
Snowed In and Snuggled Up Holiday Novella Collection
Calisa Fox, Erin Quinn, Mary Leo
Publication date: October 29th 2015
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance
Curl up with the Snowed In and Snuggled Up Holiday Novella Collection from New York Times bestselling author Erin Quinn, award-winning and Amazon bestselling author Calista Fox, and USA Today bestselling author Mary Leo.
Book One: A Little Bit of Sugar by Erin QuinnBook Two: A Dash of Spice by Calisa Fox
Book Three: And Everything Nice by Mary Leo
A Little Bit of Sugar by Erin Quinn
For JT Winchester, Plymouth Rock, Colorado has always represented a cage he couldn’t wait to escape – and he jumped at the chance to do just that. Yet he’s never forgotten the girl next door who’d captured his heart as a young man.Madison Lane may be the girl next door, but she lives her life the way she wants. Yet something is missing, and no amount of pretending it’s anything other than JT Winchester has ever worked. Now, JT is back in town for Thanksgiving and Madison is reunited with the man who once set her heart and body aflame.
They’ve both changed, but one thing has stayed the same—they can’t resist one another. Once JT and Madison are snowed in together, the magic of Plymouth Rock could change their lives.
Excerpt
Erin Quinn
JT’s dark lashes lifted and those blue jean eyes met hers. Slowly,
intimately, they scanned Madison’s face, lingering on the point of
her nose, the line of her lips, down to the hollow of her throat then
back up, sweeping across her dark hair with such care she could
almost feel the caress.
“You did a fine job growing up, Madison Lane,” he said softly.
“You didn’t make too much a mess of it either, JT.”
Was that her voice, sounding so low . . . so inviting?
“Yeah?” he asked, brows lifted in mock surprise.
He knew just how attractive he was. He had to know.
She cleared her throat and looked away. They were flirting and she
had definitely put flirting on her list of Things Not To Do with JT
Winchester.
“So are you going to stay up here at the cabin or with your mom
while you’re in town?” she asked.
Still in that voice. Still not saying what she’d come to say.
He slid his gaze from her face to the window and considered the
question. “Haven’t decided, yet.”
“Why not?”
“Too many emotions there. Too many memories here.” He shrugged.
“Not sure which is going to be easier to handle.”
“And easier is what it’s all about, right?”
His brows lowered and his blue eyes took on a sharp glint. “What’s
that supposed to mean?”
“Come on. You never were one for messy old emotions. Better to
avoid them than to deal with them.”
She had not meant to say that. Nowhere in her prepared
lecture had she gotten so personal.
He stared at her. Probably speechless. Who could blame him? The
pumpkin bread moron had just taken a bite out of him. Well, the
damage was done. She might as well keep going. It was now or never
and she’d been living with never for the last eleven years.
She took now.
“You’ve been away for a long time.”
“That I have.”
“A lot has changed,” she said.
“A lot has stayed the same, too,” he rallied.
“Maybe to someone looking in from the outside. But I’m not the
same, JT.”
He cocked his head and something flashed in his eyes. She couldn't
guess what it was, but now he was completely focused on her.
“I know it probably seems that way to you. All of us who still live
here must appear frozen in time or something.”
“Not so much,” he murmured.
“But just because we didn’t move away, doesn’t mean we stood
still. And if you’re under some mistaken impression that I’ve
been waiting around . . . .”
Dawning comprehension filled his face.
“Because I was going to ask you out today? Is that what this is
about?”
“Were you? I mean, I guessed that Cody interrupted something along
those lines.”
“Yes,” he said solemnly. “I was. So you came all the way up
here to tell me no?”
“More or less.”
“That seems a little extreme.”
It did, but wasn’t that Madison’s MO? Go big or go home? You’d
have thought she’d learned her lesson by now.
But in her head, this conversation had gone a different way entirely.
In her head, JT had been contrite, remorseful and desperate to make
amends.
Not challenging. Not arrogant and sexy and flirty and so damned good
looking she could hardly think.
She glanced at the door. It seemed so far away. Flushing, she stood
her ground.
“I have no desire to pick up where we left off, if that’s what
you’re thinking. I know you’re some big deal now, but I’m just
not interested.”
His brows went up again, and a grin tugged at his lips. Madison
narrowed her eyes. That grin had the power to seduce a girl right out
of her senses. It had worked on her many times in the past. In.
The. Past. Not anymore.
“I’m a big deal now?” JT said.
She waved a hand in the air. He knew what he was.
A Dash of Spice by Calista Fox
After a lifetime of preparing to be the next NHL great, Scout is returning early to Plymouth Rock, Colorado as a hometown hero. Now an ex-athlete, Scout has broken family fences to mend, job offers to consider…and a raven-haired beauty from his past who deserves the ultimate decision from him.Ciara has learned how to make the best of every disastrous situation, but deep down, there are past pains she hides from everyone… except for Scout. When they’re suddenly reunited for the Thanksgiving holiday and are snowed in at Win Creek Cabin, Ciara realizes the time has come to stop running. To stop hiding. To snuggle up with the only man she’s ever loved and face her demons while he faces his—and hope they both come out unscathed.
Excerpt:
Chapter
One
“Bet’s
to you, boy.”
William
Woodrow Winchester—“Scout” to anyone who didn’t want to be
laid out flat on his back—studied the cards in his hand. Not
exactly a winning combination, but then again, his entire existence
had been predicated on “not exactly a winning combination.”
More
so these days.
He
fingered a stack of heavy poker chips. Then flicked a few off with
his thumb. Meeting the current ante of a hundred. Upping it to three.
His
gaze drifted around the table as he gauged the other men’s reaction
to his bold move.
One
snorted. Met the raise.
One
snickered. Folded his hand.
One
raised an eyebrow. Hedged. Drew out the suspense with a head shake. A
head nod. Another shake. Then he dropped his cards on the table with
a disgruntled sigh.
Scout
would have given a cocky grin, but there was a final player to
consider.
Vaux
Forsythe.
That
old weasel went and upped the pot another two hundred bucks.
Scout
chuckled. He wasn’t exactly surprised.
His
gaze dipped to the five cards he held.
This
was no-draw poker. Nothing wild. Nothing squirrely or girly, as his
Grandpa Win would say.
A
game of no
guts—no glory,
as Vaux would tell anyone who dared to accept a coveted invitation to
plop his butt in a chair at this particular table. Where men were
definitely…men.
The
hand you were dealt was the hand you played. That was how they rolled
in Plymouth Rock, Colorado.
Scout
had learned at an early age how to read his opponents—one of the
cornucopia of invaluable lessons his grandfather, the late, great
Jefferson Tate Winchester, had taught him. Along with how to assess
risk factors and leverage your strengths. How to bluff to high heaven
and never, ever give away any signs of weakness. During a poker game,
a hockey game…or in the game of life, in general.
Scout
collapsed his fanned-out cards and set them face down on the green
felt-covered table. Sifted a few more chips through his fingers. Gave
a half-assed grin. Then casually mused, “What the fuck?”
He
pushed his remaining pile of twelve-hundred and fifty into the center
of the table.
Four
pairs of eyes popped.
Scout
said, “I’m all-in. Who wants to set sail for wild adventures on
the Mayflower?
And who wants to stay safe and sound in merry old England?” It was
a few days before Thanksgiving, after all. His festive side was
coming out.
Max
Littleton—the town’s butcher—who’d been holding, instantly
folded. “Long live the queen,” he grumbled.
Yeah,
Scout had heard that one before.
And
that left just one to stand with the cheese.
“You
crazy son of a bitch,” Vaux said to Scout with a glint of
admiration in his eyes.
Forsythe
was an interesting codger, to be sure. One of the wealthiest men in
Colorado—not a detail you could miss because he wore flashy diamond
rings on all eight fingers and one thumb, since the other was missing
at the knuckle. The result of what Vaux himself called a “minor
disagreement” over a lady friend years ago who’d actually
(mistakenly) been someone else’s
lady friend.
Vaux
was an easy-going sort who’d spread his thin lips wide to reveal a
shiny gold crown on either side of his two front teeth. He had a
shock of white hair on his head, alert ice-blue eyes, and a ticker
that just kept on…ticking. He drove around the poststamp-sized town
of Plymouth Rock in a restored 1930s Rolls Royce. Eccentric all the
way. The very reason Scout wouldn’t mind or feel guilty about
taking in a haul from him this evening.
If
the cards and his mad-bluffing skills worked in his favor…
Vaux
had been a good friend of Scout’s grandpa and a strong paternal
presence in Scout’s life, but that never factored into the
competition when he and Vaux were head-to-head at poker.
“I’ll
see your bet,” the elder man announced as he matched the pot—with
another stack of chips to spare, he’d been doing that well all
night. “And I call.”
The
drinkers and the dancers at Waylon’s Watering Hole stopped what
they were doing, taking interest in the current showdown. And the
fact that it was Scout in the hot seat. It’d been a few years since
he’d returned to his hometown, and this was the first stop he’d
made.
He’d
had a different one in mind, initially. Tilda St. James’ Colonial
on the outskirts of town. A house that did not belong in this
elegantly rustic, mountain community. But she’d been a Boston
descendant and had brought her preferred architectural housing to the
tree-lined edges of Plymouth Rock. Along with a small collection of
other Bostonians who’d latched onto the namesake and had
established the Pilgrim Society in homage. Six ladies who now crested
seventy-years old and maintained their annual tradition of reenacting
the landing in Plymouth, Massachusetts in 1620 and the first-ever
Thanksgiving feast.
Which
made Scout think of Ciara St. James.
Tilda’s
granddaughter and an honorary member of the society.
Not
that he needed any excuse such as Thanksgiving to think of Ciara. No,
thoughts of that woman paraded through his brain on a regular basis.
It’d just been three years since he’d last seen her, so maybe he
was even more inclined to let wicked little fantasies of the feisty
woman infiltrate his otherwise good senses.
“You
playing or praying?” Vaux chided, interrupting Scout’s wayward
thoughts. “I’d like to collect my bounty and buy some of these
lovely ladies a drink.” That was Vaux. Ever the flirt. Even after
his past altercation.
Scout’s
gaze drifted around the spellbound crowd gathered this Saturday
night. Waylon’s had a curious appeal. Sure, this being Colorado,
there were big-game heads mounted on the walls trimmed with river
rock up to waist height. The dance floor was scuffed. The “stage”
was only large enough to accommodate the three-person band that
performed there several times a week. But the actual bar was one
amazingly master-crafted work of polished wooden art that Waylon
Canton, Jr. himself had built—or, rather, sculpted—when
he’d taken over ownership two decades ago, after his father had
passed. It was a long, wide bar with intricately scrolled detail,
panels at the base and a shiny copper top. The wall behind was lined
with mirrors, glass shelves and rich mahogany that matched the bar.
This
might be a “watering hole,” but Waylon preferred a touch of class
and top-notch whisky. Perhaps because his ancestors hailed from the
glitzier ski town of Aspen.
Scout
liked the feel of the place. A little bit old-school, similar to some
of the taverns in Durango before the surge of tourism had
commercialized its Main Avenue. An older crowd hung here. The poker
players and the bullshitters who loved to spin yarns about the “good
ole days in the wild, wild west”—and every colorful character in
between. It’d been one of his grandfather’s favorite haunts, and
to Scout, it’d always felt like a comfortable place where he
belonged. Even before Waylon had poured him his first “official”
beer when Scout had turned of legal age eight years ago.
He
felt a peculiar puff of air on his nape and grinned. Perhaps Grandpa
Win was with Scout in spirit this evening.
He
sure as hell hoped so. Because he held jack in his hand.
Literally.
He
flipped the first one over, a smoothie.
Eyed
Vaux, who neither flinched, nor gave away a goddamn thing. Scout’s
pulse hitched a notch. The very reason he played—for the sheer
exhilaration.
He
tossed over his second jack, a grower.
One
corner of his mouth lifted as his gaze remained locked with his
opponent’s.
Vaux
didn’t appear the least bit fazed. Scout’s heart beat faster. He
loved the adrenaline rush.
Vaux
said, “That’s all you’ve got, boy?”
“It’s
all I need,” he challenged, though even Scout knew that a pair
would rarely get you far at this table. Still, he taunted, “Isn’t
it?”
With
a shake of his head, the older gentleman told him, “I suppose you
being a bigtime hockey player and all, you find it acceptable to just
throw away your hard-earned money. Taken a few too many blows to the
head with a high stick?”
Scout
chuckled, despite Vaux’s words unwittingly hitting a little too
close to home. Though it wasn’t high-sticking that had recently
ended his career. No, that came courtesy of the six-point elk his
rental had plowed into outside of Edmonton, Canada.
But
Scout’s private hell was precisely that. Private.
He
said, “I don’t think you’ve got what it takes to beat me.”
“You
always were an arrogant cuss.” Vaux flashed his gold teeth. “That’s
why I like you so damn much. But I’ve got a bullet in my hand.”
He flicked the ace of spades onto the table. “I’ve got a matching
king to go with it.” This card he carefully laid out next to the
first. “And he’s got a pretty little wife I like to call
Queenie.” Another meticulous reveal—and a spade.
Scout’s
stomach plummeted. Christ, his smoothie was a club and his jack with
a ‘stache was a heart. And he didn’t know what the other players
had been holding. Vaux’s hand was shaping up to be mightier than
the royal bull that had crumpled Scout’s rented SUV even before
it’d tumbled a half-dozen times down a snowy embankment. With Scout
inside.
Vaux
continued. “Bet you’re kicking yourself in the ass right now for
pressing your luck, because I’ve got a card you needed. Not that it
would have done you any better.” He tossed the jack of spades on
the table.
There
was a collective gasp and everyone gathered about leaned in closer,
tried to look around one another, get a better view of the action.
Which could turn out to be an historical moment.
“You
always did have a flair for the dramatic,” Scout said with a
snicker, trying to appear cool. Meanwhile, his pulse raced.
The
problem with that flair
was that Vaux was a man who knew how to back it up.
“Hope
you’ve already bought your plane ticket back to wherever you came
from, kid. Don’t think you’re gonna be able to afford much more
than bus fare home after this.”
Scout
bit his lower lip. Stared up at the ceiling fans with their warm,
golden globes. Then swore under his breath.
The
surplus store owner, Mike Thompson, who’d been the first to fold,
slapped Scout on the back and said, “This is what comes from
adventures on the high seas. Might hit a winter squall, or land
safely. Total crapshoot. You’re obviously caught in the squall.”
Scout
shot him a droll look. “There’s still land in sight, my friend.”
Though even if, miracles of miracles, Vaux hadn’t drawn a royal
flush, all it’d take was for him to throw down another jack—his
high cards would be the kicker over Scout’s lows. But Scout wasn’t
one to give up the ghost so quickly. And simply said, “Have some
faith.”
Mike
let out a hearty laugh. “Misguided though your optimism might be in
this case, it’s damn good to see the Winchester spunk lives on in
the grandsons.”
There
was no need for Mike or anyone else to mention Grandpa Win’s actual
son, Jeff. This crowd was more about jesting and goading than tearing
one down. If you didn’t have something nice to say and all that…
An adage that applied to the man who’d provided the sperm for
Scout, his older brother Jefferson Tate, III—who went strictly by
“JT”—and his younger bro Hamilton. That was pretty much all
Scout himself had to say on the particular subject of his deadbeat
dad.
To
Vaux, he said, “Well, get on with it already. If you plan to clean
me out, I’ll need to hit an ATM before they roll up the sidewalks
and the whole damn community shuts down for the night.”
“I’d
be more than happy to provide a personal loan,” Vaux offered. “I’ll
even forego the compounded interest because you’re such a bigshot.”
“I
don’t need a loan,” Scout informed him. “Or your charity, thank
you very much.” His gaze narrowed. “You really think I’ve blown
through all of my endorsement money?”
Scout
wasn’t like his father, after all. No, Scout had some sense in his
head and plenty of cents in his bank accounts.
“Well,
the way you play poker, son,” Vaux contended, “makes me a little
worried about your financial stability.”
Gut
instinct kicked in. That and the fact that Scout knew Vaux well. He
grinned again. The really cocky one. “You’re stalling, old man.
You don’t have a pot to piss in with that hand, do you?”
Vaux
smirked. “Granted, I did intend to scare you off from the get-go.
Then I figured I could beat you with the ace, king-high. Since all
these other turkeys ran for the hills like I had a Flintlock Musket
in my hand.”
Artie
Hopper, the fifth at the table and also the owner of Artie’s
Groceries, glowered. “Folding when you’ve only got one ace isn’t
unwise, Forsythe. Even when it is king-high.”
Vaux
said, “Doesn’t mean I’m not holding another beaut to beat two
jacks. But, for the record, you all ought to know by now that if I
actually was holding a royal flush, I would’ve had Waylon alert the
press.”
That
would pretty much consist of Blake “Ace” Cranston
hightailing it to the bar with his steno pad and
sharpened-to-a-deadly-point No. 2 pencil poised and ready, his 1970’s
Nikon single lens reflex camera strapped around his neck. Ace
still used a darkroom to develop his own film and every black and
white picture that went into the Plymouth Rock Cranston’s
Corner
weekly newsletter, no Hewlett-Packard printer or scanner involved.
Hell, he waxed the back of his articles and photos and laid them out
on a light table. Ran the template through a printing press.
He
was a true artist.
“So
Scout called it accurately,” Max declared. “You’ve got bupkis.”
That
wasn’t necessarily true and everyone—most especially Scout—knew
it. There was still the chance for Vaux to blow Scout’s ship out of
the water with a second face card.
“Come
on now, old timer,” Scout prompted. “Keeping me in suspense is
just plain bad form. You’ve got squat, right?”
“Of
the highest order,” Vaux chortled. And tossed out his last card. It
spun midair. Scout’s breath caught.
The
card hit the table.
Nine
of hearts.
No
royal flush.
No
flush at all.
No
straight.
Not
even a pair.
Bupkis.
Fuck,
yes!
A
sharp stream of air blew through Scout’s parted lips as he stared
at the card. “Son of a gun. That was damn, damn
close.”
His
stomach returned to its proper place. His pulse stopped echoing in
his ears.
Vaux
gave him a grin full of respect. “You’ve got balls, boy. I like
that. You did your gramps proud. I’m not even gonna bust your chops
over the loot you’re stealing from under my nose.”
“From
under your nose, my ass,” Scout scoffed as he raked the chips his
way. “I played that hand with Winchester style and steel resolve.”
“Precisely
what I’d expect from this generation of Wins. Now, cash-in and then
go collect your real prize. There’s one hell of a looker over at
the jukebox who, as far as I can tell, only has eyes for you. Can’t
for the life of me figure out why, though…”
Scout’s
head popped up from his winnings. And his gaze instantly landed on
five-foot-eight-inches of hotness the likes of which he’d never
known.
A
raven-haired beauty in black leather pants and boots, wearing a
tight, slightly shimmery snakeskin-print sweater in sapphire and
black, with a silver zipper that ended just below plumped up breasts,
and a low neckline trimmed with black fur.
Her
tawny irises flashed with excitement and a hint of mischief. Sending
all the blood straight to his groin.
Amendment:
This actually was hotness he was well-versed in.
A
living, breathing fantasy.
Known
as Ciara St. James.
And Everything Nice by Mary Leo
All Hamilton Winchester ever wanted was Gaby Venti, but Gaby Venti never wanted to be tied down to any man . . . especially a man from Plymouth Rock, Colorado, the hometown she left behind. But when she finds herself snowed in by a force of nature, she quickly learns that Hamilton Winchester isn’t just ‘any man,’ and Plymouth Rock means more to her than simply the ‘town she left behind.’
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Buy links:
Amazon:
A Little Bit of Sugar (Book 1) by Erin Quinn
A Dash of Spice (Book 2) by Calista Fox
And Everything Nice (Book 3) by Mary Leo
A Little Bit of Sugar (Book 1) by Erin Quinn
A Dash of Spice (Book 2) by Calista Fox
And Everything Nice (Book 3) by Mary Leo
Kobo:
A Little Bit of Sugar (Book 1) by Erin Quinn
A Dash of Spice (Book 2) by Calista Fox
And Everything Nice (Book 3) by Mary Leo
A Little Bit of Sugar (Book 1) by Erin Quinn
A Dash of Spice (Book 2) by Calista Fox
And Everything Nice (Book 3) by Mary Leo
iBooks:
A Little Bit of Sugar (Book 1) by Erin Quinn
A Dash of Spice (Book 2) by Calista Fox
And Everything Nice (Book 3) by Mary Leo
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A Little Bit of Sugar (Book 1) by Erin Quinn
A Dash of Spice (Book 2) by Calista Fox
And Everything Nice (Book 3) by Mary Leo
Author Bio:
USA Today bestselling author Mary Leo writes contemporary romance, whimsical romance, romantic suspense, and mystery. She loves to travel for research while she’s writing a book, or for that matter, even when she’s not writing a book . . . which always leads to yet another book. Go to www.maryleo.com for more information or follow Mary on Facebook
Calista is a former PR professional, now writing fast-paced, steamy books to set your pulse racing! Her publishing houses include St. Martin’s Press, Grand Central Publishing and Harlequin.
Visit her at: Website, Facebook, and Twitter
NYT and USA Today Bestselling author Erin Quinn writes dark paranormal romance for the thinking reader and fun, rompy contemporary romance for the woman who likes to have fun. Her books have been called “riveting,” “brilliantly plotted” and “beautifully written” and have won, placed or showed in numerous awards. Go to Click for more information.
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