she do that? Holly knew what her mother had said. She couldn’t bear to sell it to a stranger, and the few employees she had were all retirees who weren’t interested in taking on the full-time burden. And she couldn’t possibly sit there and sell off her precious, beloved pieces, one by one. She simply couldn’t bear it.

      So, she’d bequeathed it—a little early—lock, stock, and jingle bells, to her only daughter. Holly had always figured that, at some future point, when her mother passed on, she’d be faced with the burden of dismantling the shop and doing with it whatever one did with such a thing. Never once in her wildest dreams—or darkest nightmares—had she contemplated it would be dumped in her lap while her mother was still alive and kicking…and would know exactly what was being done with it.

      And, to make it even better, Christmas was in ten days. Which meant her thirtieth birthday was in nine. Double goody.

      If she planned to keep the shop, it couldn’t stay closed, which her mother had reminded her during her most recent phone call. Her mother, who had been packing for the three-week Mediterranean cruise she and Holly’s father were taking. In December. During High Season. High, having to be the operative word, Holly was certain. Her mother hadn’t even sounded twitchy when she discussed the store. She and her father had been far too busy, running off to play cards, going out to the theater, visiting Sea World. Sea World. With friends. They had dozens of them now, apparently. They’d had their home in Frost-proof—a name they both found hysterically funny—for all of three months now. It was like they’d run away to summer camp for seniors. Permanently.

      One thing was very certain. They weren’t coming back.

      Holly stared at the thickening layer of clouds, still fingering the keys in her pocket. She had taken the remainder of her annual holiday time and the rest of her sick leave to come back and sort things out. Which meant she had a whole two weeks and three days to figure out what in the hell she was going to do with the new life that had been dumped on her.

      It didn’t seem like near enough.

      2

      Sean Gallagher loved Christmas. It brought back some of his very best memories. Leaving Willow Creek, Virginia, and going on holiday to his grandparents’ farm in Cork, Ireland, spending time with the tumble and chaos of his very large, very extended family, with more cousins than even he could keep track of. He loved the rich, centuries-old family traditions that had gone along with it, from the food, to the decorations, to the music, and to the storytelling. He always wanted to stay longer, had always left happier, eager for summer to come, when he got to go back again for school break. But even those long, languid summers couldn’t compete with the twelve days he got to spend each year during the Christmas season.

      His grandparents were gone now. His parents were, too. But the rest of that very extended, chaotic family still existed and thrived, and had been in large part the reason why he’d regained his focus and perspective after such a devastating and sudden loss. The Gallagher clan thrived in both Willow Creek and County Cork, but as he’d taken over running the family restaurant after his parents’ death, it was a rare occasion now when he was able to go over and see the Ireland-based side of the clan. And definitely not at Christmas.

      Sean unlocked the front door to the restaurant, then positioned the large, oak-framed chalkboard at an angle so his customers would see the day’s specials upon entering through the heavily carved doors with the stained glass, mullioned windows, both hand-crafted by some of his Corkborn cousins. He turned to head back to the kitchen, knowing the day was going to be a busy one, but paused when he saw a car pull up in front of Beverly Bennett’s store across the street. It was an airport taxi. He continued watching.

      Everyone in Willow Creek had been stunned when Bev and Stan Bennett had up and retired. He still couldn’t quite believe it. When he’d gone over to give her and Stan his best wishes, and ask what she intended to do with the place, she’d stunned him again when she assured him that Holly was coming home from England to run it. However, in the ensuing weeks, Sean hadn’t seen any sign of that. The store had remained locked up and dark, through what was easily the busiest time of the winter season for their little Civil War town. In fact, it had gotten to the point where the only car he’d expected to see pulling up in front of the brightly painted row house shop was one with a Realtor inside.

      But it wasn’t a Realtor who climbed out of the black and white cab.

      It was Holly Bennett.

      He’d known the Bennetts his entire life, but, for the past seven years as fellow business owners, they’d developed a true friendship based on mutual respect and support. Still…Sean couldn’t deny that hearing that their only daughter might come back to town had been welcome news.

      He’d had a crush on little Holly Bennett for as long as he could remember. Not actively the past dozen or so years since she’d been gone. She only came home on Thanksgiving, and that was crunch time for him business-wise. So, other than a passing wave, he hadn’t really ever been given the opportunity to see if there might still be an ember or two left over from the flames he’d always wanted to fan back in their high school days, but had never worked up the nerve to try.

      So, despite knowing the hubbub and controlled chaos СКАЧАТЬ