by Cat Johnson
“I’ll give you all the time you want. A lifetime, in fact.” Harper tugged me closer by the lapels of my wool sports jacket.
I tightened my arms around her. “One lifetime might not be enough.”
A crease formed between her brows as she thrust out her lower lip and said, “Aww. So sweet.”
She’d liked that, just as I hoped she would. I was getting good at this romance stuff.
I leaned low and finally got the kiss I’d been denied before when Red and Cash had interrupted us.
“Aw, jeez. Get a room, you two.” Cash, of course, couldn’t let me enjoy it.
“What do you expect from Mister and Ms. Naughty?” Red said.
I drew in a breath and leaned my forehead against Harper’s. “I knew we should have remained anonymous for that damn column.”
She frowned. “No way. It’s good publicity. It’ll bolster my romance author branding.”
“So now I’m part of your branding?” I rolled my eyes, playing with her. “And I thought it was bad when you kept writing sexy farmers into your books.”
“Don’t worry. Now I’m writing a sexy deputy.”
I frowned and glanced across the room at Carson Bekker. “I’m not sure I like that.”
“You’ll get used to it. Just like you’ll get used to me using details of our sex life in my books.”
“Doubtful on both counts.”
Was that really a concern? Did she write our sex into her books?
I didn’t have time to ask as Bethany came skidding to a stop in front of us.
“Oh my God. You guys have to come over quick. Alice had a bit too much of the spiced wine and now she’s spilling all sorts of tales. She just told me she lived in France during World War II.”
Harper’s eyes grew as wide as saucers. “Oh my God. Do you think she could have worked with the French Resistance?”
“Maybe!” Bethany nodded.
Red turned to Harper. “We’ve got to get over there.”
Harper glanced back at me, a question in her eyes.
I smiled. “Go.”
“Thank you.” She and the girls were off in a flash, leaving Cash and I behind, forgotten.
I watched the women bob and weave through the guests to get to the table where Alice sat with Brandon.
“You got your hands full with that one,” Cash said.
“And you don’t with yours?” I snorted.
“Yeah, I do.” Cash glanced sideways at me. “I guess we both got lucky, huh?”
“We sure as hell did.”
Dear Reader,
I hope you enjoyed catching up with Stone and Harper and all the folks of Mudville.
If you missed it, you can read how Stone and Harper met and fell in love in the bestselling romantic comedy KISSING BOOKS.
Red and Cash, Bethany and Brandon, Boone and Sarah, and Carson all have books too, so be sure to check those out.
And for more small-town holiday fun in Mudville, don’t miss UNDERCOVER SANTA, a standalone, second chances, reunion romance two decades in the making.
Happy reading!
Cat
DON’T MISS ANY OF THE MUDVILLE CRAZY!
KISSING BOOKS (Stone/Harper)
RED HOT (Cash/Red)
HONEY BUNS (Bethany/Brandon)
ZERO FORKS (Boone/Sarah)
UNDERCOVER SANTA * (Elizabeth/Christopher)
MISTER NAUGHTY (Stone/Harper)
DOG DAYS * (Stephanie/Michael)
BAD DECISIONS (Carson)
Note: All titles listed above are full-length novels except the two marked with an * that are novelettes.
Want more holiday romance fun?
COWBOY BLUE
SEALed AT MIDNIGHT
NICE & NAUGHTY
THAT MISTLETOE MOMENT
UNDERCOVER SANTA
It's Christmastime in Mudville and Morgan's Farm Market is all decked out for the holidays, but the man in the Santa suit isn't who he says he is...
ELIZABETH
I recognized him right away. The boy I'd met and fell in love with one summer twenty-three years ago, before he'd disappeared completely from my life. Now he's back . . . and dressed as Santa. And lying about who he is. The question is why? The bigger question is, will he stick around this time?
CHRISTOPHER
The last thing I expected was to inherit my uncle's farm in Mudville. No, actually, the last I'd ever expected was to be dressed as Santa Claus and see Lizzy Murphy again after all these years. She's all grown up and goes by Elizabeth now. And she's making me want to stick around, just when I'd been all set to go.
GET UNDERCOVER SANTA
Enjoy this Snippet from Undercover Santa
The first sign of activity and life after what had looked like a ghost town had me slowing and flipping on the blinker to turn into a drive marked with a sign for a farm stand, and a second sign that read Christmas Trees for Sale.
Christmas trees. That reminded me that I hadn’t had one of those since moving into my own place after graduating college decades ago and I didn’t feel all that bad about that. I made do with a fresh balsam wreath on the door. That was festive enough for me. Quick, cheap and easy, but still messy once the needles started to fall.
Mom would have a tree when I visited her Christmas Day. And Dad and his new family would definitely have a tree when I stopped by Christmas Eve. Twenty-three years later and I was still a two-holiday child of divorce.
I pushed that thought out of my mind, along with the dread of those double holiday celebrations, and parked the car.
Wrapping the scarf around my neck and pulling the sides of my open overcoat closer together, I stepped out of the warmth of the car and into the biting December cold.
It must have snowed here fairly recently. The driveway and parking area were clear, but a dusting of white coated the grass and the evergreen trees. It was just enough to be pretty but not be a nuisance.
That didn’t mean I was enjoying my excursion upstate. I most definitely was not. And the fact that Uncle William’s will had required I make the trip to claim the inheritance was annoying, to say the least.
At that thought, I felt the guilt of how ungrateful I was being. I hadn’t asked for or expected to inherit the farm when he died. I would have thought my mother’s maternal uncle would have left it to her or someone else he’d been closer to. But he’d left it to me.
Odd, to say the least.
I hadn’t seen the man in more than a dozen years, since the last time he’d visited my mother downstate—that’s how he referred to what I, and the rest of the people I knew, just called the suburbs.
It was sad that the man had no one else closer to him to leave the property to. Someone more suitable, who might want to keep it. Farm it.
That person was definitely not me.
Yes, I’d enjoyed my visit here that summer, but there had been extenuating circumstances back then. It was the summer that, unbeknownst to me, my parents were about to get divorced, and being home with them fighting all the time had been unbearable.
Then there was the girl next door to my uncle’s place . . . Lizzy Murphy.
Long blonde hair. Long lean legs. Eyes as blue as the summer sky . . . She was my first kiss and I’d bet money I was hers. A year younger than me, she’d been a tomboy in a woman’s body. I still remembered her soft curvy body and all its tempting attributes as her shorts and T-shirt got soaked while she taught me to fish in the Muddy River.
I had good memories from my time there. But that was then. This was now. Hopefully, someone at the tree lot would be able to give me better directions.
There was a lot of action happening around me. Not a surprise, I guess, given there were only a few weeks until Christmas and all the festive people would want to get a tree.
I tried to wave down a teenaged girl as she sped past, to no avail. Resigned, I trudged on toward a small wooden building. I was in the wrong shoes for hiking in snow, even this little bit, and I could feel my feet g
etting colder and wetter with every step.
Yeah, I couldn’t get rid of this property fast enough, because there was no doubt in my mind that I’d never want to come here again.
I opened the door and smelled the acrid scent of smoke inside, just before I felt the welcome heat of the wood burning stove tucked into the corner of the room.
Grateful for the warmth, I pulled the door shut behind me, which sent the little bells attached to it tinkling. The sound didn’t interrupt the three men I saw talking by the counter, even though judging by the matching logos on their sweatshirts, they worked here.
“I’m telling you, we should buy the old train depot before someone else grabs it,” one said.
The other one shook his head. “Boone, I’m not paying double what the guy paid when he bought it just two years ago.”
“Stone’s right. The asking price is too high. We’d have to low-ball him on the offer,” the third man said. “But it’s a great location. We could expand the farm market. Now that Brandon has the diner and the old hotel open for business, the village is getting a lot more traffic. Red says her sales are up twenty-percent at the consignment shop.”
The one he’d referred to as Stone shook his head. “Well, Cashel, then Red should buy the depot. We don’t need another location.”
Cashel scowled. “You’re being shortsighted. And cheap.”
The younger one—Boone—snorted at that. But Stone ignored him and continued addressing the other man. “No, Cash, I’m being logical. We already get the highway traffic because we’re between town and the exit. A sign on Main Street for the farm market will do just fine to direct all of the traffic from the other end of town to here and it’s a hell of a lot cheaper than buying, renovating and staffing the old train depot.”
It was a fascinating and enlightening conversation. I couldn’t even be annoyed they’d ignored my presence since my pseudo eavesdropping had gleaned a wealth of information about the real estate market in Mudville and the economy in town.
But it looked like my being a fly on the wall was over. Boone backhanded Stone in the side and tipped his chin in my direction.
All three turned to stare, but it was Stone who asked, “Can I help you?”
“Um, yeah. My GPS doesn’t seem to be working great. I’m—”
Boone’s eyes widened. “You must be the Santa that Elizabeth Murphy is waiting for.”
Elizabeth Murphy? Could that be Lizzy?
I didn’t have time to ask as Stone hissed out, “Shit, that’s right. I promised her I’d get in touch with Harper or Agnes to get the volunteer’s number to make sure he was coming since he was supposed to be here at ten.” Stone looked back to me. “Sorry you got lost. GPS doesn’t like a lot of addresses around here. Anyway, you’re here now and you are in the right place. The Santa Station is all set up for you. I think it opens for photos at eleven? Is that right, Cash?”
Cash nodded. “Yup. Red’s photographer friend is already here and set up.” He glanced down at his cell phone and hissed in air between his teeth. “Crap. It’s already five minutes of eleven.”
“That’s okay. The Santa suit is hanging right in the back. And there’s a bathroom back there where you can change.” Boone hooked a thumb toward the door behind him. “We’ll just put the Feeding the Reindeer sign up by the sleigh until you get out there.”
I’d remained quiet until then. Mostly because the three hadn’t given me a second to get a word in to correct their wrong assumption that I was their volunteer Santa for the day.
But the more I thought about it, the more I realized, the best way to learn about this town, and the potential to sell the farm I was suddenly the owner of, might be to actually take this job. And then there was the possibility that Lizzy Murphy might actually be here.
It seemed like a crazy coincidence, but this was a small town so it was possible.
I turned over the details of the situation in my mind. If the real Santa—make that the guy who’d really been hired to play Santa—was supposed to be here an hour ago, there was a good chance he’d be a no-show. And if he did show up later, I could just say I’d decided to help out and step in until he arrived. It wasn’t like I could be arrested for impersonating Santa.
Decision made, I nodded. “Thanks. I’ll go get into that suit and get right out there.”
Luckily, they left me alone to change. I took the opportunity to leave a second message for the lawyer saying that I’d have to reschedule our meeting for late this afternoon or possibly tomorrow morning.
It looked like I’d be spending more time here in Mudville.
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See everything by Cat available on Amazon at
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Cat Johnson is a top 10 New York Times and a USA Today bestselling author of contemporary romance that usually features hot alpha heroes (who often wear combat or cowboy boots) and the sassy heroines brave enough to love them. Known for her unique marketing she has sponsored pro bull riders, owns a collection of camouflage and western wear for book signings, and has used bologna to promote romance novels.
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MISTER NAUGHTY
CAT JOHNSON
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