When
Christmas is Cancelled is the latest release from romance author
Lucy Felthouse. It is available in eBook and paperback from Amazon,
and will be in Kindle Unlimited for 90 days only. After then it will
come out of Kindle Unlimited and go onto other retailers, so if you
wish to read it as part of your KU subscription, add it to your shelf
ASAP.
Blurb
When
Rosie does a good deed on Christmas Day, she's not expecting to come
face to face with her very own ghost of Christmas past.
Rosie
Kilbride's festive plans are derailed when her mother calls on
Christmas Eve to postpone their family get together due to illness.
Left with a surplus of food and no one to eat it with, Rosie contacts
Ingrid, a local café owner, to find out if she still needs
volunteers for the charity Christmas meal she's organising. Ingrid
jumps at the chance, and on Christmas morning Rosie heads out,
anticipating a busy but pleasant day doing something nice for others,
followed by a meal of leftovers with her fellow volunteers.
Unfortunately,
on being introduced to the café's kitchen staff, she discovers the
head chef is none other than Luke Adams, the man who broke her heart
into a million tiny pieces ten years ago. And she's got to work with
him. Despite her inner turmoil, there's no way she'll let Ingrid and
the diners down, so she's determined to grin and bear it. It's just a
few hours, after all.
When
the day is almost done, tiredness and hunger kick in, and emotions
start to run high. Can Rosie get away unscathed, or will she be
forced to deal with Luke and all the feelings his presence has
dredged up?
When
Christmas is Cancelled is a standalone M/F steamy contemporary
romance with second chance, age gap and BDSM themes.
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Excerpt
As
was usual for their part of middle England, there was no white
Christmas. Just a sky full of gloomy grey clouds, which were letting
loose a weak, persistent drizzle. Preferable to p***ing it down, I
suppose. She made her way into town, her mood lifting at the
sight of the festive lights strung on the homes and businesses, the
cheery decorations and Santa Stop Here signs stuck into
people’s front lawns and flowerbeds. Excitement would no doubt be
reigning in those homes, as young children pounced on their piles of
presents and began an unwrapping frenzy, while exhausted, bemused
parents clutched mugs of strong coffee and watched on from the
sidelines.
Of
course, not everyone was so fortunate, which was why Ingrid’s
scheme was such a good one. A desperately needed one, in some cases.
People ended up by themselves on Christmas Day for a multitude of
reasons—she was a testament to that fact. Some might even prefer
it. But for those who didn’t, those who would cherish—possibly
even be desperate for—the company as much as the food,
today’s event might well be the highlight of their festive season.
The only bright spot in an otherwise dull, lonely few days.
She
smiled. Her own Christmas plans might have gone t*ts up, but being
even a tiny cog in a machine that would make a collection of
deserving people happy was something to feel good about. She’d also
been able to answer her mother’s anxious question about where she
was going truthfully: “To Ingrid’s. She’s already got a big
group in, so one more wasn’t a problem. Should be a damn good
spread.”
She’d
scurried off then, hoping if her mother’s virus-addled brain
allowed her to actually remember what Ingrid had been doing on
Christmas Day for the last few years—and she definitely knew, as
she’d donated money each time—it’d be too late to pass comment.
Granted,
she’d be helping to serve forty people their meals before getting
so much as a crumb of a roast potato herself, but that was a small
price to pay.
Conscious
she was already a little behind schedule, thanks to her mother’s
wittering, she put her right foot down a smidgen harder. Soon, she
pulled up outside the front door of the café. The town,
unsurprisingly, was completely deserted, so she didn’t worry about
anyone complaining about her parking. It was only temporary, while
she unloaded all her goodies. She gave a couple of light bips on her
car horn before killing the engine, taking off her seatbelt and
getting out of the vehicle. She closed the door, then zipped her coat
and pulled up the hood against the cold and wet. By the time she was
around at the boot, opening it to reveal tinfoil-covered trays and
plastic containers galore, Ingrid appeared beside her, looking every
inch the festive host, in her sparkling boots, glittery leggings,
snowman-festooned knitted jumper, reindeer earrings, and headband
with a sprig of mistletoe hanging off it.
“Morning,”
Ingrid said with a warm smile, before wrapping her in a hug. “Merry
Christmas. I’m really sorry about your mum and dad not being well,
but I’m definitely not sorry you’re here. We were already
stretched, and now one of my waitresses has phoned, saying she’s
poorly and can’t come. So your extra pair of hands is very much
needed—and appreciated.”
She
returned her friend’s embrace, then let go and stepped back. “Merry
Christmas, Ingrid. I’m glad to be here. Sorry I’m a bit late.
I’ve just dropped some food parcels off at Mum and Dad’s, along
with their presents, so they’re all set for a couple of days. Poor
things are still feeling rough as anything. Food wise, whatever was
left that I couldn’t safely freeze, or was way too much for me to
eat alone over the next few days, I brought. So there’s a lovely
joint of beef, potatoes, vegetables, a chocolate roulade, and a bunch
of mince pies and jam tarts. The last three are homemade—not shop
bought.”
Ingrid
narrowed her eyes. “You made chocolate roulade, mince pies and
jam tarts? You surely didn’t need all that just for the three
of you? I know folks like to stuff their faces at Christmas, but come
on…”
“All
right, all right,” Rosie said with a laugh, holding her hands up.
“You got me. I’d already started on the roulade when I got the
call from my parents to say they were ill, and was going to make a
batch of mince pies, since they’re my dad’s favourite. But in the
disappointment of having my plans derailed, I drowned my sorrows in
baking. Happy now?”
Ingrid
responded by reaching into the car boot and scooping up two big
containers. She licked her lips exaggeratedly and wiggled her
eyebrows. “Bl**dy ecstatic. I love mince pies.” With that,
she turned neatly on her heel and hurried inside.
Chuckling
to herself, Rosie followed suit. The warm, cosy café was already a
hive of activity with the tables being set, Christmas crackers added
to each place setting, and people whizzing here, there and
everywhere. The place had been decorated for the festive season to
within an inch of its life since early December, but Rosie spotted at
least a handful more decorations she didn’t recognise from when
she’d popped in a couple of weeks earlier to drop off hers and her
customers’ donations for the very meal she was now helping with—as
well as treating herself to coffee and a slice of cake. She was
normally a more regular patron, even if it was just a takeaway, but
the run up to Christmas had been hectic in the shop, so she hadn’t
had the chance to pop in.
“Leave
them there, hon,” Ingrid said, pointing to the counter, where she’d
already deposited the two boxes she’d carried in. “We’ll get
everything in pronto, so you can park your car, then I’ll introduce
you to everyone and get you all set up in your role for the day.”
“No
worries,” she replied, setting her load down and following Ingrid
back out the door to her car.
It
wasn’t long before she slammed her boot closed and gave Ingrid a
wave as she slid into the driver’s seat and drove to the car park
at the end of the road. Her vehicle safely parked and securely
locked, she hurried back to the café—picking up her pace and
hunching deeper into her coat as the drizzle turned heavier.
She
burst through the front door to the sound of Christmas music blaring
out. Some of the other helpers were singing and dancing as they
worked. It looked as though the party had already started—and the
guests weren’t even expected to show up for another couple of
hours.
“Ah,
there you are,” Ingrid said, appearing from nowhere. “Let’s get
your coat and bag hung up out the back. I thought given you enjoy
baking, you’d be particularly useful in the kitchen, if that’s
all right with you? Unless you’d prefer to be at front of house?”
“No,
if you need me in the kitchen, I’m totally fine with that. Use me
however you see fit.”
Her
belongings stowed, and her own funky headband—a tiny, jaunty elf
hat with an even tinier jingle bell affixed to its pointy end—settled
in place, she straightened her oversized jumper, a knitted affair
with gingerbread men and candy canes all over it, as she followed
Ingrid. After being introduced to the wait staff she didn’t
know—the others worked in the café normally, so they were already
acquainted—she and Ingrid made their way towards the kitchen.
Ingrid
pushed open the ‘in’ door to reveal a bunch of people already
working hard, despite the fact there weren’t yet any diners. The
clatter of trays, the rhythmic tapping of vegetables being chopped,
and the whir of food processors filled the air—as did intense heat
and the delicious scent of roasting meat.
“I’ve
left the organisation in here entirely to my head chef for the day,
since he knows what he’s doing. He’s the best there is. He works
in some fancy place in the city, but somehow managed to wangle today
off to help us out. Let’s go and introduce you, and he can decide
where he needs you the most, okay?”
Rosie
nodded, then tailed Ingrid as she made a bee-line for a man in a
white chef’s jacket, and black and white checkered trousers. Rather
than the tall, white hat one would usually expect a head chef to be
wearing, he had on a Santa hat. He was tall, dark-haired, and had his
broad back to them as he worked away at something on one of the
stainless-steel surfaces.
“Hey,
Chef,” Ingrid said as they drew close, “got your last pair of
hands here. She’s good in the kitchen and ready to work.”
The
man stopped what he was doing, wiped his hands on a tea towel and
turned to them with a smile, which quickly faded as recognition
kicked in.
“Rosie,”
Ingrid said, indicating her head chef, “this is—”
“Luke
Adams,” she interrupted, staring in disbelief at the man who’d
broken her heart into a million pieces a decade ago. The very same
heart which was now skipping like a rabbit on speed and sending heat
rushing into her cheeks. F**k. Merry f**king Christmas to me.
About
the Author
Lucy
Felthouse is the award-winning author of erotic romance novels
Stately
Pleasures (named
in the top 5 of Cliterati.co.uk’s 100 Modern Erotic Classics That
You’ve Never Heard Of), Eyes
Wide Open (winner
of the Love Romances Café’s Best Ménage Book 2015 award), The
Persecution of the Wolves, Hiding in Plain Sight,
Curve
Appeal, Not That Kind of Witch
and The
Heiress’s Harem and
The
Dreadnoughts series.
Including
novels, short stories and novellas, she has over 175 publications to
her name. Find out more about her and her writing at
http://lucyfelthouse.co.uk/linktree
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