25 Reasons to Hate Christmas and Cowboys Read online

  25 Reasons to Hate Christmas and Cowboys

  Elle Thorpe

  www.ellethorpe.com/newsletter

  Copyright © 2019 by Elle Thorpe

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover and formatting by Elle Thorpe at Images for Authors.

  Line editing by Beth Attwood.

  Proofreading by Zoe Ashwood.

  For Sarah, who clapped her hands excitedly and said, “I have the best idea for you!” when I said I wanted to write a Christmas romance. Thank you for helping me write Isabel’s list of Christmas disasters. This whole book started that day at our kids’ athletics carnival, so thank you!

  xxx

  Contents

  1. Isabel

  2. Johnny

  3. Isabel

  4. Johnny

  5. Isabel

  6. Johnny

  7. Isabel

  8. Johnny

  9. Isabel

  10. Johnny

  11. Isabel

  12. Isabel

  13. Isabel

  14. Johnny

  15. Isabel

  16. Johnny

  17. Isabel

  18. Johnny

  19. Isabel

  Epilogue

  Talk Dirty, Cowboy. Sneak Peek!

  Also by Elle Thorpe

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  1

  Isabel

  Fat snowflakes fell outside the window, whipping around the bus in a wind I just knew was going to chill me to the bone. Snow clumped together on the edges of the road, and the sun barely cracked through a sky full of heavy, looming clouds.

  “Miss? Your stop?”

  I bit back the moan of protest threatening to erupt and talked myself out of throwing a toddler tantrum. I didn’t want to go out there. I didn’t do snow. I didn’t do cold. I didn’t do any of this. But the bus driver and the twenty other passengers probably didn’t care that if I was back home, I could be lying on Bondi Beach, getting a tan right now. I’d dreamt of warm golden sand and crashing blue waves last night. And then I’d gotten out of bed and pulled on the ugliest pair of snow boots I’d ever seen in my life.

  Ugh.

  I stood stiffly, yanked my woolen hat down over my ears, burrowed my face behind my scarf, and stomped to the front of the bus. The driver gave me a bemused look, which I ignored. I thanked him, took a deep breath, and waited for him to open the doors.

  Frigid air rushed the bus, slapping me in the inch of face I had showing. I flinched. I knew hell was supposed to be hot, but I was pretty sure it was a frozen Wyoming in December. I forced myself down the stairs and hurried the hundred meters to the storefront, shivering in the doorway while I fumbled for my keys. But my fingers, even in my woolen gloves, were cold and clumsy. The keys slipped from my hands and I cursed softly, stooping to pick them up from the snow.

  When I straightened, a face was on the other side of the glass.

  “Shit!” I jumped back a step, and the face grinned. I huffed out my frustration, my breath fogging in the air around me. “Macy, open the door, will you? It’s freezing out here!”

  Macy flicked the internal lock and the door swung open. She raised an eyebrow as I scurried inside, practically melting into a puddle when the warmth of the department store enveloped me in its heated bliss.

  “You know, it’s barely even cold out there. You’re such a drama queen.”

  I shot her a dirty look. “Not cold for you, maybe. You’re used to living in minus temperatures. But you do realize it doesn’t snow in Sydney. Ever. I’m not built for all this.” I waved my hand in the direction of the blustery snowfall outside.

  Not cold my ass.

  Macy followed me to the staff room, where I hung my coat and changed out of the horrible, though thankfully warm, snow boots and into a pair of heels I’d tucked into my bag this morning. No way was I going to be caught dead in the thick-soled boots when the rest of my outfit was smart casual.

  Macy handed me a cup of coffee which I took gratefully, letting the warmth defrost my fingers, and by the time we made it back out onto the sales floor, I was in a marginally better mood.

  “So, now that you’re caffeinated and the risk of frostbite has passed, you ready to get your Christmas on?” Macy’s grin told me exactly how ready she was. But my slightly improved mood disappeared instantly.

  “I’m really so excited you’re here to help with all this,” she continued, oblivious to my discomfort. “I can’t wait to see what’s in all those boxes that arrived yesterday. We’ve never had the budget to do any more decorating than hanging tinsel.”

  I wrinkled my nose at the mere mention of tinsel, then took another sip of my coffee to cover my rudeness. It wasn’t Macy’s fault. She’d done the best she could with what she had. But this was why I’d been sent here. Product displays were my thing. I knew how to make them appealing, and how important they were to get shoppers through the door. It was why I’d been sent here—to teach their employees how to get it right. Great displays sold products. Nobody wanted to buy from a store that was dark and messy and unorganized. If it looked warm and welcoming from the street, people would be drawn in for a closer look.

  And I loved my job.

  Except at this time of year.

  Macy and I wandered over to the first of multiple bare windows. When I’d arrived last week, and Macy had shown me the store’s painfully small collection of outdated Christmas supplies, I’d immediately sat down and ordered everything we’d need. Then had it express delivered. Just ordering Christmas things had put me in a funk. But this was what I was getting paid for. So I pushed my grinchiness away, downed the rest of my coffee, and cracked open the first lid.

  Macy squealed with excitement as the shining baubles appeared from beneath layers of bubble wrap, and she oohed and ahhed over every reindeer and Christmas tree I’d ordered.

  While I felt…nothing. Not a scrap of her Christmas cheer rubbed off on me. I just got more and more blah with every box we opened.

  At nine, the main entrance opened, and shoppers trickled in. Macy chattered on and on while we worked, and though I tried to keep up a polite conversation, by eleven, my head was pounding, and I was frustrated. To put it nicely.

  The supply company had sent the wrong sort of fake snow, and the stuff they had delivered looked cheap and nasty. Two of the huge snow globes I’d ordered had cracks and were leaking a liquid I hoped wasn’t poisonous. Who knew how long it was going to take to get those replaced. They were the centerpiece of my planned display, and without them, it was going to be as boring as watching paint dry.

  I wanted to kick something. None of this was going right, and my bosses would be expecting at least one completed display today. I packed the damaged snow globes back into the box and hefted it onto my hip. I’d taken exactly three steps toward the dumpster when my toe caught on a wayward decoration, sending me stumbling forward. In an effort not to faceplant into a mannequin, I dropped the box on my foot with a thud.

  “Owwww,” I moaned, hopping on one leg. “Dammit. That bloody hurt.”

  Macy looked up from where she was studying the directions on how to put together a fake tree. “You okay?”

  I blew out a breath, irritated with everything, including myself and my shitty mood. “Not really,” I said honestly.

  I didn’t want to be here. While an all-expenses-paid work trip to the other side of the world sounded great in theory, tin
y Two Creek Plains hadn’t exactly been on my bucket list. I hated traveling alone, and I was going to be here for the whole holiday season. I wasn’t a fan of Christmas on any continent, but it was only made worse when I was away from my family and friends.

  Macy patted me on the back, sympathy rolling off her in waves. “Why don’t you take your break?”

  I instantly felt guilty. She was so lovely. Full of small-town manners and friendly smiles. And I was being a city brat. I shook my head. “You were here earlier than I was. You go, and I promise I’ll be in a better mood when you get back. Deal?”

  She smiled tentatively. “If you’re sure.”

  I shooed her away, grateful for an hour of quiet where I couldn’t inflict my bad mood on her anymore. Poor Macy. I felt sorry for anyone who had to work with me at this time of year. I should have come with a hazardous materials warning sign stuck right between my eyebrows where no one could miss it.

  “Excuse me, ma’am?”

  I spun on my heel in the direction of the voice and got a face full of chest. Broad, solid man chest wrapped in a thin checked shirt that was tight enough to show the definition of his pecs.

  Yowser.

  “Ma’am?” the voice said again, and I glanced up to take in the face that belonged to the chest. My gaze locked with deep brown eyes that stilled me in my tracks. And as I took in the rest of his face, including an easygoing smile and a jawline that could have been cut from stone, a jolt of lust shot through me.

  His lips, full and pink and horribly kissable, moved, but all I could think about was what they might feel like against my own.

  “Ma’am?”

  I forced myself to stop gawking at his model-perfect face. “Sorry, what did you say?”

  “Could you help me? I need to get some new clothes, but I’m no good at putting together colors and patterns.”

  “Oh! Right. We’re in the men’s department.”

  His lips turned up in amusement.

  Heat flushed my cheeks. We were surrounded by racks of men’s shirts, pants, and jackets. Obviously, it was the men’s department. He didn’t need me pointing that out. I was royally embarrassing myself. “Uh, sorry. I don’t work here.”

  He quirked an eyebrow and my stomach flipped. God. He was impossibly handsome.

  “You sure about that?”

  I frowned. “I’m not a salesclerk.”

  “What’s wrong with being a salesclerk?”

  I blinked at him. “What? Nothing.”

  “You said it like it was a bad thing.”

  Irritation made a muscle in my jaw tick. “No I didn’t.”

  He gave me a lazy grin that probably melted panties on the other side of the store. But I managed to keep mine from self-combusting. Just. And only because he was beginning to bug me with his accusations.

  He took a step closer.

  I willed myself to move back, but my legs weren’t listening. Dammit.

  “So you can help me then, right?”

  A challenge gleamed in his eyes. Cocky. I wasn’t interested in cocky. Even if the strands of brown hair flicking out the sides of his baseball cap looked long enough to run my fingers through. “I think you can help yourself just fine.” The words came out frostier than I intended them to, and the smirk dropped from his face.

  His lips drew together. “Sorry to have wasted your time. I’ll find someone else.” He turned and walked away. My gaze followed him as he wandered through the racks of long-sleeved winter shirts. I sighed. He wasn’t going to find anyone else in this department. Macy was the menswear clerk, and she wouldn’t be back for ages. He’d have to go into womenswear, where sultry Claudine would probably love to help him.

  “Wait!” I called before I could analyze why the thought of Claudine serving him, with her short skirt and long legs, bothered me.

  He spun back around, that same grin on his face.

  Butterflies flickered in my stomach, but I narrowed my eyes. “Did you just play me?”

  He feigned innocence as he strolled back to me, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I just came to hear your apology.”

  “What apology?”

  “The one you’re about to give me for being so rude and grumpy. It’s Christmas time…” His gaze strayed to the name tag pinned to my jacket. “Isabel. Pretty name.”

  I opened my mouth to make a smart retort, but then I wasn’t sure if I’d just been insulted or complimented. I ended up going with, “Thank you.” It sounded more like a question than a statement. I took a deep breath and tried to think clearly. I didn’t need to get flustered. He was just a random guy I’d never see again once he walked out with his purchases.

  But…I had been rude. It wasn’t his fault Christmas carols made me want to puke. Or that hokey holiday movies made me want to poke my eyes out with a fork.

  Or that it was really lonely being away from home and in a strange town where cowboys weren’t just an act at the local strip club.

  I ran my palms down my skirt, straightening it. “Look, I am sorry. I’m just in a bad mood. I’m really not trained in men’s fashion, so I don’t know how much help I’ll be, but I can give it a go.”

  He leaned on a rack of clothes, and I tried to ignore the way his shirt pulled against his biceps. Oh boy. He looked like he’d stepped right off one of the local farms. If I got a little closer, I bet he would have smelled of fresh hay or home-baked cookies.

  Not that I was going to let myself get any closer. Leaning in and inhaling him, as appealing as that might be, would be horribly unprofessional.

  When I met his gaze again, he was studying me intently. “Forget the clothes. I’d rather hear why you’re in a bad mood.”

  “Uh…” I glanced around, but there was no one else in the department. I shrugged. “Just one of those days.”

  He shook his head. “Nope. Try again.”

  I shoved my hands on my hips. “Are you always this nosy?”

  “Are you always this pretty?”

  My mouth dropped open.

  He chuckled. “Come on. Tell me. It’ll make you feel better.”

  If I hadn’t been flustered before, I certainly was now. “It’s nothing,” I managed to get out. “I just… I hate this time of year.”

  “What? It’s December! Christmas time. Nobody hates Christmas.”

  It was my turn to laugh. “Plenty of people hate Christmas.”

  “Not round here they don’t.”

  “Well, I’m not from round here.”

  He paused, his gaze running over me. My skin tingled beneath my warm layers of clothing. “No, ma’am, you most certainly are not. I would have noticed if you were. Now give me one good reason why you hate the best time of the year.”

  His blatant flirting had me tongue-tied, but I forced my lips to move. “I can give you a whole lot more than one reason. I can give you twenty-five of them. One for every year I’ve been alive.”

  “Go on then.” The challenge in his voice was unmistakable. And if there was one thing I never backed down from, it was a challenge. Irritated, I stomped by him. Even without glancing around, I could sense him following me.

  At the empty clerk’s desk, I scrabbled around until I found a blank pad of paper and a pen and held them up triumphantly in front of him.

  He raised that damn eyebrow again. “Serious about your list there, aren’t you?”

  “You asked.”

  “Fair call. Lay the Christmas hate on me. It really can’t be all that bad.”

  I smirked and got busy scribbling down a list. The words came easily as I thought back through all my Christmas horror stories. I hadn’t been joking when I’d said I had one for every year I’d been alive. I couldn’t remember a single Christmas where there hadn’t been one disaster or another.

  As I wrote, I snuck little glances at him, but each time he was intently watching my fingers work the pen. I paused for a moment when I was nearing the bottom of the page, debating over wh
ether I really wanted to tell him every Christmas horror story. Especially my Christmas Eve nightmare. Even I didn’t want to think about that one. I dropped the pen on the desk. With a flourish of drama, I ripped the page from the notepad and thrust it at him.

  He took it from me, letting his fingers brush mine in the process. Warmth licked through me at the casual touch. Oh boy. I hoped I had enough layers on to conceal the way my body was reacting to having a man this good-looking in my vicinity.

  He grasped the paper between two fingers, and with a final glance at me that was so sexy it would likely play over in my dreams that night, he began to read.

  “‘The year Nana got drunk on eggnog and vomited in my Guccis.’” He looked up. “Sounds like that was worse for Nana than you.”

  “They were $800 shoes! And I was the one who had to clean them!”

  He shrugged. “‘The year the centerpiece I made caught fire in the middle of dinner.’”

  I could tell he was battling back a grin. I folded my arms across my chest. “I was ten. It was a big deal. Keep reading, they get worse.”

  “‘The year Toto died.’” He glanced up, sobered. “I’m sorry. It’s hard to lose a dog. I have several myself.”

  Of course he’d be a dog person. “Toto was a cat actually.”

  He screwed up his face. “You had a cat named Toto?”

  “Yes.”

  “But…that’s a dog’s name.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “Says who?”

  “Says Dorothy!”

  I rolled my eyes, and he laughed.

  Macy breezed back in, looking more relaxed than when she’d left, but stopped when she saw me talking with the man. “Oh, hey, Johnny. You met Isabel, I see?”