My Christmas Darling

by Vivien Mayfair

  “Rather, my boss, the owner of Big Apple Books, told me to plan it.”

  “Don’t keep us in suspense,” said Heather.

  “I know you now enough to know you won’t like it. Sadly, it’s a necessary good thing.”

  “You know what they say about silver linings.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, that they’re silver, which is a good thing, I think.”

  Lucy had no clue what he was about to suggest. At the moment, all of her efforts went to keeping a humiliated flush from her cheeks. And, Heather played a ditsy blonde far too much for being a serious author.

  “So, what’s this news?” she feigned interest.

  William placed a hand over Heather’s, which sat on top of her napkin. “I want you to know that it’s an exciting thing and not something to be worried about. I’ll be there and so will Lucy.”

  Lucy eyed her friend. “Be where, specifically?” then back to her boss.

  “The Plaza Hotel on Christmas Eve.”

  “Ooooooh the Plaaaaaza,” teased Heather, blinking her eyes mercilessly. “I just love the Plaza!”

  “What’s at the Plaza?” asked Lucy.

  He shifted in his seat when the waiter took his salad plate. “Your party.”

  “What party? My party?” Heather again.

  “Your book launch and release party. Your start, Bibi.”

  “You mean like a movie premiere party? A big shindig thing?”

  “Something like that, yes.”

  “Will I see famous people?”

  William gave a chuckle. “You’ll be the famous person. That’s the point.”

  Lucy gripped the bottom lip of the table, then squeezed her eyes shut. All hope she originally had of this going well, dissipated. A release party and book signing was the worst news she could have imagined.

  How would that work?

  Only twice in her publishing career had she heard about authors hosting release parties. Both were for big-time authors represented by one of the Big Five. Lucy knew why William was doing it.

  His father.

  “I’m having my own party?” asked Heather, incredulously, like it really was hers.

  “The New York Times will be there. Booklist, Goodreads, Publisher’s Weekly. Reporters will take your photo and write wonderful things about you. Some other big authors will be there to give you accolade in return for us offering links to their sales pages from your own website. They’ll endorse your book, which will increase sales.”

  “It’s called sneaky advertising,” confirmed Lucy.

  Heather plunked her chin on her knuckles. “What will I have to do?”

  William explained, “We’ll print a first proof of your book for you to read at the party in front of everybody.”

  Oh no.

  “But, I don’t read,” said Heather.

  Lucy choked out a laugh as if that was meant to be a joke. “You’re funny.”

  “You’ll give a little speech about your book, then pick your favorite section to read to the group. I’ve every intention of finding fans for you lined up and ready to hear it.”

  “And, they’ll photograph me?”

  “They will, plus write articles about the event. It will be catered, sort of like a black-tie cocktail party, but all about books with important people in the industry there to support you.”

  Heather sparkled like a rainbow. “A premiere party all for me.”

  “Lucy will be there too, of course.”

  Lucy’s mind kept busy scrambling for how to get out of this disaster. Everything he was doing conflicted with the image she set for Bibi Roquette. Not to mention it was a direct opposition to her covert plan.

  “Bibi told you she doesn’t like crowds,” warned Lucy.

  “I was hoping after tonight she’d feel comfortable with us by her side.”

  “I love parties!” Heather boasted while refilling her wine glass. “If it’s one thing I excel at, it’s parties.”

  “I thought you hated people,” corrected William.

  “Oh, I do, totally do.”

  His brow went up at the inconsistency. Clearly, Heather’s acting school failed her about as much as a car mechanic program that forgot to instruct students to check the gas tank. Too much of her personality came through, which seemed to defeat the purpose of an acting role.

  William said strangely, “Isn’t it the writing you excel at?”

  As Heather started to open her mouth, Lucy kicked her under the table. So much for a shy hermit; more like a social butterfly.

  Nobody said much after that.

  Dinner was deposited as Heather shifted the conversation to her experience with French food. Lucy kept her face aimed at her plate of basil risotto, scrambling for a way out of the mess she caused. None of what he proposed could happen without a contract.

  No signing.

  No problem.

  And no money, no surgery, no rent, no forgiveness. Tell him, Lucy, just spit it out.

  Instead of talking, she shoved rice into her mouth.

  The dinner flowed by seamlessly with a light air around them. William gave Bibi all of his attention as they ate. He kept close enough to rub shoulders and hung onto her every word as if the people and ambiance music didn’t exist. When she smiled, he did the same. They kept the conversation centered on Henry the VIII.

  “So, your book,” he finally said.

  Karma must have had her back when the desserts were deposited before Heather could say anything. A second waiter emerged with a tray of tiny espresso cups, a creamer bowl, and sugar cubes.

  Lucy stalled. “I’m curious, do all of the desserts have dairy?”

  “You don’t eat dairy?” asked William.

  “I’m trying to cut down. Gas, you know.”

  Real smooth, Lucy, classy even. Moron. No wonder he likes Heather.

  The waiter prattled on about the different desserts the pastry chef had been known to make. The speech ended with a promise to prepare a dairy-free dessert with a twenty-four-hour notice.

  No more stalling.

  They were left with spoons in hands and tiramisu or crème brulée. What could she say to buy time? The book was the entire reason William requested the dinner. She grew aware that her plan wasn’t much of a plan.

  Lucy licked her spoon. “Bibi was saying she wanted me to represent her.”

  “We’ll get her an agent,” assured William over his gelato. “No worries there.”

  Heather added, “I just want Lucy to do it all. Like to practically be me.”

  “Lucy’s not an agent. She reads manuscripts.”

  “She discovered me, right? I’d rather have her than some stranger.”

  Lucy interjected, recognizing her chance, “Bibi was telling me that she wants me to make all her decisions and sign her papers.”

  “She’d need a power of attorney for that.”

  “Awesome,” Heather gleamed. “Let’s do that.”

  “I assure you, Bibi, that Lucy and I will talk you through the contracts until you get an agent. You don’t need to be shy about making your own decisions.”

  “Maybe she should have an attorney look it over,” suggested Lucy.

  That gained her a hardened look from the grinchy grouch who morphed back to ice-fish in her eyes.

  Then he turned his questioning gaze to Heather, who nodded while eating slower than a snail in a geriatric parade. At least she followed her hasty pre-dinner instructions to focus on her food.

  “She’s all for it,” Lucy said.

  “You have ideas for the second book?” William asked.

  Heather cleared her throat. “Sure, I do. I bounced them off Lucy just earlier today.”

  “That’s right,” Lucy confirmed. “The second book will really be like the first book in the Snowdrop Valley Series. It will be centered around Halloween five years later, and the slow start of the first United States, small-town, all-literary college. A man who owns a horror bookshop is best
friends with the gothic lit program director, and it’s all downhill from there.”

  “Tell me more.”

  Heather drank slowly to buy time since she knew nothing about it.

  “Bibi, I’m interested,” coaxed William.

  Lucy jumped in. “I love her concept of the Christmas book shop owned by the founder of the town. He has a heart attack, and his daughter who left the town for college a couple of years before has to come back to either sell it or bring it back to life.”

  “Is it dead?”

  Heather contributed, “Failing, you know.”

  “Sorry, that’s not book two though,” finished Lucy.

  Heather chuckled nervously. “She gets all of my ideas confused.”

  “With backstory on the town?” Will asked. “Regardless which book you’re talking about.”

  Lucy nodded. “Done flashback style, past to present, tying it all together.”

  “And, there’s romance in there of course,” Heather again.

  “But, I agree with Bibi that the rest of the plot and story should remain a mystery until then. Too much influence and opinions on a plot before a book’s even written can create author anxiety.”

  William rubbed his chin. “I can see that.”

  “Oh, totally,” drawled Heather with a Grammy eye roll. “Like if three different people give me ideas what to write, I end up blending them all into some slutty sci-fi western self-help novel.”

  His brows raised high.

  “Like that Men are from Mars Women are from Venus book, but instead they live on a working cattle farm on an undiscovered planet as they work out their problems.”

  That got a charming masculine laugh.

  Lucy covered with, “So, it comes out as some unfamiliar beast of a book.”

  She knew they were dragging time to avoid the inevitable. By now, William had plenty of time to assess his view of the famed Bibi Roquette and determine if she could do Big Apple Books proud.

  It was time.

  Lucy polished off a dab of caramel and set down her spoon. “Perhaps we should make her final offer.”

  “Oh, I’m all for that,” agreed Heather.

  They both looked at William who now wiped his mouth with a napkin. He bent down to his briefcase, unzipped the top, and pulled out a fat packet with a gigantic megaclip. “I brought just the thing.”

  So, there it was.

  Evidence of Lucy’s talent. Proof of her worth. Mary Carpenter’s future.

  Redemption.

  Heather crooned and touched it. “Holy cow, is this all about my book?”

  “It’s your contract.”

  “All of this?”

  “The first few pages are all you need to know. The rest is just dry legal jargon we have to squeeze in there to properly protect your book from copyright theft.”

  “Oh, well, of course that’s important.”

  “I can go over it with you, if you’d like.”

  “And, then what?”

  “My hope is you’ll sign.”

  When a snappy Neil Diamond Christmas song permeated the restaurant, two couples moved to the center clearing for a dance. Heads turned and watched the happy couples who seemed to care very little.

  Lucy sprung to her feet. “Let’s dance!”

  They both looked at her in surprise. Heather shook her head ever so slightly.

  “Lucy, we’re about to sign a contract,” William said, tightly.

  “Will you dance with me?”

  “Now?”

  She pointed to the couples draped over one another behind him. “It’s my favorite song in the world.”

  Now it was Heather’s turn to kick her under the table. She was blowing the moment.

  Or, avoiding it.

  “I can look over the contract while you dance,” suggested Heather with another kick.

  William studied Lucy for a long moment as if unsure. She was positive he’d turn her down or fire her for such tacky, unprofessional timing. Instead, he smiled in a half-wit way and stood up.

  “Very well,” he agreed. “I’m all for it.”

  Heather glowed. “This is the best night ever.”

  “Bibi, just focus on the first three pages. Please read it carefully.”

  When he came around the table and held out a hand, Lucy’s legs turned to jelly. She looked at Heather who seemed pleased with the match, while sliding her hand into William’s.

  “I should warn you,” he said warmly as they walked there. “I’m no good.”

  “I’m like Wilma Flintstone pulling her foot from the mud.”

  “Then we’ll embarrass ourselves together.”

  Another couple followed, then another. Diners all around watched, ate, drank, and clanked wine glasses. Her eyes darted everywhere while contemplating what to do about the contract.

  “I’m nervous,” she admitted.

  He cupped her waist, pulled her in, and linked his fingers with hers and started moving. He seemed to sense her anxiety about what to do, how to move, how to be, and gave her a relaxed smile, encouraging her to naturally follow.

  “Just keep your eyes on me,” he said.

  Her own grin appeared.

  His body swayed with her slowly, carefully. Other men twirled or dipped their ladies. William merely held her tight, providing a strong wall of muscle to hold her steady. What felt like a heat flash warmed her core.

  He broke the silence. “I must thank you.”

  “Mr. Harcourt, I simply thought—”

  “I know what you thought. And please, call me Will.”

  “Hardly appropriate.”

  “Says the woman who asked me to dance.”

  “Or, the woman who knows about your secret Hoobub book.”

  “Very true, or the woman who stood up to Maxwell Harcourt like she was the Queen of England. Besides, I think we’re long past last names.”

  She found it hard to speak. “Okay then, Will. I just really love this song.”

  “You’ve had my back during this entire endeavor. You seem to know Bibi better than I do despite all of the emails we’ve shared. You knew she wouldn’t sign without private time to view it.”

  So, that’s what he thought?

  The new plan was to distract him while Heather memorized the facts. Whereas she’d rather get ten root canals without Novocain than read a book, her friend excelled at memorizing documents. She knew some legal terminology from her own acting contracts.

  The bathroom.

  Her best shot at this going well. She’d ask Heather to accompany her and fill her in quickly on what she read in the contract. From there, they’d either make a run for it climbing out the window or commit perjury.

  “And, I have to thank you for arranging the office party,” he said.

  “It is Christmas, after all. I assume you’ll be there?”

  “I’m done with my employees seeing me in a negative light. So yes, I’ll attend.”

  William Harcourt was no Fred Flintstone. He whirled her around the dance floor with great ease.

  So much for plotting.

  Lucy worked to control her thoughts that became jumbled from the spicy scent of his cologne, the stronghold of his arms, and the tight grip of his stare. But, mostly, the piercing gaze of his oval eyes is what held her attention.

  “You’re quiet,” he said, glancing at their table. “Worried?”

  “I trust you completely,” she praised.

  “I’ll admit that I feel the same, and that’s not something I say often.”

  Oh, cider cups. This isn’t good.

  He opened his heart to Bibi in email and to Lucy professionally. Considering this ice-fish’s entire reason for acting so cold was to shield the hurting teddy bear inside, that was really saying something. He trusted her. She knew him now well enough to understand the magnitude of that. And, here she was about to betray him.

  “I’m not so sure about this book launch party,” Lucy tested the waters.

  “I am sure
. It’s what I do.”

  “She’s so shy, though. And with her persona, will anybody take her seriously?”

  “The woman I see at that table isn’t the least bit shy.”

  “Can’t you do the party without her there?”

  “She’s the author; she has to sell her own books.”

  William pulled her tighter into his chest. His hand pressed into her lower back with a dominant lover’s command. She linked her arms around his neck unintentionally while thinking of a way out of this.

  “Why won’t you look at me?” he coaxed, smoothing a hand up to her shoulder.

  “I suppose you want to get back to business.”

  “I’m fine where I am.”

  “I thought you didn’t want her to read the fine print about her responsibility to put her face in the public. You know, the entire part of the packet past the third page.”

  “She won’t read that.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Despite her literary genius, she has no knack for business.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I sensed it the first time on the phone. Now, I know for sure.”

  “How could you know?”

  He seemed to contemplate an answer. “We’ve been at the table over an hour, and she hasn’t asked about me publishing her book even once. In fact, she seems to think this is a date.”

  “Isn’t it though?”

  “Any writer already aware of what’s being offered wouldn’t dally like it’s a trivial social event. I’m not saying she’s not a real writer. Just that she has a real limitation in business.”

  “Yet, you seem quite enraptured by her.”

  “Trying to get her comfortable with me is all. The truth is, I’m a little disappointed.”

  “Oh, not pretty enough?”

  “She doesn’t seem at all like the person who writes me deeply personal emails. The woman at that table seems like the type who would rather lose her skirt on TV than one who can’t leave her own house.”

  “Maybe you caused her to fluster.”

  The only reason she said that was because it was precisely how she felt in his arms. What woman wouldn’t flop around like a fish out of water at the feet of this gorgeous and secretly kind man?

  “We’ll see the next time I take her out. I have to get her comfortable first.”

  “You plan on dating her? Because that hardly seems professional.”