Humbugged

by Pippa Grant

  Humbugged

  Pippa Grant

  Lili Valente

  Contents

  Copyright

  About the Book

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Epilogue Two

  Sneak Peek from Lili Valente

  Sneak Peek from Pippa Grant

  About the Authors

  Also by Pippa Grant

  Also by Lili Valente

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2019

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Editing by Jessica Snyder.

  Cover design by Lori Jackson Designs.

  Cover art copyright © Wander Aguiar.

  About the Book

  He’s the world’s most alpha Marine and the last man I should be letting jingle my bells this holiday season.

  So why does Clint O’Dell keep running through my thoughts wearing nothing but a Santa hat? And why do I stupidly agree that we should be Christmas friends with benefits?

  Someone must have spiked my eggnog.

  I don’t do Marines.

  Or Santas.

  I learned my lesson about both the hard way.

  But when Clint steps in to rescue me—from a murderous goose, a rogue reindeer, and the ghost of Christmas Right Now causing trouble in my bakery—I can’t help but wonder if we’re meant to be more than friends.

  If maybe Clint is the holiday miracle I’ve been praying for…or if all the magic will disappear with the season.

  Humbugged is a laugh out loud holiday romp featuring a Marine with a heart of gold and a baker in need of a hero. Complete with the world's most awkward Christmas caroling, a photoshoot with furry friends, and more naughty baked goods than is good or decent.

  Books by Lili Valente and Pippa Grant

  Hosed

  Hammered

  Hitched

  Humbugged

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  Books by Pippa Grant

  Mister McHottie

  Stud in the Stacks

  The Pilot and the Puck-Up

  Royally Pucked

  Beauty and the Beefcake

  Rockaway Bride

  Hot Heir

  The Hero and the Hacktivist

  Charming as Puck

  Flirting with the Frenemy

  America’s Geekheart

  Master Baker

  And more…

  Books by Lili Valente

  Rockstar Rom Coms

  The Bangover

  Bang Theory

  Bang on Loosely

  Hockey Romance

  Hot as Puck

  Sexy Motherpucker

  Puck Aholic

  Puck me Baby

  Pucked up Love

  Puck Buddies

  The Red Hot Hunter Brothers

  The Baby Maker

  The Troublemaker

  The Heartbreaker

  The Panty Melter

  Sexy Flirty Dirty Rom Coms

  Magnificent D

  Spectacular Rascal

  Incredible You

  Meant for You

  Swoon-Worthy Cowboys

  Leather and Lace

  Saddles and Sin

  Diamonds and Dust

  Glitter and Grit

  Chaps and Chance

  Ropes and Revenge

  And More…

  One

  Noelle Alwyn

  (aka a woman with a plan, but possibly not the right plan)

  When I said I wanted to get into the holiday spirit, being stalked by a Christmas goose wasn’t what I had in mind.

  But hey, I’m game.

  So I’m alone in a creepy alley lit by a single flickering streetlight? So what? This goose doesn’t want to peck me to death and leave pieces of my beak-ravaged corpse littered throughout downtown Happy Cat, Georgia.

  The little guy is probably just looking to make friends and needs someone to point him in the right direction.

  Like I’m trying to do with my life.

  Point it in the right direction.

  Find joy in the unexpected. Get into the spirit of the season, give back to my community, refill the love well in my heart, and—

  The goose hisses and I flinch, a hand flying to clutch my throat.

  Or this plan?—surviving to bake gingerbread cookies tomorrow—that’ll work too.

  “Hey there, buddy, nice outfit,” I coo, because who doesn’t love a compliment?

  Especially when they’ve gone to all the trouble to get decked out for the holidays?

  My unexpected maybe-friend-maybe-foe is dressed in a green elf costume, complete with a pointy hat. His feathers are snowy white, his beak pink, and he probably weighs in somewhere north of twenty pounds.

  If he were on a dinner table, he could feed ten people, easily.

  Bad Noelle. Bad thoughts. Elf geese are friends, not food.

  “You’re not a mean goose, are you?” I add, pitch sliding up like I’m talking to a dog or a baby or a cake that I can just tell is going to crack as soon as I move it. “You’re just a nice, festive fella who lost his ride home.”

  “Honk honk honk! Honk honk honk!”

  Okay, so I may be losing it, but that sounded an awful lot like the beginning of “Jingle Bells.”

  Does the goose also think I need more Christmas spirit?

  As if reading my thoughts, he nods his head sharply, dislodging his elf hat, which rolls to an ominous stop by a skull-shaped puddle, complete with soggy black napkins where the eye sockets should be.

  Note to self—don’t take the shortcut from the square to the bakery in the dark on nights when Happy Cat’s wacky wildlife is out and about. Which is basically every night. In the short time I’ve lived here, I’ve already been attacked by a gang of greedy raccoons and used as a scratching post by a litter of feral kittens.

  Those poor kittens. If I’m mauled to death by an off-his-shelf goose-elf, who’s going to visit them at the animal sanctuary and make them feel better about not getting adopted? And if I don’t comfort them, how long before they turn to a life of crime and start bullying people in alleys, just l
ike this goose?

  Thinking of the kittens and the general good of humankind, I back away, closer to the square where the nice townsfolk of Happy Cat are packing up after the live nativity scene that kicked off the holiday season.

  But Mr. Goose is having none of that. He flaps his wings and cranes his neck toward me, eyes bulging as he shouts, “HONK!”

  “Okay. Okay.” I lift my trembling hands into the air. “What about a Christmas cookie? Can I leave if you get a cookie first?” I reach into my apron pocket for one of the individually wrapped sugar cookies I was handing out to the kiddos tonight, but the movement makes the goose flap harder and honk louder.

  “Okay! Okay! No cookies. Do you want to sing a carol? Take a selfie? Are you with Hope’s animal sanctuary? If so, we should get you back to—”

  I break off with a scream as he rushes forward, beak stretched toward me like the nose of a fighter jet locked on target.

  Praying he has a sweet tooth, after all, I rip a cookie out of its cellophane wrapper, throw it on the ground, and take off running back to the square, the unhinged quacker hot on my heels.

  Holy snowballs, he’s fast.

  “Stop!” I call over my shoulder. “Please! We can be friends!”

  “HONK HONK HONK!”

  “I gave you a Christmas cookie! And I don’t taste nearly as good as a cookie, I promise! I’m not even high in fiber!”

  “Nutquacker! What the hell are you doing?”

  I spin toward the deep voice, and run smack into a brick wall—a brick wall covered in an elf costume that matches the goose’s and that smells of pine sap and peat whiskey.

  Instantly, I know whose arms are closing around me. The smell—and the arms—are unique to one man. A man with gorgeous, sexy-as-heck knuckles that haunt my dreams every night, even though I know better than to crush on a guy half my age who can leap tall buildings in a single bound, crush rocks with his bare hands, and stop murderously-intentioned geese with a word because he’s the ultimate badass Marine.

  Okay, fine, so he isn’t actually half my age.

  But the rest of it is true.

  But just because I’m starting over with a positive attitude doesn’t mean I need to get mixed up with the first delicious man to cross my path. My fresh start is about taking control of my destiny in an unpredictable world. About being smarter, less impulsive, and thinking things through for a change.

  I do not, however, stop to think things through at the moment. The instant I have my balance, I climb Clint O’Dell like a tree, shouting, “Rabid goose! Watch out! Rabid goose!”

  “Honk honk HONK!”

  Clint easily holds me aloft with one arm while pointing a stern finger at my attacker with the other. “Nutquacker, stop it. That’s not nice. Apologize.”

  Damn, he has a nice voice too. All silky hot chocolate and dirty reindeer games, and the goose’s next honk does seem fairly contrite.

  Add goose whisperer to Clint O’Dell’s list of special skills.

  He turns his attention my way, bringing his gorgeous mouth so close to mine that my heart stutters as he rumbles, “Okay, Cupcake. Your turn. Tell Nutquacker you’re sorry.”

  I blink. Cupcake?

  I realize he’s talking to me and consider getting back on my own two feet before I explain how this all went down. But the goose is still staring at me like he’s plotting his own Christmas dinner, and Clint’s manly forearm feels awfully nice tucked under my bottom. So I simply lift my chin and insist as imperiously as possible while being held like a child, “I don’t need to apologize. I didn’t do anything wrong. I was just walking along, minding my own business, when he leapt out of the shadows and attacked me. All I did was give him a perfectly lovely Christmas cookie that he left on the ground.”

  He arches a brow. “He says you told him he looks silly in his elf costume.”

  “I did not!” I protest before realizing the game he’s playing. “Ha ha. He did not say that. Because he’s a goose and geese can’t talk.”

  “HONK!”

  “Honk yourself, Nutquacker,” Clint murmurs without breaking eye contact. “Have a little patience. You’ll get your apology.”

  I’m about to explain that I don’t appreciate being made a fool of after I’ve already been scared to death by poorly-behaved waterfowl and wasted a hand-decorated sugar cookie, but that’s what old Noelle would do.

  New Noelle, the me who’s choosing holiday cheer over spending yet another December denying that I love eggnog from a can and secretly live for fruitcake—the harder and more cherry-filled the better—is embracing the joy in life, and practicing gratitude for her many blessings.

  Even the small stuff.

  So maybe tonight practicing gratitude means being happy that I wasn’t physically harmed in this fiasco and apologizing for something I didn’t do to a goose who tried to kill me.

  And maybe Nutquacker wasn’t trying to kill me. Maybe he was trying to express that he thought my candy cane tights and fluffy white apron are cute. Or maybe he was as surprised and scared as I was and this has all been a big misunderstanding.

  In any event, of all the things I’ve regretted in my life, giving a sincere apology has never made it onto the list.

  “I’m sorry, Nutquacker,” I say. “I hope we can be friends moving forward.”

  Clint’s firm and oh-so-manly-but-still-plump-and-delicious-looking lips spread in a grin. “Feel better now?”

  No, I’m feeling tongue-tied and warm in places that need to remain December chilly in this man’s magnetic presence.

  I need to simmer the heck down.

  Which would be a lot easier if I’d unwrap my legs from his waist.

  But it’s such a nice, narrow waist. Positioned above that gorgeously curved, muscular ass. And I can just glimpse his tattoo beneath his elf collar, and why are tattoos so sexy? Even sexier than knuckles…

  My tongue slips out to wet my suddenly dry lips and his gaze follows, sending the heat level surging when a voice calls out from over our entangled arms, “Nutquacker! There you are!”

  Hope O’Dell, apparent owner of the goose, scurries around us to slip a lead around the goose’s neck. “Sorry, Noelle, he got away in the chaos. I hope he didn’t scare you. His honk is worse than his bite, I promise.”

  Her husband, Blake, leads two alpacas across the small lawn near the entrance to the alley. He grins at me and I begin to grow a little self-conscious about clinging to Clint like a startled spider monkey. “Playing Christmas tree again, little brother?” he asks.

  “Showing you how to treat a lady in distress,” Clint says. “Sorry, Hope. You got the weakest O’Dell. He’ll have to use two arms if you need saving from an angry goose.”

  Hope laughs. “I’ll take two arms. I like both of his arms around me, actually.”

  “I like that, too,” Blake murmurs.

  The newlyweds share a heated look and tug on their individual leads, guiding the assault goose and sweet alpaca boys away toward the trailer parked farther down the street.

  I take one last sniff of Clint’s intoxicating man aroma, get a grip on my hormones, and start to slide down to the ground. But before I can make my descent, he grips my legs, does a quick shimmy, and suddenly I’m on his back.

  “What the—” I break off, clinging to his shoulders as he starts down the sidewalk in the opposite direction.

  “Where to, Cupcake? I smell more shenanigans afoot.”

  “I c-can’t,” I stammer, flustered by the sudden change of events and how fast he’s moving with well over a hundred extra pounds on his back. I’m short, but I eat my Wheaties and more than my share of cupcakes. “Could you put me down, please?”

  “Sure thing, but I need to see you home, ma’am. There’s a trouble-loving raccoon out tonight, and I happen to know you have cookies in your apron pockets.”

  He squats, and I scramble to the ground.

  “Thank you. But I have to swing by the bakery before I go home and it’s just around the co
rner.” I point in the general direction of Second Chance Cupcakes. “And the cookies are probably all crushed by now so…” I force a smile, hoping it doesn’t look as awkward as I feel. “Yeah. So…Merry Christmas!”

  He grins again, and it’s like someone turned up the sparkle on the Christmas lights strung around the square. Holy holly berries, he’s something… Ruggedly handsome under that short-cropped hair. Twinkling green eyes. Square jaw. Thick neck. A chest that’s pushing the limits of that elf top. Jeans molding to his solid thighs. And a necklace of flashing lights.

  I can appreciate the view without wanting more, right?

  Yes. Yes, I can.

  The new Noelle, the one determined to relish every lovely thing in the world, can admire a handsome man with no ulterior motives.

  She doesn’t have to rush into something with someone who doesn’t check her boxes. Specifically, the box for Don’t Screw Up Your Romantic Life Again, Noelle, For The Love Of Fruitcake.

  I can be strong.

  I have to be strong. I don’t think I could survive another hard and hopeless breakup like the one that landed me in Happy Cat in the first place.

  So instead of taking Clint up on the offer to track down some shenanigans, I wave goodbye and scurry around the corner toward the bakery, and I don’t look back even once. Not even to admire how handsome he looks backlit by an early December moon.