Booked for Christmas

  Begin Reading

  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  Copyright Page

  Thank you for buying this

  St. Martin’s Press ebook.

  To receive special offers, bonus content,

  and info on new releases and other great reads,

  sign up for our newsletters.

  Or visit us online at

  us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup

  For email updates on the author, click here.

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

  1

  Hell hath no fury like a writer scorned by a book critic.

  But Sophie Bartholomew-Kaur-Hughes (pseudonym: Sophia Hart) wouldn’t waste another moment thinking about Evan Wolfe and his obnoxious, snarky, completely unfair review.

  Tipping her head back to catch a snowflake on her tongue, Sophie smiled at the beautiful winter’s night around her for a good long moment. And then, with a defeated sigh, she thought about Evan Wolfe’s obnoxious, snarky, completely unfair review.

  The one about her latest romance had gone live yesterday on his online newspaper column—The Lone Wolfe Review—and was already the most read article on The Sun’s website. The review was very catchily titled, “Hart Attack: Why Sophia Hart’s Dashing through the Snow Made Me Want to Die.”

  Jackass.

  She thought she got one over on him when she created the villain in her last book (the villain’s name was Kevin Wolfe, and similarities to any person living or dead was entirely coincidental). But Evan Wolfe had gleefully referred to that in his review as evidence that imitation was the greatest form of flattery. Dear Ms. Hart, he’d written in his column, I invite you to use my full, real name next time. Don’t be shy. He was completely incorrigible.

  Sophie’s fists clenched in the pockets of her winter coat. Stop it, Soph. Focus on the happy things.

  That’s right; she wasn’t going to squander a single thought more on Wolfe. Because tonight … tonight was one of her most favorite nights of the year. It was December 23rd, the night of her annual Christmas party.

  Standing at the base of her driveway, Sophie took a deep breath and looked up at her cozy little log cabin. To buy this place, she’d scraped together funds from advances and royalties, an inheritance her grandma had left her, and profits from her now-defunct side hustle making tarot cards from recycled wine labels. She’d never regretted spending money on any one of the five luscious acres that made up this place. Unlike her apartment in Portland, here in Starlit Grove, she could look outside and see no one at all. Just miles and miles of trees and open sky.

  Sophie had gone all out for the party, naturally (her childhood nickname wasn’t Little Elf for nothing), and in the indigo dark of early evening, she had to admit to being pretty damn happy with her efforts.

  Twinkling white lights were wrapped around the posts and beams of her porch and icicle lights hung from the eaves of the slanting roof. She’d wrapped a lit garland around the entrance frame, and her door had an enormous light-studded, music-playing wreath on it that winked on and off in time to an instrumental version of “Jingle Bells.” Mini potted pines flanked the two steps up, and these, too, were draped with twinkling lights. As if she were in a Hallmark movie, crystal flakes of pure white snow drifted gently from the inky sky above, landing delicately on her nose and the roof of the cabin. Faint strains of her pop holiday music playlist floated down to her from inside the cabin, infusing everything with just a touch of Christmas magic.

  Sophie crossed her fingers at her sides, feeling that tiny flurry of nerves she always felt before any social event. “Hey, universe. If this is going to be the best Christmas party yet, please give me a sign.”

  On cue, a mournful howling sounded from the forest behind her, echoing through the still, crystal clear night. Wolves were extremely rare in this part of Oregon; it was likely a dog or a coyote. But that didn’t matter to Sophie. She had her sign.

  Feeling sparkles of anticipation as the wind picked up and dusted her dark, wavy hair with more snow, Sophie adjusted the slim glitter belt around her waist (the finishing touch to her outfit: cream sweater dress with bell sleeves and brown knee-high boots with a four-inch heel). Then she walked back into the comforting, warm cocoon of her winter cabin to wait for her friends.

  * * *

  Marco, Jonah, and Peyton were the first to arrive. They got there thirty minutes before the party began, just like they did every year. They’d all been best friends since college, and Peyton had been the first person she’d told about her very first book deal junior year. That phone call from her literary agent telling her she’d sold her book was still one of the top three moments of Sophie’s life.

  Her friends flung the door open—they didn’t need to knock, and they knew her well enough to know she didn’t lock the door when she was expecting company—and then Jonah announced, “Like the three wise men, we have arrived bearing the most important gifts of the evening.” Dapper as ever in a button-down shirt, reindeer-print bow tie, and suspenders that held his silk pants up, he looked at Sophie. “Booze, more booze, and sugar.”

  Marco laughed and walked forward to kiss Sophie’s cheek. He was dressed more sedately in jeans and a burgundy sweater that set off his dark complexion and locs. “Let me translate. We brought three different kinds of wine and sangria, two bottles of port, and a half dozen different kinds of eclairs, cookies, macaroons, and liquor chocolates.” He quirked a thick eyebrow and shot a reproachful look at Peyton, who was unwinding her gold ankh print scarf and hanging it up. “I was not responsible for this overabundance.”

  “Hey!” Peyton rushed forward to wrap Sophie in a hug while simultaneously looking offended and holding onto a box of cookies. It was an art form. Her snake bracelet pressed into Sophie’s back. “I just didn’t want people to be hungry! Or thirsty! Or sober! Also, look!”

  She opened the box she was holding. Nestled inside were a dozen sugar cookies with Sophie’s latest book’s cover printed on them.

  Touched, Sophie gathered Peyton into a hug. “Oh my gosh, that’s so sweet. Thank you, P.”

  “You can thank me by making sure we eat and drink every single morsel I brought, or Marco will never let me live this down,” Peyton whispered into her ear.

  Laughing, Sophie squeezed Peyton once and then let go. Her best friend smelled like car freshener and mint gum and, as usual, was dressed in black: Tonight, she wore a glittery black oversize sweater tunic that amplified her pale, almost translucent skin.

  “What the hell is that?” Peyton said, clearly looking at something over Sophie’s shoulder.

  Letting go of her friend, Sophie turned to see the cause of Peyton’s agitation: her Christmas tree. Smiling fondly, Sophie walked over to the little thing, patting its bare top. “Oh, this is Bert.”

  Jonah raised an eyebrow. “Explain.”

  Marco frowned in the general direction of her tree. “I second that.”

  “Nobody was picking him in the lot, you guys,” Sophie protested.

  “Yeah.” Peyton looked at her like she had told them she was choosing celibacy for life. “That’s because that thing’s almost dead.”

  “Shh,” Sophie said. “Plants can sense your energy, you know.”

  Jonah snorted and threaded his arm through Sophie’s. “Okay, that’s enough of … Bert, was it? Yeah. We need to go see what the food and booze situation is in the kitchen, stat.”

  Sophie laughed a
nd let herself be led away. “Okay. But you guys didn’t need to bring anything. I told you I had it covered.”

  They set the booze and desserts her trio of friends had brought in the kitchen. Sophie began to lay out crudités and other hors d’oeuvres on vintage, Christmas-themed platters she’d inherited from her grandmother.

  Jonah popped a stuffed portobello mushroom into his mouth, chewed in record time, and swallowed before saying, “So. Have you gotten laid yet, Soph?”

  Sophie coughed, even though she hadn’t eaten anything. “Excuse me?”

  Peyton and Marco were helping themselves to the food and drinks, but had avid, entertained looks on their faces.

  Jonah peeked into the slow-cooker, where the meatballs were almost finished simmering. “Mm. This smells amazing.” Then, looking at her, he added, “You know. Your dry spell. Have you broken it yet?”

  Sophie cupped the back of her neck with a hand. “I don’t know if I want to talk about this before the party.” Walking over to the booze corner, she poured herself a healthy glass of sangria and took a sip, feeling the warmth of the drink traveling through her bloodstream. “Okay. Maybe I do.”

  Jonah grabbed another portobello mushroom and hopped onto the kitchen counter next to her. “Excellent.”

  Sophie gazed into her glass as Peyton and Marco sat at the kitchen table. “It hasn’t been … great. So, no, I haven’t broken the dry spell.”

  Peyton let out a sad breath. “Damn. I was hoping you’d seal the deal with that electrician who came out to fix your heater.” She paused. “I have a full moon spell for that, if you want.”

  Sophie frowned. “No, thanks. He’s, like, sixty. And I’m pretty sure he’s married.”

  Peyton raised an eyebrow and took a gulp of her merlot. “Oh. I thought he was young and hot, for some reason.”

  “You’re probably thinking of Luuk, the hot plumber in Dashing through the Snow.” Peyton was one of her early readers and biggest fans and frequently got real life confused for the fictional one she was currently lost in. Which was why she made an excellent book editor (but not Sophie’s editor; they’d made the decision a long time ago to keep work and friendship separate). “Alas, it doesn’t usually work that way in real life.” She paused, wondering if she should talk about this next thing. She’d worked so hard over the last forty-eight hours to put it out of her head. But chances were, her friends had already seen it. “Speaking of Dashing through the Snow, though … Did you guys see Wolfe’s latest?”

  Marco made a face that was part thunder, part disdain. “You mean that smear campaign he calls the book review section of The Sun? Yeah, I caught it. And I left him a comment telling him what I thought, too.”

  “Marco, you don’t have to do that.” Sophie sighed. “You know you’re not going to change his mind.”

  “Yeah, but at least he can’t pretend to be oblivious in that echo chamber of his. If we all leave dissenting comments telling him why he’s a total shit, he can’t pretend everyone feels the same way as him.”

  Peyton took an aggressive sip of her wine. “I left an anonymous comment about his reviewing skills being as shady as his aura.”

  Jonah leaned over and squeezed Sophie’s shoulders. “I love ya, Soph. You didn’t let that review send you into a sad spiral that day, did you? I wanted to text you, but I didn’t want to draw attention to it in case you hadn’t seen it yet.”

  “Same,” Marco and Peyton said together.

  Her sweet, sweet, innocent friends. They didn’t know she had a scrapbook full of Wolfe’s reviews dating back four years. Or that she meticulously printed his reviews out and added it to the scrapbook every time he obliterated one of her books. Because the truth was, while Wolfe’s scathing criticism of her work infuriated her, she also grudgingly enjoyed reading his reviews: their clever turns of phrase, their sarcastic witticisms. If she wasn’t so mad at him, she’d kind of admire Wolfe’s skill with the pen.

  No, her poor friends didn’t know the depths of her sick obsession.

  “Did I let the fact that he described my Christmas romance as a ‘Jingle Hell for book critics’ send me into a sad spiral? No, absolutely not.” She paused, swirling her drink. “No more than ‘Dashing through the Snow will appeal to readers who have the good fortune of being sedated for surgery’ did, anyway.” She silenced their chorus of indignant shouting with a hand and smiled. “You guys are the best. And no, I think I’m doing pretty well with it, actually. I was able to put it out of my head to focus on the current book. And this party, of course.” Smiling, she gestured around the small cabin. “I love it here. I wish I could live here all the time.”

  “No, you don’t,” Jonah said immediately. He was petrified Sophie would do exactly that; he’d verbalized this fear dozens of times over the past three years. “Because then you wouldn’t have access to Powell’s and ¿Por Qué No? Tacqueria and all the queer bars.”

  Sophie laughed. Jonah, a transman, was well-integrated into Portland’s queer community. “I don’t think the last one applies to me, but point taken.”

  “Plus, if you moved here, you’d be ninety minutes away from all of us in Portland.” Marco made a sad face. He was strikingly handsome—and sweet and smart to boot. In her weaker moments, Sophie thought it was a total shame they’d been friends for way too long for it to be anything more than that.

  She turned off the slow-cooker. “That’s true.”

  “Not to belabor the point,” Jonah said, pouring himself a glass of port. “But I do have this one advertising manager at work who might be perfect for you.” Jonah was in a very loving relationship with a doctor named Megan (who was currently working a night shift at the OHSU ER). They were celebrating their one-year anniversary soon, and since he was so happy, he wanted everyone else to be, too. His matchmaking was legendary in Portland dating circles.

  “I don’t know, Jonah,” Sophie said, chewing on her lip. “I mean, I appreciate it.” She reached out and squeezed his elbow. “But, like, I don’t know if I’m ready to take the plunge again.”

  Peyton raised a skeptical eyebrow. “But you’re always going on about soulmates and finding your person.”

  Damn. This was the problem with blurting out every last thought to your friends. They actually held you to them. “Well, yeah…” Sophie took a moment to look out the kitchen window into the darkness beyond while she formulated her thoughts. The glowing Christmas lights from the interior of the cabin reflected in the glass, bringing a warmth to her heart. “I don’t know how to explain it. More than anything, I want to find my soulmate. I want to be happy and in love with someone I can trust, someone who’s exactly right for me. But with my track record, I just need … I need a sign from the universe that I’m on the right path before I dive in with my heart on my sleeve again. You know?”

  Marco nodded. “Sure,” he said, gently. “That makes a lot of sense.”

  Peyton grinned evilly at Sophie just as the doorbell rang. “Well, you could just have sex and forget about the soulmate part. Can confirm: It’s a lot of fun.”

  Sophie laughed and set her sangria down as she walked to the door. “I don’t know if that would work for me as well as it works for you, Peyton.”

  Pulling the front door open, she made sure to have her hostess smile on, bright and shiny. But it fell off her face the moment she saw who stood on the other side.

  2

  He may not be raising his trademark skeptical eyebrow or holding a book he could desecrate in his column, but the man in front of her was unmistakably the cruel-hearted, agony-causing Disney villain of her nightmares.

  “Evan Wolfe?” Sophie said at the same time as he said, “Sophia Hart?”

  They regarded each other in open-mouthed silence for three full seconds. Wolfe was dressed in a long black peacoat with a tan plaid scarf wrapped once around his pale throat (sadly, not as tightly as Sophie would’ve liked). He was younger than he looked in the picture by his book review column, probably not much older than her twen
ty-five years. He was taller than she’d expected, too, and much more in shape. Did he spend all his spare time bench-pressing his books or what? Curly dark hair fell forward onto his forehead in an unruly burst, and he held a glittering purple present in his big hands.

  Sophie blinked. “Why are you here?”

  They’d asked the question at the same time with the same slightly horrified inflection. Sophie frowned—asking her why she was at her own cabin was pretty ballsy, even for Wolfe.

  He stepped back and looked at the number on the front of the cabin. “Is this 125 Wildberry?” he asked, though he could plainly see he had it right.

  “Ye-es…” Sophie refused to move from her spot, even though she was rudely barricading the interior of the cabin. Her mother would balk at the supremely ungracious way she was treating her visitor, who was currently standing outside in twenty-degree weather. But it was Wolfe. His heart was made of ice; surely a little bit of winter weather wouldn’t bother him. “I’ll ask again—why are you here? I’m here because this is my cabin.”

  He leaned against the doorjamb and gave her a hint of a smile. “Really? So this is where Sophia Hart hides out.” His eyes held hers. “Intriguing.”

  Sophie scowled. Intriguing? Was he making fun of her little cabin? “Shouldn’t you be in Portland with a stack of books you can set fire to and then dance on the ashes of?”

  He smirked and stood up straight. “Oh. So you saw my latest review.”

  “Saw it, read it, discarded it.” He looked a little taken aback at her brusque tone, but before he could say anything else, Sophie continued on. “Did you come to my home to make sure I hadn’t missed it?”

  “No … I’m Will’s plus-one. I didn’t have any plans tonight, so he convinced me to go. Said there’d be bookish people here.” When she didn’t respond, he added, “William Cartwright, the picture book illustrator—”

  “Yeah, I know who Will is. I invited him.” She frowned and shook her head. “But—I mean, why would you want to come to my party?”