Hot Wicked Romances
Colbie Kay & Chianti Summers & Marialisa Demora & Vicki Green & Winter Travers & Vera Quinn & Jaime Lynn Russell & Geri Glenn & KL Donn & GM Scherbert
Secret Santa
Truck
“Aw, what in the hell…” Turning off the highway and onto the country road, Truck rolled his bike to a stop, staring at the large wooden sign planted not twenty feet away. BRIDGE OUT was written in block letters across the top, while the just as ominous ROAD CLOSED was printed out across the bottom. What in the fuck am I supposed to do now? He was mentally strangling his direction-giving and house-selling friend back in Texas.
Pulling out his phone he looked at the display, shoving it back into his pocket at the message of no service. Fuck. While computing the time it would take to detour back to the small town up the road, he eyed the moon hanging overhead in the sky and decided to take a chance. His new house might be on this side of the bridge, after all.
Idling up the road, he was appreciative of the isolated slices of landscape glimpsed in the washed out glow from his headlight. Trees crowded the road, pines still in full coverage. Black in this light, but he knew if seen under the midday sun, that same canopy would glow green. A few hardwood trees, their branches bare, leaves piled in the ditch in bow breaks, testifying to the speed of a recent rain runoff.
A mailbox planted next to a right-hand driveway captured his attention and he saw a tidy house set slightly back from the road. Even at this late hour, the downstairs windows glowed from within, testifying to the insomnia of the occupants, perhaps. Twinkling lights adorned a tree in what was probably the front parlor or dining room. Welcoming and cozy, a home.
Not quite a mile down the road he sighted a driveway leading off the other side of the road and slowed. Moonlight shone down on a two-story farmhouse set in the middle of a clearing. Darkness ringed the edges and there were no lights from the house to push back the shadows. The realtor’s sign placed prominently near the sideways sagging mailbox proudly proclaimed SOLD.
A twist of his handlebars caused his lights to flash across the front, a temporary illumination shucked off as easily as rain from a duck’s back. Rolling to a stop he looked at the house as he killed the engine, blank windows giving him nothing back. Fitting accommodations for a man determined to go it alone, needing nothing more than a secluded place where he could lay up for a while, lick his wounds. Old wounds, but that didn’t mean they didn’t still bleed. Silence flooded the space around him as the noise from the bike died. Isolation, solitude, and privacy. His new house.
Vanna
The smooth, dulcet tones of Nat King Cole rolled out of the speakers and Savannah Reicht settled her head more comfortably against the back of the chair. Fingers plucking at the fabric-covered arms, she slowly relaxed and allowed her eyes to sink closed. Echoing strings held the melody of ‘The Christmas Song’ together through the bridge and she found herself softly mouthing the words about simple things others took for granted during the holiday season. Open fires, family activities, and childhood joys. Now, you’re just being maudlin, she thought as the song wound down to silence. Mister Cole would frown on maudlin thoughts on Christmas Eve.
The scratching needle on the record signaled the beginning of the next song and she smiled to hear Dean’s voice sliding through the room. He would have her dreaming of a ‘White Christmas,’ something that seldom happened down here in northern Florida. Reaching for the glass of wine sitting on the table beside the lamp, she leaned over and with her other hand picked up the open book lying there. Easing back into the chair, she shifted slightly and tucked one foot underneath her bottom before moving to find the ultimate comfy position. Her wine glass balanced on one thigh, elbow to the chair’s arm, the book lifted to the level of her eyes.
It had been a busy and stressful few days. A race to get the last of the presents wrapped, boxed, and mailed off in time for a pre-holiday delivery for those of her friends living far away. Her gaze flicked up and she glanced across the room, staring for a moment at the tree standing in one corner of her dining room. Brilliant, the tree was covered in multi-colored lights and tinsel carelessly tossed by the handfuls. The homemade felt skirt underneath littered with bright packages and bags, while one stuffed-full stocking lay on its side nearby.