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“You said you loved the tree. Figured our flights were probably delayed anyway.” He shrugged. “And if we miss them…that wouldn’t be such a bad thing either, would it?”
I beamed from ear to ear. “No, it definitely wouldn’t be.”
Adam exited the Town Car and held out his hand to help me out. He didn’t let go even after the Uber started to pull away. His hand was warm and so much bigger than my little one. We walked side by side to the tree. I really did love it here. Rockefeller Center at Christmas was a magical place, even if I didn’t get my proposal.
Adam and I stood and stared up at the tree. He looked at me and then stopped a couple walking by. “Excuse me. Would you mind taking a picture of us in front of the tree?”
They both smiled. “No, not at all.”
Adam fiddled with his cell and handed it to the woman.
“You ready, beautiful?”
I’d assumed he meant to smile big for the camera. So I did.
But obviously he had something else in mind. He grabbed me into his arms. “Meredith Grab-my-junk Eden, you stole my Uber, snapped photos so I can lie to my mother, and made me commit perjury to a judge today, and yet I haven’t smiled this much on Christmas Eve in years. Will you do me the honor of putting this picture in the empty frame on your desk?”
I laughed. “I’d love to.”
With a big smile on both our faces, Adam bent me backwards into a deep dip, and planted his lips over mine.
It just goes to show that with a little luck, fairy tales can come true, despite Ebenezer Scrooge.THE ENDCHRISTMAS BAUBLES - JODI ELLEN MALPAS
Chapter 1Bang.
Scream.
Bang.
Scream.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
The sound of the headboard hitting the wall sounds over and over, accompanied by screams, and I throw my head back, sweating and aching in every imaginable place I could ache. I’ve not been this exhausted in . . . ever. I’m being tested to my limit, pushed past my comfort zone. Why did I agree to this? How did I ever think I could handle it? More bangs from the headboard, more squeaking of the mattress. More sweat. I can’t take anymore.
A loud, ear-splitting scream bursts out of me, my eyes clenching shut as I finally lose the willpower to keep hold of myself. To not show my weakness. To breeze through this and come out the other end with my pride still intact . . . and my job.
Mega fail. I’m a loser. A poor excuse of a woman.
The second my scream stops, I frown into my darkness.
Silence.
Beautiful silence.
Gingerly opening one eye, I brace myself for what I might be faced with. Three kids stare back at me, eyes wide, their little bodies frozen on their parents’ bed. The sheets are strewn over every inch of the master bedroom—on the floor, the dressing table, even the attached bathroom. Every place except the bed. Why they believe their parents’ bed is a trampoline is beyond me. They have toys, for God’s sake. Shit loads of them.
I quickly pull myself together and draw breath to speak. “It’s lunchtime.” No sooner have I uttered the words, they’re off their mum and dad’s bed like little rockets, stampeding down the stairs of the Georgian townhouse to the kitchen.
Leaving the mess behind for later, I follow them, trying to pull myself together— clothes, composure, and all. I look down at my slim-fitted trouser suit—my pride and joy—and my gorgeous heeled pumps as I take the stairs. This suit, these shoes, they’re my power office wear, bought especially for my new job as Executive PA to the most famous Editor in Chief at the most famous sports publication in the UK, Mr. Pete Russell.
The kids that just shot down the stairs are his. So, I hear you asking, why the heck am I in his house looking after them?
Blame his wife. I snarl to myself, just thinking about the self-important wench. Apparently, my new role includes babysitting when she so demands it. For such a high-profile influential businessman, Mr. Russell is a wimp when it comes to standing up to his demanding wife. The schmuck.
When I arrive in the kitchen, all three Russell spawn are sitting at the table like good little children. I eye them with suspicion as I round the island to the hob, collecting the plates and sliding one in front of each of them. Because, yes, feeding them comes with the job too, apparently.
Petal, the eldest, looks at her lunch like it’s been served from a dustcart. “What’s this?” she asks, poking the nuggets around her plate. At six, she’s way too smart for her own good, with a counter to whatever I ask her to do. She also has a hair flick down to a fine art, performing one each and every time something smart comes out of her mouth. Which is often.
