Harlequin Romance December 2020 Box Set

by Susan Meier, Sophie Pembroke, Jessica Gilmore

  Rachel nodded along as her stepmother dragged her towards the stairs. ‘Of course. Five minutes?’ she said, twisting her neck to look over her shoulder at Damon.

  ‘Take your time.’ That easy smile was back. Of course he didn’t mind, Rachel realised, as she made her way down the stairs to the ground floor. He got more flirting time with Gretchen and Maisie.

  She wondered which one of them would win him over by the time she’d fixed the display.

  * * *

  Damon watched Rachel go, her knitted dress pulled tight across the curve of her backside, and wondered what on earth had possessed her to swap it for the hideous green velvet thing she’d been wearing when he arrived. Then he looked back at the predatory smiles on her stepsisters’ faces and twigged.

  ‘So you guys were helping Rachel choose a new dress?’ he asked lightly as he headed over to a stack of discarded outfits on the chair by the door.

  The one in the leather miniskirt—Maisie, maybe?—nodded. ‘For the company Christmas party,’ she explained. ‘Mum throws a huge one every year, and invites all the staff. It’s so generous of her, really.’

  ‘She told us that Rachel was planning on wearing the same old boring black dress she wears every year,’ the other one—Gretchen, his mind filled in—went on. ‘So of course we had to offer to help her find something better. It was our, well, sisterly duty.’

  The girls exchanged a look that Damon pretended not to see. One that made his blood warm to a simmering boil on Rachel’s behalf.

  They weren’t helping her, whatever they said. They were trying to humiliate her.

  He knew how that felt—to be surrounded by people who thought they were smarter than him and thought he wouldn’t notice when they used it against him. In his case, his family genuinely were cleverer; he didn’t think the same of Rachel’s stepsisters. All the same, he couldn’t imagine Rachel liked it any more than he did.

  Damon leafed through the pile of fabric. There were skimpy, showy outfits that he knew instinctively that Rachel would hate; oversized draping dresses in vile patterns and fabrics, that would cover every inch of Rachel’s admirable curves; something that looked like a child’s bridesmaid’s dress in pink taffeta, complete with bow…all of them designed to make Rachel look ridiculous, he assumed.

  She’d never been the show-off type, he remembered. Even next to his sister, who was always more likely to be found in the library than a nightclub, and prized the ability to quote Homer—the Ancient Greek writer, not the yellow cartoon figure, unfortunately, or else the siblings might have had more in common—high above the ability to put together a stylish outfit on a student budget. Rachel had been the one in the corner, tugging the sleeves of her cardigan over her hands, while Celeste got into an argument with someone about, well, pretty much anything. Rachel had been shy, quiet, mousy even, for all that he knew there was a dry sense of humour and a quick smile hiding behind those cardigans. And, as he’d discovered when crashing into her outside the bathroom one weekend when he was staying with them at university, when she was clad in nothing but a towel, some incredible curves.

  He’d discovered more about her, one night—about her mind, her heart, her self. One night when it had been just the two of them, talking and dreaming aloud while they looked for Celeste together. One night, when he’d felt more of a connection to another person than he’d felt before or since.

  But he tried not to think too often about that night. Not nine years ago, and definitely not now.

  Because connection wasn’t something Damon Hunter looked for in life.

  The point was, the Rachel he’d known then, the Rachel he knew now, wouldn’t wear any of these dresses willingly.

  At the bottom of the pile, though, was something else. A quirky dress with woodland animals printed on it, in a great shade of dark red that would suit Rachel’s colouring. ‘Which one of you chose this one for her?’ He pulled it out of the stack to get a better look. The neckline dipped into a low V-shape, it was tight through the bodice, then the skirt flared out to fall to, he imagined, around knee length. He smiled at the sight of the owls, stags and mice peeping out behind tree prints and fallen leaves.

  It was, he had to admit, very Rachel. Maybe one of her stepsisters didn’t have it in for her after all.

  But when he looked up, Gretchen rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, that. I picked that one up by accident—I was supposed to be putting it to one side for a client. I do personal shopping, you know. Helping people who have no idea of style to find things to make them look, well, less awful.’

  ‘It’s a nice dress,’ Damon said, wondering how she could make shopping sound like a vocation and a way to humiliate people, all at the same time.

  ‘Oh, but it would be terrible for Rachel—it would only draw attention to her, well, you know…’ her voice dropped to a whisper ‘…size.’

  Damon rather thought it would draw attention to her generous curves, which, in his opinion, could only be a good thing.

  ‘I should put it away.’ Gretchen reached out to take the dress from him, but Damon held it out of her reach as he checked the label. The size was the same as the other dresses in the stack, so it should fit her. And he’d bet money Celeste hadn’t even thought about a Christmas present for her best friend yet. If he bought it, she could give it to Rachel as an early Christmas present, so she could wear it to the party. He’d have done a good deed, and he’d be in his sister’s good books—hopefully good enough that she’d let him off Christmas shopping for their parents this year, since he never had any idea what to buy them anyway. Everybody won.

  That was all. Nothing to do with that lingering connection he wasn’t thinking about.

  He flashed Gretchen and Maisie his most winning smile. They returned it, only for their faces to fall as he said, ‘I think I’ll buy it for her. Are there any tills still open?’

  There weren’t, but it only took a little fast talk and a few smiles to find an employee willing to put the sale through for him anyway—with their staff discount, to boot, not that he needed it. Then, leaving the stepsisters behind with their hideous dress choices, Damon took his Hartbury & Sons designer paper bag and ambled towards the ground floor window displays to find Rachel.

  It took him longer than he’d expected. The storefront stretched around the corner to front onto two streets, giving it six huge windows to look out over the pavement. With the main lighting switched off for the night, and only a few spotlights left on to illuminate things for the cleaning staff, he had to check each window individually to locate Rachel, and even then he missed her. Only when he’d peered into all six windows without spotting her did he head back to the centre and call out.

  ‘Rach?’

  A torchlight beam swung around from the far window and caught him in the eyes. Blinking, he covered them with his hand, just as he saw Rachel clambering out from behind the window display in the first window he’d checked. God only knew where she’d managed to hide, but between the decorations and some sort of backboard, it was hard to get a good look in there.

  ‘Sorry, sorry. Are we late?’ she asked, switching off the torch.

  ‘Not if you’re ready to go now.’ And if he drove just a tiny bit faster than was strictly advisable on winter city streets.

  ‘I am, I am.’ Grabbing her bag from the floor by the window, she rushed towards the door, half colliding with him on her way, which only served to make her more flustered. ‘Sorry!’

  With a smile, Damon calmly took Rachel’s elbow and led her in the direction of the exit.

  She’d always been like this, he reflected. The day he’d met her she’d managed to dump half the cup of tea she’d just made over herself, the floor, and the biscuit tin as he’d walked into the kitchen and Celeste had introduced them. Rachel was Rachel—a little shy, a lot clumsy. She still wore the same, oversized knits she’d worn at university too, and her hair still cur
led around her face the same way. She was a constant; he’d almost call her part of the family if that wasn’t actually an insult, given his family. He had to put up with them. What made Rachel put up with Celeste he’d never been entirely sure.

  He had a pretty good idea what Celeste got from being friends with Rachel, though. On his bad days, it made him a little jealous.

  ‘So, what happened to the window display that couldn’t wait until morning?’ he asked.

  Rachel pulled a face, still looking frazzled. He supposed her evening so far couldn’t have been the most fun: playing dress up with her stepsisters, then having to fix the window. He hadn’t stopped to look at the Christmas displays on the way in, but these things were all much of a muchness, right? Bit of tinsel, a fake tree, a mannequin wearing a Christmas jumper and some boxes covered in wrapping paper. Much like the vignettes littering the inside of the shop—and Damon was pretty sure he wouldn’t have noticed them at all if it weren’t for the latest project he’d taken on, occupying his brain.

  ‘Hannah was right, it was all my fault. It was the mice, you see. Too tempting, I suppose.’

  ‘Mice?’ Where did they fit into the Christmas theme? Or were these the same mice he saw scuttling about on the London Underground, on the rare occasions he travelled on it?

  ‘Come on. I’ll show you.’ As they left via the side door, she dragged him around to the furthest window. ‘Can you see the mouse?’

  Damon blinked as he took in the display. Not a string of tinsel to be seen, although there were plenty of fairy lights, illuminating the scene for passers-by.

  There were no mannequins in Christmas jumpers either, or fake presents. Instead, the window opened up onto another world filled with what looked like a whole village made of gingerbread—iced houses and shops with tiny Christmas cakes and cookies for sale behind their windows. There was a Christmas tree, of course—two, in fact. One was made from a giant stack of gingerbread stars, with iced decorations and pinprick fairy lights. The other was actually a tower of perfect white iced Christmas cakes, stacked from biggest to smallest, with a golden iced, star-shaped cake on top.

  In between the trees, in front of the buildings and surrounded by icing-sugar snow, was a mirror lake with an ice-skating hedgehog, rabbit and even a deer with tiny skates on all four hooves. But no mouse.

  ‘I don’t see it,’ he admitted, peering harder.

  Rachel grinned. ‘Then I’ve done it right. Try getting down to child level.’

  Giving her a sceptical look, Damon squatted down closer to the pavement—and suddenly the scene took on a whole new dimension.

  He’d assumed that the shop windows, with their tiny fake treats, were all there was to the buildings. He’d been wrong. From this level—the level at which the shop’s younger visitors would be viewing it—he could see far more. Behind the windows there were whole new worlds: decorated living rooms, shops with tiny animal customers, and there, curled up on an armchair by a Christmas tree, a small mouse. ‘I see him!’

  Even Damon could hear the delight in his voice, and it made Rachel’s smile widen further. ‘There’s a mouse in every window,’ she explained. ‘Hidden, as a sort of treasure hunt for the kids.’

  ‘Are they all like this?’ He looked back at the astonishing display. ‘Because this is amazing. Did you do this?’ Of course she had. It was total Rachel—nice to look at on the surface, but with so much more to offer underneath.

  Stop thinking about it. He mentally pulled away from thinking about Rachel, even as she was standing beside him. It was easy enough. He’d had years of practice.

  Unaware of his roving thoughts, Rachel ducked her chin modestly. ‘Yeah. I do them every year. It’s kind of my thing. But they’re not all exactly like this; this one is for our food and drink gifting range. There’s one for womenswear, one for homewares, one for kids’ gifts…’ She shrugged. ‘Basically, I split the six windows to cover all the big areas of the store.’

  ‘Can I see them?’ In the back of his mind an idea was forming. One that had nothing to do with spending more time with Rachel, and everything to do with business. Just as it should be.

  If all her window displays were as cool as this one, Rachel could be just what he needed to get his latest project working at last.

  ‘Have we got time? Won’t Celeste be waiting?’ Rachel’s teeth pressed against her plump lower lip, a line of concern forming between her brows.

  Damon flashed her his best ‘Trust Me’ smile. ‘Celeste can wait. I want to see your work.’

  Spots of pink appeared in her cheeks, and he knew the smile had worked its usual magic. ‘Okay. Come this way.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  IT WAS ANOTHER twenty minutes before Rachel eased herself into the passenger seat of Damon’s flashy sports car. She had no idea of the make—cars weren’t exactly her thing—but, knowing Damon as she did, it would be the most expensive, and the fastest.

  He’d seemed oddly charmed by her window displays, she mused as he started the engine. She hadn’t exactly imagined that Damon Hunter, entrepreneur and all-round playboy, would find much to admire in her tiny scenes of festive fun. But he had.

  It had been a long time since she’d seen beneath the charming, suave exterior of the perfect businessman that Damon projected to the world—not since they were both teenagers. And even then, there’d only been one night where she thought she’d glimpsed the real boy behind the facade.

  The fact that just that one night had been enough to fuel an almost decade-long crush was beside the point. Rachel had been fairly sure that, as he’d grown up, that boy had faded away. But his delight at her whimsical window displays made her wonder if he’d really disappeared after all.

  ‘So you do those windows every year?’ he asked now, as he eased the car out of its dubiously legal parking spot and into the central London traffic.

  ‘Yep. It’s kind of my thing.’ Something to look forward to in between the monotony of shifts on the tills or on the floor of the department store.

  Working at Hartbury & Sons hadn’t exactly been her dream career when she’d been studying English at university in Oxford with Celeste. But then, if she’d actually had any idea what her dream career was, maybe she’d have made more effort to go after it.

  And as her dad pointed out, there weren’t many family businesses on the scale of Hartbury’s still going these days. It was good that they were part of the tradition—even if it wasn’t technically her family tradition at all.

  ‘And do you do them for other stores too, or just your stepmother’s?’

  Rachel blinked in surprise. ‘Uh…just for Hartbury’s. I mean, it’s part of my job. Working there.’

  ‘I thought Celeste said you were doing marketing and social media these days? You know, freelancing, like me.’

  She couldn’t help the snort of laughter that burst out of her; for all she knew it was probably one of the least attractive sounds in the universe. ‘Celeste exaggerated.’

  ‘So what do you do, exactly?’

  Why did he even care? Rachel couldn’t imagine, but she shrugged and answered all the same. ‘I work on the shop floor, on the tills, putting out stock, that sort of thing. Everyone has to put in time there when we’re busy, especially at Christmas. But I’m also in charge of the window displays and I run the social media and keep the website updated—not the online shop, but the blog and stuff.’

  It sounded almost impressive when she listed it out. The Hartbury & Sons social media accounts had exploded since she took them over, especially since she started posting photos of the window displays, and the blog got a decent number of hits too. She’d managed to talk her stepmother into coughing up for some online training for her, and the shop was seeing the benefits of her newfound expertise.

  But it didn’t feel impressive. Not when she was still living at home, suffering the petty meanness of her steps
isters, and the way her father never seemed able to see it. Not compared to Celeste’s high-flying academic career and TV appearances. Not compared to Damon’s business success. She didn’t even pretend to understand exactly what it was his company did, beyond what Celeste had told her.

  ‘Companies that are doing badly get him in, and suddenly they’re in profit again. He’s like a business wizard, I think.’

  But whatever it was, he was clearly very successful at it. Even Celeste sounded proud of him—not that Rachel imagined her best friend would ever tell him so.

  It didn’t even feel particularly impressive compared to her own vague hopes and dreams for her career. She’d never found a way to articulate what it was she really wanted from her employment, but in the back of her mind she’d always known how it would feel.

  She’d be in charge of her own work; she’d have control over her schedule. Probably working from home, doing something creative that fulfilled her. Maybe even being her own boss. The one who decided what she did and when.

  Working at Hartbury’s definitely didn’t give her that.

  One step at a time, she reminded herself. Dad gets the all-clear from the docs, then I move out. Then I can think about my potential career.

  It was how she’d got through everything else in life—her mother’s death, her father’s unexpected remarriage, being a member of a new blended family she never really felt part of, being an outsider again at Oxford, and everything since. One step at a time.

  Damon, she suspected, would hop, skip and jump all over the place as the whim took him. He’d never had the patience to plod along like her.

  ‘What’s your favourite part of the job?’ Damon asked, and there was genuine curiosity in his voice. It warmed her a little to think he cared enough to ask.

  Nobody else did, it seemed. Even her father just told her he was glad she was doing so well working for the family business without ever asking her if it was what she wanted, or giving her a chance to tell him it wasn’t, before he went on about his day.