by Caro Carson
“Either they’re very excited to see us holding hands,” Mallory said, “or you gave them a really big tip.”
“I wanted us to be all set for refills the rest of the night. We can trade gloves and hold a hot cup with our other hands next.” Eli gave her hand a squeeze, a move as casually intimate as that wink.
Next. It wouldn’t be a short night.
For a few more hours, she could be the real Mallory, before she went back to pretending that she already knew how to make her life go the way she wanted it to.
“Let’s get out of this crowd,” Eli said. “We’re going to get bumped and spill our drinks any second now. It’s dangerous.”
It was dangerous. Mallory had just forgotten what was real. This woman who held Eli’s hand as they laughed at their near misses with other strangers couldn’t be the real Mallory. The real one lived her life as a fledgling businesswoman who followed the rules. This was only a fake date.
Fake dates meant fake kisses, and Mallory didn’t do fake kisses. On the other hand, she’d broken half of E.L. Taylor’s rules tonight.
Before she returned to reality, why not break one of her own?
* * *
MASTERSON, TEXAS:
Where you come to learn about love!
Dear Reader,
Do you enjoy meeting strangers? The holiday season usually includes a lot of socializing with new people, whether they are coworkers’ spouses at an office party or your neighbor’s relatives visiting from out of town. This book’s hero and heroine meet as perfect strangers at a holiday festival. For very different reasons, they’d each rather be alone, but the best way they find to do this is by being alone, together—which, of course, means they are no longer alone in the end!
I finished writing this book as the worldwide pandemic made us all be alone, together. We may have stayed in our homes alone, but emails, video meetings and phone calls kept us together. In such a serious situation, it was harder to get lost in my writing, but it also made me grateful to immerse myself in a world where the good guys always win in the end. I write books with happy endings because I enjoy reading books with happy endings. I hope that reading this book brings you hours of joy.
Although you and I might be perfect strangers, we already have this love for happily-ever-after novels in common. I would enjoy hearing from you. You can find me easily on Facebook, or you can drop me a private note through my website, www.carocarson.com.
Happy holidays,
Caro Carson
For This Christmas Only
Caro Carson
Despite a no-nonsense background as a West Point graduate, army officer and Fortune 100 sales executive, Caro Carson has always treasured the happily-ever-after of a good romance novel. As a RITA® Award–winning Harlequin author, Caro is delighted to be living her own happily-ever-after with her husband and two children in Florida, a location that has saved the coaster-loving theme-park fanatic a fortune on plane tickets.
Books by Caro Carson
Harlequin Special Edition
Masterson, Texas
The Bartender’s Secret
The Slow Burn
American Heroes
The Lieutenants’ Online Love
The Captains’ Vegas Vows
The Majors’ Holiday Hideaway
The Colonels’ Texas Promise
Montana Mavericks: What Happened at the Wedding?
The Maverick’s Holiday Masquerade
The Doctors MacDowell
Doctor, Soldier, Daddy
The Doctor’s Former Fiancée
The Bachelor Doctor’s Bride
Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.
This book about perfect strangers is dedicated to all the people who did their best during the pandemic to protect their families, their friends, their neighbors and, perhaps most generously of all, perfect strangers. Thank you.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Excerpt from A Firehouse Christmas Baby by Teri Wilson
Chapter One
Never meet your heroes. Wait until they are your equals.
—How to Taylor Your Business Plan
by E.L. Taylor
It was her twenty-ninth birthday, and she was sinking in quicksand.
Literally.
Mallory Ames flailed about, trying to keep her balance as wet sand sucked her into its depths. Had this been a movie, a handsome and heroic Harrison Ford might have come out of the darkness and tossed her one end of his bullwhip to pull her to safety. But no—this was Mallory’s real life, which meant she was flailing about like an idiot in a town park while a children’s choir chirped Christmas carols and a massive Yule log burned brightly in the black night. At least she was flailing on the fringe of the crowd and not detracting from the little choir’s moment of glory.
Because this was not a movie, she stopped sinking. After one more wild windmill of her arms, she stood upright, breathing heavily from the sudden exertion. She tried to lift her right foot free of the wet sand. Her rain boot didn’t budge.
“Damn it, damn it, damn it,” she hissed under her breath as she kicked her right foot back and forth, back and forth, a quarter inch in each direction, trying to get loose. She couldn’t vent her frustration any louder than that, not with all the tiny tots running around the park with their eyes all aglow.
It was a big family night here in Masterson, Texas, home of the Masterson University Musketeers. The Yule log was always lit by the mayor on the first Saturday of December. This park had a huge, square sandpit. For most of the year, it was used for volleyball courts, but in the cool December weather, the nets were taken down so a massive tree trunk could be laid across the sand. A bonfire was built under one end for the celebration. Each night, the bonfire would be lit again, a couple of feet farther down the log, until the last of it was burned on January sixth, the traditional date of Twelfth Night and Epiphany. The university’s spring semester would begin, and the regular rhythm of life in a college town would resume.
For safety, the fire department had soaked the sand with a gazillion gallons of water for tonight’s kickoff. With great, purposeful strides, Mallory had walked right into the deep, wet sand on the dark side of the pit. She was stuck now in mid-stride, each of her boots mired in the muck.
Back and forth, back and forth, she kicked. Her foot slid around inside her rubber rain boot, but the boot itself was still firmly stuck, shin deep. “Damn—darn it. Darn it, darn it, darn it.”
“Hey, beautiful. Got a problem?”
Because this was not a movie, the person who stopped on the edge of the sandpit was not a sexy, rugged man. He was an overgrown boy, undoubtedly one of the university students, because he wore an athletic team’s burgundy hoodie with the crossed sabers of the Masterson Musketeers printed in white on the sleeve.
He threw his arms open wide as if he were revealing an S on his chest, but it was only the university’s i
nitials, MU. “I’m your solution, baby.”
He was the problem. She’d been hoping to lose him and his two buddies when she’d started walking with such confidence toward the Yule log and the temporary stage.
She’d come to the park for the anonymity offered by the night. On one side of the Yule log, Christmas lights sparkled, the temporary stage glowed, and rows of booths sold holiday crafts and treats. But on this side of the Yule log, there was no artificial lighting and people were sparse. Mallory wanted peace and privacy to watch the yellow flames while she thought through her plans for the new year ahead of her—only ahead of her. She wouldn’t look back.
These blockheads had spotted her as she’d leaned against a pecan tree, alone, and they’d started with the “hey, beautiful” type of catcalls. Nothing to do but ignore them, she’d thought at first.
When their comments had gotten more persistent and they’d begun to zero in on her, she’d decided the best course of action would be to lose them by blending into the light and action on the far side of the Yule log for a little while. But, as she’d started skirting the wet volleyball sandpit, she’d taken her eyes off her goal to look back over her shoulder.
Never look back. Whatever you left behind is of no benefit to you now.
It was one of her favorite maxims from her favorite book by her favorite hero, the multi-millionaire entrepreneur E.L. Taylor. Two Decembers ago, she’d received How to Taylor Your Business Plan as a birthday gift from her godparents. Her godmother had looked at Mallory’s online wish list and gotten her something she genuinely wanted.
Her brother had given her a gift more typical of the rest of her family, a pillbox with Bluetooth technology that reminded one, through cell phones and smart watches, to take their medicines. Mallory didn’t need any medications; her brother had explained that it was a gift for her, because it would make her role as their grandfather’s live-in caregiver so much easier.
Their grandfather. Her role.
Pill dispensing wasn’t her passion. Business was. Profit and loss statements, fixed and variable assets, supply chain operations—all of it fascinated her. She had finished her junior year at Masterson University’s College of Business when her father had been seriously injured, his leg crushed in an accident. She’d been asked to take the next semester off to go back to Ohio to live with him, to dress his wounds, to cook his meals, to clean his clothes and his house, since he’d lived alone after her mother had moved out.
He’d been expected to recover within six months. That December, Mallory had spent her twenty-first birthday driving through an early Ohio snowstorm, chauffeuring her father to the clinic, counting the days until the spring semester began in January and she could go back to Masterson University and the mild Central Texas winter. The doctor, however, had crushed those plans. He’d confirmed what she’d suspected, what she’d been hoping wasn’t true: her father’s leg hadn’t healed enough yet for him to regain his mobility—and for her to return to college.
After his appointment, her father had directed her to drive his car through Sonic for milkshakes to celebrate her birthday. He might have thought she’d wolfed down that milkshake in happiness, but she’d been binge eating ice cream for her heartbreak.
Six months had turned into two years. Her father had regained his health just as her great-aunt had fallen ill and required in-home care. Mallory’s entire family had looked to her. Her final year of college, her dream to climb a corporate ladder to a position of respect and financial security—all of that could wait, her family reasoned. She was still so young, and Aunt Effie had cancer. What were a few college classes in the face of her battle?
By the time Aunt Effie had gone from surviving back to living, another relative had needed care. Mallory had become the de facto choice at that point. After all, as it was pointed out to her, she wasn’t doing anything else, and she had so much experience now...
She’d received her crisp, new hardcover copy of How to Taylor Your Business Plan two years ago on her twenty-seventh birthday. Once she’d started reading it, she couldn’t stop until she’d finished the whole book in the middle of the night. When she’d turned out the bedside lamp, she’d lain in yet another spare bedroom in yet another relative’s home, and she’d admitted the truth to herself: she was an unpaid laborer assigned to ill or aging relatives, not their cherished daughter or niece or cousin. Somehow, one delayed semester at a time, one relative in dire straits after another, six months had turned into six and a half years.
When despair had threatened, she’d turned the light back on and picked up her book. The chapter that began with Never look back had saved her sanity. E.L. Taylor had been so confident that she, his reader, would succeed in the business world if she followed his advice, regardless of her past. In firmly worded prose, he told her to keep looking forward to her goals, so Mallory had created a plan, mapping out the steps she needed to get where she wanted to go. This September, she’d finally returned to Masterson to finish her bachelor’s degree.
This was, finally, December of her senior year. She should have been turning twenty-one. Her family obligations had stopped her life in its tracks as surely as this quicksand had stopped her boots, so instead, she was turning twenty-nine and spending her birthday kicking her way out of a mess of her own making.
Never look back.
Yeah, well, she’d looked back tonight, physically taking her eyes off her goal. That hadn’t been what E.L. Taylor meant, but it applied: she’d caved when she’d been faced with a tiny moment of insecurity, and she’d blundered right into this sucking-sand situation. Served her right. She should know by now not to ignore any Taylor-made advice.
“I’ll be your knight in shining armor.” The ringleader of the trio struck a pose, punching one fist in the air. It was Superman’s pose, nothing like a knight’s, and only when Superman was about to fly away. If this guy wanted to fly away from the scene, that was fine with her.
The other two told him to stop being such a dick.
Charming heroes, all three of you.
“There are children everywhere,” Mallory said in her most motherly tone. She was dressed like a student—bright blue ski cap pulled over long hair, jeans tucked into colorful rain boots—but she felt old enough to be their parent.
The second boy, surly in corduroy, sneered at her parental tone. “Like I give a flying f—”
“Dick isn’t a bad word,” said the third. “Relax. You’re a pretty girl. Smile.”
She kicked her boot a little faster, back and forth, back and forth, darn, darn, darn.
The one who’d posed with his fist in the air still fancied himself a hero. He stood on the grassy edge of the sandpit and reached for her. “Give me your hand. We’ll get you loose and go party.”
“No, thanks. I’m almost loose. Go enjoy your party. Don’t worry about me.”
He grabbed the sleeve of her pink peacoat and started hauling. She clutched at his forearm as he pulled her off balance.
“Stop! Stop. I was almost—” Her right boot chose that moment to finally pop free from the sand.
Did the hero catch her?
Of course not. Real life was never like the movies. He kept pulling, so onto her butt Mallory fell. Her rear end landed on the cold, grassy edge of the sand court, but her left foot was still stuck in the quicksand, so her left ankle was stretched to its absolute, painful limit.
“Damn it!”
“Watch your language,” the corduroy-wearing dude sneered. “There are children everywhere.”
“Let go of my arm.”
The ringleader finally realized that he’d done more harm than good. “Oh. Sorry. Yeah. Here.”
He let go of her, then reached over the wet sand and snagged the top of her left boot. He pulled it free. Since Mallory had been pulling hard herself, the sudden release sent her own knee banging into her chin. Her teeth clacked together
and she fell back, but she didn’t curse this time.
“Sorry,” the ringleader said again.
Mallory lay on her back in the grass while three dudes who didn’t know their own strength leaned over her, looking almost comically confused at how she’d gotten there. The one who’d told her to smile now offered his hand. When he pulled her to her feet, he pulled her knitted mitten all the way off her hand.
“Whoops,” he said, laughing.
When she grabbed for her mitten, he held it over his head. “I’ll give it to you when you agree to come party with us. It’s for your own good. You need to have some fun.”
“I’ll buy you a drink,” the ringleader said.
Mallory held her hand out, palm up, for her mitten. “You can’t. You’re not even twenty-one.”
They all seemed faintly surprised at her statement. Offended, too. “We’ve got plenty of booze at our house.”
The ringleader narrowed his eyes and studied her face a little more closely in the faint light from the too-distant bonfire. “How old are you?”
“Old enough to buy my own drinks.” Or she could, if she had the spending cash. She made another quick grab for her mitten, but she wasn’t fast enough. Damn, damn, damn. The mitten was a blue cable-knit, like her hat. She wanted it back, but she wasn’t going to beg while they watched her jump for her own mitten.
“Come with us. We’ll show you a good time.”
The stage, the crowd—light and anonymity—were at her back. So was the ringleader. The other two were in front of her, nothing but darkness beyond them. It galled Mallory to have to be polite to them, but she fell back on one of the little white lies women used in these situations. “No, thanks. I’m meeting my boyfriend here.”
All three scoffed at that. Apparently, they knew the game better than she’d thought.
She pulled her ski cap down firmly over her ears. “Really, he’ll be here any moment.”
“Bring him, then. Where is he?”
The ringleader walked around her to join Corduroy Boy and Mitten Stealer, so the three stood shoulder to shoulder with their MU letters on their puffed-up chests. They’d called her bluff, and they knew it. However, with the three of them in front of her, she could now back up freely. She glanced back over her shoulder.