I'm excited to be participating in the Holiday Short Story Collection Blog Tour sponsored by Montlake Romance! They've provided excerpts as well as a $50 Amazon Gift Card (scroll down to the bottom to enter the rafflecopter) to celebrate the release of these fun short stories! If you're looking for a smile, a laugh and some holiday cheer and only have a short amount of time these are perfect! Bonus, they're "read and listen for free" if you have Kindle Unlimited!
This was a cute story and was so relatable as it's set in the middle of the pandemic! I've felt a lot of the feelings expressed, but at the center of all this is a sweet romance that I really enjoyed!
After a long, lonely
year, two people stumble toward each other in If the Fates Allow a holiday short story by Rainbow Rowell the #1 New York Times bestselling author of
Eleanor & Park and Fangirl.
Reagan
crept to the side to get a closer look. It looked like the deer had managed to
snag its foot between two crossbars and a small tree that was growing right
next to the fence.
Mason
was still inching toward it, with his hands out.
“What
are you doing?” Reagan asked again.
“I’m
going to help it get free.”
“It’ll
get itself free.”
“I
don’t think it will. It’s wedged pretty good.”
The deer
broke into frantic movement, struggling against the fence. “It’s going to
injure itself,” Mason said.
“It’s
going to injure you.”
This
wasn’t a fawn or a hungry little doe; the deer was as long as Reagan was
tall—it must have weighed two hundred pounds.
“Shhhh,”
Mason was saying. Maybe to the deer, maybe to Reagan. He was crouching behind
it, which seemed like the dumbest decision in the world.
“Mason,” Reagan whispered.
“It’s
all right,” he said, reaching for the trapped hoof. “Her other legs are on the
other side of the fence.”
“I
think that’s a buck.”
“She’s
not a buck, look at her head.”
The
deer struggled again. Mason froze. Reagan took another anxious step toward
them.
When
the deer stilled, Mason shot forward. He bent the tree back and grabbed the
trapped hoof, lifting it free.
The
deer pulled the leg forward—and in the same motion, kicked its other hind leg
through the fence, catching Mason in the chest.
“Oof,”
he said, falling backward.
The
deer ran away, and Reagan ran to Mason. “Jesus Christ!” she shouted. “I told
you!”
Mason
was lying on his back in the snow. Reagan went down on her knees beside him.
“Are you okay?” she asked, touching his arm.
His
eyes were wide. “I’m fine,” he said. “Just surprised. Is she okay?”
“The
deer?”
He
nodded.
“She’s
fine,” Reagan said. “She’ll live to spread ticks and disease, and destroy
crops. Where’d she get you?”
He
pointed to his shoulder.
“Can
you move it?”
He
rotated his shoulder. He was broader than he looked from a distance. Broad even
under his coat. His neck was thick, and one of his ears was partly inverted,
probably from an old injury. He had snow in his ears and his hair. His hair was
much darker than Reagan’s, almost black.
“Did
you hit your head?” she asked.
“No.
I think I’m okay.”
“That
was so stupid, Mason—that could have been your face.”
“I
think I’m okay,” he repeated. He lifted his head up out of the snow and pushed
up onto his elbows.
Reagan
moved away from him.
He
stood up, so she stood up, too.
“That
could have been your neck,” she said.
“That was so stupid.”
“Okay,”
he said, nodding. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
Reagan’s
heart was still pounding. Mason looked worried. There was snow on his glasses,
and his mask had fallen below his nose. He was holding her arm. “I’m sorry,
okay? Are you hurt?”
“No,”
Reagan said. “I’m just . . .”
Mason
was holding her arm. He was standing right next to her.
Reagan
made a fist in the suede collar of his coat and pulled herself closer to him.
His
head dipped forward, more fiercely than she was expecting, to kiss her.
From Suzanne Redfearn,
the bestselling author of In an Instant,
comes a heartfelt short story about one couple’s journey to discover if there
really is a secret ingredient to happily ever after before their upcoming
holiday wedding in The Marriage Test.
The
server appears. “Something to drink with dinner?”
“Do
you have a white burgundy?” I ask, feeling like something bright to match my
mood.
The
server points to the French section of the wine list.
“Oh,”
I say, as the list is limited and pricey. “I only want a glass. I’ll just take
a—”
“A
bottle of the finest white burgundy you have,” Justin interrupts.
“Justin—”
He
waves me off.
The
server leaves, and I lean in to kiss him. “I love you.”
“For
ordering a bottle of wine?”
“For
ordering a bottle of wine to make me happy.”
I
sit back again, and he returns his hand to my knee. “Good evening.”
I
look up, and my breath catches. Standing a foot from our table is Annabelle
Winters, my chef idol since college. She’s five feet tall with narrow shoulders
and wide hips. Curls of wild black hair escape her white cap, flour dusts her
black chef coat, and in her hands is a cutting board with a round loaf of
bread.
“I
understand tonight is a special occasion,” she says, a Mediterranean accent
rounding the words. I tilt my head as Justin nods. “In my home country, we have
a tradition: remarkable moments are celebrated by the breaking of bread. So, I
made this loaf specially for you.” She sets the board on the table, wisps of
steam spiraling from the golden, flaky crust. “This is pogača, the bread of my
childhood and a symbol of love.”
With
a small bow, she pivots away.
“That
. . .that was . . .I can’t believe it . . .that was Annabelle Winters.”
Justin
smiles wide, a proud grin that crinkles his cheeks. “You told her it was a
special occasion?”
“It
is,” he says. “We are together.”
I
look at the loaf. “Wow. Pogača. My grandmother told me about this bread. It
doesn’t use eggs or milk, and it’s cooked on a hearth over an open fire.”
“It’s
still warm,” he says. “It must have just come out of the oven.”
I
lift it to my face and inhale deeply, warm yeast and flour filling my nose.
“Mmmm.” I hold it toward him.
He
takes a breath, then leans back and nods. “Well, go on . . . break bread.”
Grinning
like a kid at Christmas, I grip the edges and start to twist.
“Wait!”
Justin yelps, stopping me, the loaf suspended.
He
falls from his chair to the deck, my leg flopping from his lap along with his
napkin.
I
giggle. “What are you doing?”
“Okay,”
he says, now kneeling on one knee. “Keep going.”
The
people at the table behind us have stopped what they were doing and are now
looking at us, and I notice Annabelle Winters beside the entrance watching as
well. I look at the bread, then at Justin, then back again, and blood rushes to
my face as I realize what is happening.
“Really?”
I say.
He
nods toward the bread.
Cheeks
spread wide, I tear it in two, sending gold crumbs raining onto the tablecloth.
Poking
from the steaming center is the corner of a stainless-steel cylinder.
I
dig my fingers in to pry it loose and set it on the palm of my hand. An inch
and a half tall and two inches in diameter, it’s engraved on top with two doves
surrounded by a ring of leaves.
The
woman behind us shifts for a better view.
Heart
pounding, I prize off the lid. Sitting on a bed of white satin is a stunning
sapphire ring, the center stone blue as the deepest ocean, a single diamond
baguette on either side.
“Ava
Nicole Barnes,” Justin says, his voice elevated for the audience, “keeper of my
heart, guardian of my soul, and woman of my dreams, will you make me the
happiest man on this earth and do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”
Not happy? No problem.
Fake it. From New York Times
bestselling author J. Courtney Sullivan comes the sharp witted short story, Model Home, about the reality of reality
TV.
On
the ninth take, things get heated between the husband, Todd, and his wife,
Noreen.
He
complains that this house only has three bedrooms, leaving no possibility for
the man cave he was promised he’d get if they gave up their downtown Milwaukee
loft for the suburbs. She seems flabbergasted that he can’t see the advantage
of sacrificing that space for what is by far the biggest backyard of the three
houses they’ve looked at.
Todd
says in a tone that manages to sound both jokey and hostile, “If we buy this
house, you can’t complain when I play my electric guitar in the living room.
Have you thought of that?”
Noreen
replies, “I’m only ever thinking of Colby and Mason.”
If
you ask me, they both deserve an Oscar. The tension is palpable, even though
everyone present knows they already bought this house seven months ago.
House
Number One belongs to Todd’s cousin. It isn’t for sale. House Number Two is
soon to be listed. The owner was happy to provide access, since being featured
on our show, even as a reject, will sell the place in a minute.
I,
the wise referee/realtor/designer, smile and say for what feels like the one
trillionth time in my life, “Sounds like you two have a lot to discuss. Babe,
let’s leave them to it.”
I
wonder briefly if I’ll ever get to say these words again on camera, but I have
to put the thought from my head.
I
never call Damian babe in real life. Especially not now, but even back when I
could stand him.
He
doesn’t meet my eye. He’s staring into space, going out of his way to look
disinterested. No one notices but me. Lately I think of my husband as a
disappointment turducken: a lack of ambition wrapped in a beer gut wrapped in a
statement tee designed for a much fitter man.
This was a funny story, although as a mom I wanted to smack all the characters upside the head for taking their mom for granted! I hope they learned their lesson!
Everyone is home for
the holidays, clamoring for all the Christmas cheer only their mother can whip
up. They can already smell the chestnuts roasting—or is that Mom’s hair on
fire? From New York Times bestselling
author Chandler Baker comes the laugh-out-loud short story, Oh. What. Fun.
During
normal times, Mom loves to spend most of her day on the phone with one of us or
the other. As soon as she hangs up with Channing, she’ll call Sammy; as soon as
she’s done with Sammy, Tyler will call; and then she starts the whole process
again. Not that we’d ever say this out loud, but we’re in the thick of our
lives, so we’re busy with dating and kids and friends getting married and
pregnant and such, and, well, Mom’s stories are kind of dull. Though obviously,
in retrospect, this is an instance when we should have paid better attention.
Unlike
Mom, Channing never complains about anything and so she didn’t make a big deal
of it when Mom, again, forty-five minutes after the agreed-upon time, took over
the kids, leading them on a special explorer hunt to find Canelo the Elf.
Mom
is wild about that Elf on the Shelf. Canelo joined us three Christmases ago.
The twins are in a Spanish- immersion program, hence the name, and Channing and
Doug explained to us that if Canelo started the month of December at their
house, he’d need to travel for the time spent at Grandpa and Grandma’s. It only
made sense. So the trick is there are actually two Canelos. Mom bought a body
double so Channing could leave hers safely at home. Canelo’s antics are one of
those things we all tease her about: Somebody
has too much time on her hands. But the truth is, we do kind of get a kick
out of him.
Mom
keeps the Elf ’s next move top secret from everyone, even Dad. Last year,
Canelo relaxed in a Crockpot Jacuzzi filled with marshmallows; then he stole all
of our toilet paper to build snowmen and rode a zip line down the stairs. This
year was off to an impressive start as the twins took binoculars and donned
safari hats to track down Canelo, who was wearing camouflage in one of the old
oak trees. But we guess we’ll never know what else Canelo had in store, because
Canelo hasn’t moved in two days. His painted, unblinking eyes stare at us from
his perch, and none of us have been able to work out yet how it is we should
explain this to the twins.
We
think at some point during the Canelo expedition Sammy pulled up and plopped
down on the couch, probably with his shoes still on, and started messing around
on his phone. Every group of siblings has a “one,” and Sammy, for us, is the
Boring One, mainly because he’s twenty-five and always on his phone. Also he
just broke up with his girlfriend (see: always on phone), and yet when we
tasked him with one very simple to-do—break into Mom’s phone—well all the sudden he apparently “didn’t
know anything about phones.”
Sammy
didn’t see anything or hear anything or smell anything unusual, but as we’ve
already pointed out, this can’t be taken as gospel since he was preoccupied
texting back and forth with his ex.
Sammy
do you know what kind of
laundry detergent you used to use on our clothes? Bc mine smell all weird now.
Mae-Bell
It’s the fabric softener.
Downy infusions. Scent: Romantic.
Later,
we passed around the conversation to weigh in by committee on whether she meant
anything by it. We even consulted the Downy website while Mom handed out
homemade eggnog because none of us care for the store bought, and there we
learned that the Romantic scent carries “sensual aromas of delicate floral,
white tea, and peony,” and at least half of us found it difficult to overlook a
smoking gun like “sensual” right there as the subtext.
After
dinner, Mom asked Channing if she’d mind watching the twins for a few minutes
while she cleaned the kitchen, and we all took bets on whether Sammy and Mae-Bell
would be back together by spring. The holidays can be hard on people, you know.
Everyone except for Mom anyway, who just loves an excuse to corral us all
together under one roof. Nothing makes her more upset than a year when she has
to share Channing and the twins with Doug’s family. This year, Doug’s family
was indisposed because they were up in Vermont visiting Doug’s aunt, but they
probably could have been in the ICU and Mom would have been just as happy as
long as the result was having Channing and the girls all to herself. Not to be
alarmist, but of all the years to up and vanish, you just wouldn’t expect it to
be one where Channing was set to be home the whole time.
