Praise for Shirley Jump…
About NYT bestselling anthology Sugar and Spice: ‘Jump’s office romance gives the collection a kick, with fiery writing.’ —PublishersWeekly.com
‘Shirley Jump always succeeds in getting the plot,
the characters, the settings and the emotions right.’
—CataRomance.com
‘Shirley Jump begins The Wedding Planners with SWEETHEART LOST AND FOUND. It’s smart, funny, and quite moving at times, and the characters have a lot of depth.’ —Romantic Times BOOKreviews
His blue gaze met hers, direct and powerful. “How long has it been?”
“Has it been for what?”
“Since you’ve been out on a date?”
Sam took such a deep sip of water she nearly drowned. “I could ask you the same thing.”
“My answer’s easy. A week.”
“Oh.” She put the glass down. “I thought you said you didn’t have that much free time.”
“I was exaggerating. I’m a writer.” That grin again. “Given to hyperbole and all that.”
Was he…flirting with her? Was that why everything within her seemed touched with fever? Why her stomach couldn’t stop flip-flopping? Why she alternately wanted to run—and to stay?
It was simply because he was right. She hadn’t been out on a date in forever. She wasn’t used to this kind of head-on attention from a man. Especially a man as good at the head-on thing as he was.
“So which would you rather?” Flynn asked. “A date? Or an interview?”
The interview, her mind urged. Say interview. The business. The bakery needed the increase in revenue. Her personal life could wait, just as it always had. The business came first.
“A date.”
New York Times bestselling author Shirley Jump didn’t have the will-power to diet, nor the talent to master under-eye concealer, so she bowed out of a career in television and opted instead for a career where she could be paid to eat at her desk—writing. At first, seeking revenge on her children for their grocery store tantrums, she sold embarrassing essays about them to anthologies. However, it wasn’t enough to feed her growing addiction to writing funny. So she turned to the world of romance novels, where messes are (usually) cleaned up before The End. In the worlds Shirley gets to create and control, the children listen to their parents, the husbands always remember holidays, and the housework is magically done by elves. Though she’s thrilled to see her books in stores around the world, Shirley mostly writes because it gives her an excuse to avoid cleaning the toilets and helps feed her shoe habit. To learn more, visit her website at www.shirleyjump.com
Dear Reader
Christmas. Is there a more magical time of year? To me, it’s the season of miracles. Of possibilities. In the Midwest, where I live, the first snowfall of the year is as eagerly awaited as Santa’s arrival. Though I’m more than done with the cold weather by the middle of January, the entire month of December seems like something almost otherworldly when those first flakes start to drift to the ground.
A major part of the holiday for me is the food. I love to cook (which is why my blog at www.shirleyjump.blogspot.com is all about food!), and through the holiday season I’m cooking pretty much non-stop. Cookies, breads, stews—you name it, I’m making it. I get the kids involved, and not only serve the food to my family, but share a lot of it with my friends, too (and, hey, that keeps me from gaining all that weight!).
So it seemed appropriate to write a book that featured holiday food, and I wrapped that story with the magical theme of Christmas and the possibility of love. I hope you enjoy Sam and Flynn’s story, and if you have a moment between the gift-wrapping and mugs of hot cocoa, drop me an e-mail at [email protected] and share your favourite moment from the story!
Wishing you all the best this holiday season
Shirley
MARRY-ME CHRISTMAS
BY
SHIRLEY JUMP
CHAPTER ONE
FLYNN MACGREGOR hated Riverbend, Indiana, from the second his Lexus stalled at the single stop light in the quaint town center, right beneath the gaily decorated Christmas swags of pine needles and red bows. The entire snow-dusted town seemed like something out of a movie.
There were people walking to and fro with wrapped gifts, stores bedecked with holiday decorations, and even snowflakes, falling at a slow and steady pace, as if some set decorator was standing in the clouds with a giant shaker.
Okay, so hated might be a strong word. Detested, perhaps. Loathed. Either way, he didn’t want to be here, especially when he’d been forced into the decision.
His editor at Food Lovers magazine had assigned him this story in Riverbend, knowing Flynn, of everyone on staff, could get the job done. Write an incisive, unique piece on the little bakery—a bakery rumored to have cookies that inspired people to fall in love, his editor had said. So here he was, spending the Christmas holiday holed up in the middle of nowhere penning one more of the stories that had made him famous.
Flynn scowled. He couldn’t complain. Those stories had been his bread and butter forever, a very lucrative butter at that. And after that little fiasco in June, he needed to get his edge back, reestablish his position at the top of the writer pack. To do that, he’d do what he always did—suck it up, feign great joy at the festive spirit surrounding him and get to work.
Then he could get back to Boston, back to Mimi, and back to civilization. This town, with its Norman Rockwell looks, had to be as far from civilization as Mars was from Earth. Not that he had anything against quaint, but he lived in a world of iPods, e-mail and high-speed Internet connections. Riverbend looked like the kind of place that thought Bluetooth was a dental disease.
So, here he was, at the Joyful Creations Bakery.
Oh, joy.
He pushed his car to the side of the road, then grabbed his notebook and headed across the street. The crowd in front of the Joyful Creations Bakery blocked most of the plateglass window, but Flynn could see that storefront, too, had not been spared by the town’s festive elves. A trio of lighted wreaths hung in the window, one of them even forming the O in the business’s name.
“Nauseatingly cute,” Flynn muttered under his breath.
He circumvented the line that stretched out the door, around the bakery and all the way to the corner of Larch Street. Ignoring the snow falling from the sky, couples stood together—most of the men looking none too keen on the idea of being dragged off to a bakery purported to be a food love source, while groups of women
