'Tis the Season to be Kissed
By Amy Andrews
4/5
()
About this ebook
Amy Andrews
Amy is a multi-award winning, USA Today bestselling author who has written over forty contemporary romances for several Harlequin imprints. She's an Aussie who loves good books, fab food, great wine and frequent travel - preferably all four together. She lives by the ocean with her husband of twenty-nine years. To keep up with her latest releases and giveaways, sign up for her newsletter at www.amyandrews.com.au/newsletter.html
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Reviews for 'Tis the Season to be Kissed
16 ratings2 reviews
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Such a fun and flirty read! Two people unexpectedly snowed in together in a cabin. Whatever will they do? Perfect quick read to help you relax during the holidays. Recommended!
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Adorable novella about two strangers that are stranded in a blizzard on New Year's Eve in a log cabin. During the course of the day, on New Year's Eve, they meet, bond and stage 10 mini dates (let's face it these are unusual circumstances). They do all this to set the stage for the "midnight kiss" that is to come. This story is not only entertaining but delightfully amusing. Glad I read it! Recommended to all over 18 years of age who know what loneliness feels like on New Year's Eve.
Book preview
'Tis the Season to be Kissed - Amy Andrews
Getting snowed in with a sexy soldier might mean fireworks this New Year’s Eve...
A down-on-her-romantic-luck kindergarten teacher plans to drown her New Year’s Eve sorrows in a gallon of spiked eggnog, but the arrival of her best friend’s sexy brother threatens to melt the snow piling up outside the tiny Vermont cabin.
‘Tis The Season To Be Kissed
Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Books By Amy Andrews...
’Tis the Season bundle
Taming the Tycoon
Seducing The Colonel’s Daughter
No More Mr. Nice Guy
Ask Me Nicely
Playing By Her Rules
Playing It Cool
Playing The Player
Playing With Forever
Playing House
Playing Dirty
Hanky-Spanky Christmas
Nothing But Trouble
Discover more category romance titles from Entangled Indulgence…
The Billionaire’s Christmas Baby
Secret Santa Baby
The Cinderella Seduction
’Tis the Season to Get Lucky
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by Amy Andrews. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
2614 South Timberline Road
Suite 109
Fort Collins, CO 80525
Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.
Indulgence is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
Edited by Heather Howland and Tahra Seplowin
Cover design by Liz Pelletier
Cover art from iStock by Getty
ISBN 978-1-62266-357-6
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition November 2012
Second Edition November 2013
To Heidi, Kate, and Aimee. Thanks so much for the fun times while we worked on this anthology. I am so proud and lucky to be part of this project with such incredibly talented and incredibly generous women.
Chapter One
Fifteen hours ’til midnight
Tamara was already three-quarters of the way through the pitcher of eggnog before she realized she was a little on the tipsy side.
At nine o’clock in the morning.
She sighed. She’d never been very good at holding her liquor. But at least the delicious, nutmeggy rum had managed to do what every piece of clothing she’d packed—plus the patchwork quilt off the bed—hadn’t. She was warm right down to her bones. Even if she did look like Kenny from South Park with the faux-fur lined hood of her parka pulled tight around her face.
Her head flopped over the arm of the couch as the alcohol buzz bathed her in its glow, a stark contrast to the winter wonderland outside. So what if she was drunk at breakfast? There was no one here to judge her and, besides, it must be five o’clock somewhere in the world.
Australia? It had to be well past five in Sydney. In fact, they’d probably already rung in the New Year by now. Did they have a ball that dropped somewhere? she wondered, and then smiled and shut her eyes as the room rocked from side to side.
Gradually Tamara became aware of scraping and then thudding at the door, like something—or someone—very big was stamping its boots. Her head snapped up, and her pulse took off at a gallop. Unfortunately, the room took a few seconds to catch up.
Who the hell could that be?
Georgia had told her the place was hers. It was written on the note. The one she’d attached to the pitcher of New Year’s eggnog she’d so thoughtfully whipped up before making the long drive to New York City early this morning during a break in the awful weather.
Something thumped against the door. Tamara leaped from the couch, quilt dropping to the floor. There’d been reports of looters around with all the unprecedented wild weather they’d been having along the Eastern Seaboard. Not in the deepest darkest corner of Vermont, sure, but maybe this looter had champagne tastes?
The door handle rattled. Her pulse spiked as she wildly scanned the room for some kind of weapon with vision that seemed to turn everything double. She spotted a bag of golf clubs by the door and scrambled over to them.
Something metallic scraped at the lock.
She froze. Was he picking it?
Didn’t they usually just throw something heavy through the window?
She whipped out the closest golf club, her breath loud in her ears as she stood behind the door and watched it slowly open. A blast of cold wind and a flurry of snow preceded the tall, hooded intruder. A surge of adrenaline shot into her system, mixing with the rum. The door slammed shut and she brought the putter down in the direction of the intruder’s head, yelling, Yaaaaaaa!
She wasn’t quite sure what happened next but there was a deep muffled curse, then somehow she was flat on her back, pinned to the floor by a hulking weight. Thankfully her parka and multiple layers of clothing cushioned the fall.
For a moment, neither of them moved or spoke and she noticed two things at once. This man—she had no doubt he was male—didn’t feel like some skinny, looting teenager. And he smelled like soap, pine needles, and the wild blue yonder. Looters didn’t smell like that, did they?
An errant part of her, possibly the part that hadn’t had a man on top of her for a very long time, or the part of her that was really feeling the effects of the rum, wanted to