When Christmas is Cancelled

Genre

M/F Steamy Contemporary Romance

Blurb

When Rosie does a good deed on Christmas Day, she’s not expecting to come face to face with her very own ghost of Christmas past.

Rosie Kilbride’s festive plans are derailed when her mother calls on Christmas Eve to postpone their family get together due to illness. Left with a surplus of food and no one to eat it with, Rosie contacts Ingrid, a local café owner, to find out if she still needs volunteers for the charity Christmas meal she’s organising. Ingrid jumps at the chance, and on Christmas morning Rosie heads out, anticipating a busy but pleasant day doing something nice for others, followed by a meal of leftovers with her fellow volunteers.

Unfortunately, on being introduced to the café’s kitchen staff, she discovers the head chef is none other than Luke Adams, the man who broke her heart into a million tiny pieces ten years ago. And she’s got to work with him. Despite her inner turmoil, there’s no way she’ll let Ingrid and the diners down, so she’s determined to grin and bear it. It’s just a few hours, after all.

When the day is almost done, tiredness and hunger kick in, and emotions start to run high. Can Rosie get away unscathed, or will she be forced to deal with Luke and all the feelings his presence has dredged up?

When Christmas is Cancelled is a standalone M/F steamy contemporary romance with second chance, age gap and BDSM themes.

Word count: 52,796

Available from:

eBook:
Amazon UK
Amazon US
Amazon AU
Amazon CA
Apple Books UK
Apple Books US
Barnes & Noble
Eden Books
Google Books
Kobo
Everand (was Scribd)
Smashwords
24Symbols
PayHip

Paperback:
Amazon UK
Amazon US
Amazon AU
Amazon CA
Barnes & Noble
My Direct Store (option to be signed)

Excerpt

Ingrid narrowed her eyes. “You made chocolate roulade, mince pies and jam tarts? You surely didn’t need all that just for the three of you? I know folks like to stuff their faces at Christmas, but come on…”

“All right, all right,” Rosie said with a laugh, holding her hands up. “You got me. I’d already started on the roulade when I got the call from my parents to say they were ill, and was going to make a batch of mince pies, since they’re my dad’s favourite. But in the disappointment of having my plans derailed, I drowned my sorrows in baking. Happy now?”

Ingrid responded by reaching into the car boot and scooping up two big containers. She licked her lips exaggeratedly and wiggled her eyebrows. “Bloody ecstatic. I love mince pies.” With that, she turned neatly on her heel and hurried inside.

Chuckling to herself, Rosie followed suit. The warm, cosy café was already a hive of activity with the tables being set, Christmas crackers added to each place setting, and people whizzing here, there and everywhere. The place had been decorated for the festive season to within an inch of its life since early December, but Rosie spotted at least a handful more decorations she didn’t recognise from when she’d popped in a couple of weeks earlier to drop off hers and her customers’ donations for the very meal she was now helping with—as well as treating herself to coffee and a slice of cake. She was normally a more regular patron, even if it was just a takeaway, but the run up to Christmas had been hectic in the shop, so she hadn’t had the chance to pop in.

“Leave them there, hon,” Ingrid said, pointing to the counter, where she’d already deposited the two boxes she’d carried in. “We’ll get everything in pronto, so you can park your car, then I’ll introduce you to everyone and get you all set up in your role for the day.”

“No worries,” she replied, setting her load down and following Ingrid back out the door to her car.

It wasn’t long before she slammed her boot closed and gave Ingrid a wave as she slid into the driver’s seat and drove to the car park at the end of the road. Her vehicle safely parked and securely locked, she hurried back to the café—picking up her pace and hunching deeper into her coat as the drizzle turned heavier.

She burst through the front door to the sound of Christmas music blaring out. Some of the other helpers were singing and dancing as they worked. It looked as though the party had already started—and the guests weren’t even expected to show up for another couple of hours.

“Ah, there you are,” Ingrid said, appearing from nowhere. “Let’s get your coat and bag hung up out the back. I thought given you enjoy baking, you’d be particularly useful in the kitchen, if that’s all right with you? Unless you’d prefer to be at front of house?”

“No, if you need me in the kitchen, I’m totally fine with that. Use me however you see fit.”

Her belongings stowed, and her own funky headband—a tiny, jaunty elf hat with an even tinier jingle bell affixed to its pointy end—settled in place, she straightened her oversized jumper, a knitted affair with gingerbread men and candy canes all over it, as she followed Ingrid. After being introduced to the wait staff she didn’t know—the others worked in the café normally, so they were already acquainted—she and Ingrid made their way towards the kitchen.

Ingrid pushed open the ‘in’ door to reveal a bunch of people already working hard, despite the fact there weren’t yet any diners. The clatter of trays, the rhythmic tapping of vegetables being chopped, and the whir of food processors filled the air—as did intense heat and the delicious scent of roasting meat.

“I’ve left the organisation in here entirely to my head chef for the day, since he knows what he’s doing. He’s the best there is. He works in some fancy place in the city, but somehow managed to wangle today off to help us out. Let’s go and introduce you, and he can decide where he needs you the most, okay?”

Rosie nodded, then tailed Ingrid as she made a bee-line for a man in a white chef’s jacket, and black and white checkered trousers. Rather than the tall, white hat one would usually expect a head chef to be wearing, he had on a Santa hat. He was tall, dark-haired, and had his broad back to them as he worked away at something on one of the stainless-steel surfaces.

“Hey, Chef,” Ingrid said as they drew close, “got your last pair of hands here. She’s good in the kitchen and ready to work.”

The man stopped what he was doing, wiped his hands on a tea towel and turned to them with a smile, which quickly faded as recognition kicked in.

“Rosie,” Ingrid said, indicating her head chef, “this is—”

“Luke Adams,” she interrupted, staring in disbelief at the man who’d broken her heart into a million pieces a decade ago.

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