All I Want for Christmas Eve Read online

  All I Want for Christmas Eve

  Book Two

  Snowflake Creek Series

  Copyright © 2019 Olivia Noble

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  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.

  Thank you for purchasing this book!

  To receive a free book as a gift, sign up for Olivia’s mailing list today:

  Subscribe

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Prologue

  There’s a strange man in my bed.

  No, not in a fun way.

  In a what-the-heck-just-happened sort of way. In a do-I-call-the-cops or do-I-call-an-ambulance sort of way. I have even wondered if I should try to call his mom. Do I call my mom? The situation is rather puzzling, and I am confused.

  He’s unusually handsome. I don’t think I really noticed that before. I was too annoyed by the nonsense that seems to fill the air every time he opens his mouth. But now that his mouth is closed, and he is here, peacefully sleeping under my blankets, he doesn’t seem quite so loud and obnoxious. He seems almost… sweet. Vulnerable.

  He seems like a normal human.

  Okay, maybe a little cuter than normal.

  Like, I guess there are a lot of worse-looking dudes who could have ended up stuck in my house, for Santa-knows-how-long. Oh, no. His ridiculous manner of speaking is already rubbing off on me, just like he said it would. If this is the impact he is having on me after only a few hours, how will I survive potentially days?

  My major problem is that he is currently using the special orthopedic pillow I need to sleep on to avoid getting headaches. I mean, headaches related to muscle tension—I am sure that I will still have plenty of headaches related to the loudmouthed handsome stranger. From my understanding, handsome strangers always come hand-in-hand with temple-throbbing headaches.

  My other major problem is that I only have one bed. I don’t even have a couch I can properly lie down in to rest. I have an armchair. I love my armchair, but it does not facilitate a good night’s sleep. So, I am sort of stuck just standing here and watching him, ogling his strong jawline and neatly trimmed facial hair, and that isn’t creepy at all.

  This is a fairly small cabin in the woods, and it’s not really built for more than one person. I never planned to entertain any guests this far north of the 60th parallel. I’m not a people person. My social skills are the absolute worst. I moved out here specifically to get away from annoyingly handsome, trouble-making, vehicle-crashing, men like this one.

  How did this happen? I was having a perfectly fine day.

  Then I made that stupid wish.

  I guess it’s true when they tell you to be careful what you wish for.

  Chapter One

  Rubbing my aching neck after a long day’s work, I stand by my window, sipping on a cup of hot cocoa. The sky is mostly too cloudy to see any stars, but there are a few patches of clear sky here and there. I smile as I search for shooting stars, a silly game that I used to play with my siblings when we were young. Someone had the bright idea that if we wished for what we wanted to get for Christmas on a shooting star, it would definitely come true.

  It was probably Mary. She’s always been such a hopeless romantic.

  My oven dings, and I turn around eagerly, nearly spilling my cocoa. I place the mug down on a table beside my favorite green armchair, where I can enjoy it later. Moving toward the kitchen, I grab my oven mitts to remove the delicious cake I have been baking. As soon as it is on the counter, I take a sniff of the aroma with my eyes closed. Then I place the cake down and begin to smash it.

  Because the only thing better than cake is a cake pop. Obviously.

  Getting out my utensils, I begin to hum as I mix the cake crumbs with other ingredients, creating perfect little spheres. I impale them with lollipop sticks before placing them in the fridge to chill, and removing the previous batch that has been in there chilling for quite a while.

  Melting a bit of creamy brown chocolate, I dip the chilled cake balls into the mixture. I then proceed to add two well-placed pretzels to make little antlers, and a red jelly candy to make a nose. I then create little candy eyes.

  “Perfect!” I exclaim to myself, as I triumphantly hold up the reindeer cake pop.

  Back home in Snowflake Creek, it’s a tradition for us all to cook our own special treat to make the holidays more memorable. We make a little Christmas competition of it, and I am very competitive. I have been practicing a few new ideas, eager to make them for a house filled with family, instead of just for myself. And not just because it would be easier on my waistline to share.

  I finish dipping and designing the reindeer cake pops, and okay, a few of them come out with their eyes slightly lopsided. But that’s why we practice these things, right? I’m not a chef. I’m a writer. I put this batch back into the fridge to harden, but take one for myself to enjoy in my cozy green chair.

  I move back over to the window and collapse in the armchair dramatically, twirling my adorable reindeer cake pop. I don’t cook Christmassy sweets or any desserts very often, so this feels very special to me. First, I nibble off his antlers, because it seems like the appropriate place to start.

  But when I bite into his delicious reindeer-brains, the pleasure of the perfect combination of flavors is immediately replaced with the loneliness of not having anyone around to enjoy this with. I take a large sip from my hot cocoa, now that the liquid has cooled to a tolerable level, and the chocolatey beverage mixes with the taste of the cake, causing the flavors to melt against my tongue.

  I sigh. I dip the whole reindeer into my hot chocolate, red nose and all, and take a generous bite. I sit there for a while, in my green armchair, with a sad, lonely, half-eaten Rudolph, as nostalgic memories of my family flood my mind. The last few Christmases have been spent all alone up here, and I have grown very tired of it. At first, it was an act of independence and rebellion, striking out on my own, proving that I could stand on my own two feet.

  However, as I’ve grown older, I realized that family is the most important thing in the world. I’ve been reminiscing and longing for all the lovely memories we shared together in Snowflake Creek, so many years ago. I know we’ll never be children again, but it seems so unnatural for us all to be so far away from each other, spread out across this great big world. Mary in California, Clara in New York, or wherever her performances take her, and Jack in Africa. Me, out here in Alaska. Why did we do this to ourselves? At the end of the day, isn’t family all we have?

  At least my parents have each other. They would never leave their lovely hometown in Minnesota. As I stare out the window at the night sky, I think about my parents, and how happy they’ve been together for so long. Through thick and thin. I wonder if that sort of love even exists anymore. It seems pretty rare in my generation, where hookups are king.

  I’ve never been the hookup-sort. This m
ight be obvious from the white, fluffy, Victorian-styled nightgown I’m wearing. I consider it the business suit of a historical romance writer. It gets me in the mood, if you know what I mean. The historical mood.

  Finishing off my hot cocoa, and my delicious reindeer brains, I rise to my feet to close the curtains and head to bed. I’m not sure why I still bother to close the curtains—it’s not like I live in the city anymore, or anywhere near a city, where a peeping tom could peer through my windows and see me dancing around in my underwear.

  Not that I dance around in my underwear. Often.

  I have many more important, adult-type things to do.

  Like make reindeer cake pops, obviously. Besides, my underwear consists of boring, comfy granny panties, so it’s not like anyone would see much. I think I’m about as sexy as, well, a grandmother—from the 1800s.

  But I’m a creature of habit, and I close the curtains anyway.

  Then I pull them back open.

  There’s a shooting star.

  A really vibrant, spectacular shooting star that’s sweeping across the sky and lasting more than a fleeting millisecond.

  So, I close my eyes tightly and make a wish.

  But to my great confusion, when I open my eyes, the shooting star doesn’t just disappear into the horizon like a well-behaved shooting star should do. No, it keeps growing in size, and hurtling down toward me. My eyes widen. Okay. I’m pretty sure that I am about to be flattened by a meteor. Like, 57% sure that I’m going to be smushed into a snowy crater in Alaska, before I can even text my parents that I love them. 68% sure that I won’t live to see Christmas Day.

  My heart jumps into my throat, as I try to remember the right type of prayer for this situation, but I can’t seem to think of the appropriate way to beg for my life. But as I’m obsessing over this, the meteorite crash-lands in a burning glory, a few hundred feet away from my house.

  I blink. It takes me a second to realize that it’s just a plane, and not a celestial body. I put down my empty cocoa mug, and drop the cake pop stick inside it.

  Moving to the door, I grab my boots and coats without even thinking. I tug them on over my grandma-nightgown. This is one of the few moments of my life when I wish I was dressed a little more practically, and a little less like a Victorian old lady. But nonetheless, I open the door and rush out into the snow.

  I have to reach down and hike up my dress, cursing the layers of white frills and lace, as I run toward the crash. Lots of snow got inside the tops of my boots, anyway, and begins to melt against my legs, chilling them.

  When I arrive on the scene, I curse again, realizing that I should have brought a flashlight. It’s dark. Super dark. Some parts of the plane are on fire, releasing thick black smoke. Maybe it’s an engine? I don’t know much about the anatomy of planes.

  “Hello? Is everyone okay?” I call out, trying to peer inside to see how many people are aboard. Souls—they call them souls, don’t they? My heartbeat is racing and pounding in my ears. I am not totally ready to know the answer to my question.

  It is only then that I realize I should have brought my cell phone to call for help. I nearly slap myself upside the head for my idiocy.

  And it is only then that the flames illuminate the name of the plane.

  Santa’s Sleigh.

  Santa’s Sleigh has crashed in my backyard.

  What kind of an omen is this? Is Christmas ruined forever?

  I jump a little when the door of the plane opens, revealing the grunting sounds of a man. A young man. Maybe about my age, maybe a few years older. He looks disoriented and dizzy, and he’s bleeding a little.

  I stand there frozen, afraid, and unsure of what to do.

  He coughs, as he manages to fully open the door of the plane. He stands there for a second, too dazed to exit. He stares at me.

  “Are you an angel?” he asks finally.

  “No,” I respond awkwardly. My body finally starts moving into action, and I offer him an arm to help him out of the plane.

  “Are you the ghost of Christmas past?” he asks, as he takes my arm and stumbles forward shakily.

  I shake my head as I struggle to keep him upright, and keep him from falling into the snow. “No…”

  “Then you must be my wife,” he announces.

  “Okay, buddy,” I say softly. “I think you really hit your head. We need to get you help.”

  “No, I’m perfectly fine. Just a mere scrape or two. I meant that you must be my future wife.”

  “Excuse me?” I respond.

  “I’m a very positive person. I like to look on the bright side of every bad situation. What other good reason could there be for destroying a perfectly good plane in the middle of this Santa-forsaken tundra wilderness, other than meeting my future wife?”

  “Did you just say Santa-forsaken?” I ask.

  “Yes,” he says, leaning heavily on my shoulders.

  “Well, that makes no logical sense, because Santa lives at the North Pole, which is pretty much just a bunch of ice and tundra. So, the tundra is technically the only ecosystem that Santa wouldn’t forsake, because it’s his favorite topological… never mind, you’re bleeding.”

  “My good lady, I fear that these droplets of blood on my brow are not the source of our major concern at this moment,” the strange man says against my ear. His hot breath warms my cold skin, and sends a shiver through me.

  “My good lady? Did you just call me ‘my good lady?’”

  “Yes, I mean—if you’re going to wear a nightgown like that out in public, I assume that’s what you like to be called.”

  “Don’t make fun of my nightgown,” I tell him seriously.

  “A storm is coming,” he says gravely. “A winter storm.” Then he pauses for effect. “A winter storm is coming.”

  I sigh, then look around curiously. “I don’t see anything. Are you sure?”

  “I barely outran it with my plane,” he explains. “But not before the blasted blizzard took out my engine.”

  Aha! It was an engine. See? I know things.

  “We need to get to shelter ASAP,” he says, his playful tone suddenly gone. “If we’re not inside within a few minutes, we’re going to be in total whiteout conditions. We’re not going to be able to get any sense of direction for hours. Maybe days.”

  “Shit,” I say hoarsely, realizing he’s serious. All the little patches of stars in the sky have disappeared, and the weather is changing rapidly. If I know anything about snowstorms from growing up in Minnesota, it’s that you don’t want to mess with them.

  Plus, I didn’t have the common sense to bring my cell phone.

  If the snowstorm catches up with us, we’re going to have to camp out in his plane. And while I’m sure there are lots of toys and goodies on Santa’s Sleigh, it is also partially on fire, and I prefer a few more amenities.

  “This way,” I tell him, guiding him toward my house.

  We begin moving as quickly as we can, toward the faint glow of my house in the distance. As we begin, we discover that his leg is injured, and he has a slight limp. He needs to keep an arm around my shoulders for support. I try to hold him up as best as I can, by pressing a hand against his chest, but he is a big guy, and it slows us down. As the snow begins to swirl around us, we are incentivized to pick up our pace until I am jogging slightly, and he is hopping along as fast as he can on his injured leg. I can hear him groaning in pain, and a pang of fear strikes my chest. I hope he’s going to be okay.

  The snowflakes become fluffier and denser.

  Plane-crash-dude wasn’t joking. The storm is picking up steam by the second. It’s becoming harder and harder to see through the onslaught of snowflakes. By the time we are a few feet away from my house, my kitchen lights are no longer visible through the window. Every story I’ve ever heard about someone getting lost in the snow forever runs through my mind as we stumble forward through the darkness of the blizzard.

  It’s pitch black now.

  When my hand co
nnects with the exterior of my house, I exhale in relief.

  I want to hug my house for existing, and for being good and staying here, exactly where I left it. Moving toward the front door, with the hand of the strange man on my shoulder, we enter the cabin and shut the door behind us. Some snow and wind swirls in anyway, nipping at our skin.

  The man laughs as he removes his coat and snow pants, revealing a slender, toned physique. “Take that, Alaska! I survived again.”

  Is that a designer suit? Who the heck wears a designer suit out here in the tundra? I guess it’s true when they say you never know what a man has underneath his snow pants. Although I don’t think they’re talking about his clothing. And does anyone actually say that?

  He is brushing the wrinkles out of his clothes, as he moves over to my favorite armchair. “I owe some major thanks to my guardian angel, here.”

  “I’m not an angel,” I assure him.

  “That’s right!” he responds, sitting down abruptly. “You’re my future wife.”

  “You can’t just decide that sort of thing for people,” I tell him, as I remove my boots and coat. Then, realizing I’m standing there only in a wet, white nightgown, I place my coat back on with a frown.

  “I am not deciding,” he says. “Fate has decided. Now that we’ve survived a blizzard together, a veritable bonding experience, we are sure to fall in love posthaste.”

  I roll my eyes so hard that they hurt. “Posthaste? Who says ‘posthaste?’”

  “I do,” he answers simply. “And I’m sure it’s going to rub off on you once we start spending more time together.”

  “Look, buddy. I think we really just need to call you an ambulance, and get you some help. Then you’ll be whisked away into the night, we’ll never see each other again.”

  “An ambulance can’t drive in this storm,” he points out. “Even if you called Medevac for an air ambulance, it would be dangerous for them to fly. We’re stuck out here until the blizzard passes, and we’ll have to perform our own basic first aid. I’m not badly injured, I promise. I’ve survived way worse.”