“How is this book both adorable and sexy? The Trouble
with Christmas is a big city meets small town, opposite attract hilarious
romance full of holiday shenanigans, family, love and sigh-worthy moments. It's
one of the must-reads of 2019! I absolutely loved it!" --Naima Simone, USA
Today bestselling author
The Trouble with Christmas, an
all-new opposites attract romance from USA
Today bestselling author Amy Andrews, is available now!
All
Suzanne St. Michelle wants is an over-the-top, eggnog-induced holiday with her
best friend in Credence, Colorado. But when her hoity-toity parents insist she
come home for Christmas in New York, she blurts out that her sexy landlord is
actually her boyfriend and she can’t leave him—Joshy loves Christmas. The more
twinkle lights the better.
Rancher
Joshua Grady does not love Christmas. Or company, or chatty women.
Unfortunately for him, the chattiest woman ever has rented the cottage on his
ranch, invited her rich, art-scene parents, and now insists he play “fake
rancher boyfriend” in a production of the Hokiest Christmas Ever. And
somehow…she gets him to agree.
Apparently,
he’ll do anything to get his quiet life back. At least there’s mistletoe every
two feet—and kissing Suzy is surprisingly easy. But in the midst of acres of
tinsel, far too many tacky Christmas sweaters, and a tree that can be seen from
space, he’s starting to want what he lost when he was a kid—a family. Too bad
it’s with a woman heading back to New York before the ball drops…
Download your copy today!
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AppleBooks: https://apple.co/2LTiG3Z
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Kobo: http://bit.ly/30wlZlO
Google Play: http://bit.ly/2Jz9bW5
Add to GoodReads: http://bit.ly/30Ffj57
It was so delicious that I slowed my reading pace so I could prolong the book.. As satisfying as the ending was, I was sorry when I reached the last page and ran out of book to read. I highly recommend Suzanne and Grady's book. I received an ARC in exchange for an honest, voluntary review.
Excerpt
Grady barely felt the chill
as he stripped off his freezing, sodden shirt in the equally freezing concrete
shell of the mudroom. The silence was distracting. Too distracting, and he
could think of little else. The last three mornings, he’d gone about his chores
serenaded by chanting monks. Which
was strange but…whatever. It didn’t bother him or the animals, and it gave his
ranch hands something to laugh about.
Except now there was no
music. And that was bothering him,
because he suddenly realized he was thinking about her—something he’d been
trying not to do. Had her power gone out? Was she sick? Had she fallen in the
cottage and smacked her head on the stone floor? Had some kind of seizure? Was
she unconscious? Had she decided to up and leave?
Yeah, right…he should be so
lucky.
Grady shook his head,
growling to himself as he flicked off the running faucet and plunged his hands
into the steaming-hot sink of water, washing off the caked-on muck from his hands
and arms and chest courtesy of a calf that had gotten itself bogged in a
freezing quagmire caused by recent rain and melting almost-frozen ground.
He’d managed to rope it out
with the help of two of his hands, its plaintive mooing and the distress of its
mother keeping everyone focused on the job but somehow, when they were almost
there, he’d managed to lose his balance and fall into the frigid mud.
His hands had laughed their
asses off as they’d dragged his out of the muck.
The hot water felt good on his
chilled skin as he picked up the cake of soap and lathered his arms and chest
and neck. He needed a real shower, of course, but he’d learned a long time ago
to wash up before he went inside. The plumbing in the mudroom was way more
forgiving than the more delicate pipes inside the cabin.
Thankfully his jeans weren’t
as mucky. Ordinarily he’d have stripped them off in the mudroom, too, and
walked from the barn to the cabin in his underwear—isolated living did have its
advantages—but he wasn’t about to do that with Suzanne St. Michellenearby.
And great…just great. He was
thinking about her again.
He obviously wasn’t getting
laid enough. Just how long hadit been
since he’d been with a woman? Well over a year ago. Probably closer to two.
Because that had to be it, that had to be the reason he couldn’t stop thinking
about the curvy New Yorker even though she’d stayed on her turf exactly as he
had demanded.
Reaching with one hand for
the fresh towel that hung over the hook above the sink, he pulled the plug with
the other, then proceeded to towel dry. At least up until he heard a faint gasp
and spun around to find the woman on his mind standing just inside the doorway,
her curves hidden in a huge red coat, that green knitted cap pulled down low
over her forehead and ears.
His hands paused mid drying
the back of his neck. The room wasn’t big, maybe five feet by five feet, which
meant she was way closer to him than he was comfortable with, given his state
of undress.
“Oh…I’m…sorry.” Her breath
misted into the frigid air as her voice faltered. “I didn’t know you were in
here.”
Her eyes fell to his chest,
zeroed in on the nickel-size scar just beneath his right collarbone courtesy of
some shrapnel, before straying to his pecs and abs for what seemed like
forever, the awkward silence stretching. Normally Grady wouldn’t bother filling
it because silences were where he felt most comfortable and the other person
generally rushed in to fill them up. But Suzanne wasn’t bothering, either.
At least not with her mouth
anyway.
Her eyes were a different
story. They were having an entire conversation as they roved all over his
chest. She was looking at him like he was a slice of one of Annie’s pies, and
Christ if that wasn’t like a bullet straight to his dick. The kind of friendly
fire he could do without.
Fucking hell. He didn’t want
to be pie. Not this woman’s. Not any
woman’s. He wanted to be…tofu. Nobody lusted
after tofu.
“Had some trouble with a
calf.” Grady felt like an explanation might help the situation, but he still
felt like an idiot making small talk.
“Was it being born?” She
pulled her gaze from his abs to his eyes. “Did you have to stick your hand up
inside and drag it out? I saw that on a documentary once and couldn’t believe
how messy it was. And how calm the mother was. I mean, I’m not sure I’d be okay
to just stand there while someone stuck their entire arm up my hoo-ha, right?”
She hesitated for a moment
like she’d done the first day they’d met, like she wasn’t sure this was a topic
for polite conversation. But her mouth had already committed, so she jutted her
chin and went for it.
“I know it has to be done and, let’s
face it, a calf is much bigger than a man’s arm—”
Her gaze dropped to his arms via the
scar, his chest, and his belly button. She was looking at him like pie again.
Annie’s pecan pie with melted butter. Sweet and savory all at once. An orgasm
for the tongue.
Not tofu. Plain, tasteless, orgasmlessTofu.
“Even yours,” she continued,
forcing her gaze back to his face, and it took Grady a moment to pick up the
thread of her ramblings. She shuddered. “But no thank you. I mean, seriously,
females of all species really do get a raw deal. I bet you if the males had to
push out disproportionately bigger babies through the passage provided for the
process, they’d have invented some kind of handy zipper system a long time ago.
Some dude would have patented the bejesus out of it.”
She stopped abruptly,
snapping her lips closed as if her mouth had finally received the frantic shut the fuck upmessages from her brain.
Her cheeks looked pink, but then so did her nose, so it was probably just the
nippy December weather.
Grady stared at her, not only
at the amount of words she’d spoken but at the content of her monologue. “We…”
He spoke because it felt like his turn, but he didn’t even know what to do
about cows with zippers. “We don’t calve in winter.”
“Oh, right.” She nodded
briskly, her cheeks definitely growing pinker now. “That makes sense. Who wants
to be cold and in pain, right?”
She gave a funny little half
smile that ended quickly and awkwardly. Then they just stood and stared at each
other for several beats longer than was normal or even comfortable, their warm
breaths misting into the air.
Tucking her hands into the
pockets of her red coat, she said, “I hope it’s okay to have a look around?”
Grady gave a brief, terse
nod. “Just don’t go too far or go near the animals.” Last thing he needed was
to rescue some damn fool city slicker who’d wandered off and gotten herself
lost.
She nodded absently as her
gaze drifted again, licking over his chest, lingering on the scar. He should be
freezing, half-naked in a room that was little more than an icebox, but with
her looking at him like she was trying to commit every line and chest hair to
memory, he only felt hot.
Really fucking hot. Melted butter on pecan pie hot.
“I hope—” Her voice sounded a
little uneven, and she cleared her throat. “I hope my music hasn’t been
disturbing you the last few days.”
He wasn’t sure why she was
making small talk—although it was preferable to incessant observations about
cow hoo-has and zippers. Nor was he sure why he was standing ramrod straight in
front of her, thinking about pie when he should be grabbing the spare shirt he
kept in the cupboard above the washbasin and getting decent.
But up had been down since
the moment she’d arrived.
“It’s fine,” he dismissed. It
hadn’t been the music that had been disturbing him, that was for sure.
She nodded again, glancing
around the room briefly before settling her eyes back on his chest. “Well…I
guess I’ll…” She didn’t finish the sentence as her gaze once again zeroed in on
the scar, and her lips rolled together in contemplation. “Do you mind—?” She stepped
forward and raised her hand tentatively.
When he didn’t move because
he was paralyzed by the realization she was actually going to touch him, she
became bolder, stepping in closer again as her fingers made contact. She was so
close now, he could smell her. Coffee and snickerdoodles? And something sharp,
maybe chemical. Paint, he supposed.
“Is it a bullet wound?”
Grady flinched as she touched
the scar, her fingers like icicles as they sunk into the small indentation. He
closed his eyes as heat bloomed from
the center, spreading like a ripple, burning like a furnace down the length of
his body.
Blood pulsed hard and thick, everywhere. Damn it, she might as well
be wrapping that cold hand around the throbbing hardness pressing into the
zipper of his fly. It was probably forty degrees in this concrete box, but it
felt like a sauna, and it was an easy 120 inside his boxers.
He swallowed. “It’s
from…shrapnel.”
He had no idea why he wasn’t
stepping back. He should step back. He should have said, Yes, I do mind, told her it was none
of her business. He should be finding a shirt.
Find a fucking shirt, idiot.
“Did it hurt?”
Surprised by the question, he glanced
down to find the bulky knit of her hat a whisker away from brushing the
underside of his chin. “Like a bastard.”
She looked up and they were
close—her mouth was close—her fingers
a balm to the old wound that still made his shoulder ache on cold winter
mornings. His heart thumped like a jungle drum and god almighty, it was hot enough in here to grow bananas.
“Was it bad? Did you bleed a
lot?”
His throat was dry as the
concrete beneath his feet. “It bled some.” Then, finally getting his shit
together, he took a step back, and her hand slid away.
If his distancing bothered her, she
didn’t show it, just simply said, “Thank you for your service.”
Grady didn’t know what to
say. He never knew what to say to
this standard platitude. He appreciated the sentiment, but he’d just been doing
his job. So he nodded, his pulse reverberating like a dinner gong in his ears,
as she slowly backed out of the room and disappeared from sight.
Reaching for the sink, Grady
gripped the curved edge in both his hands and hunched over, dropping his head
down between his shoulder blades and taking some deep steadying breaths.
January could not come soon enough.
About Amy
Andrews
Amy is an Aussie author of hot contemporary
romance who believes in multiple orgasms, mighty wangs and happily ever afters.
She’s been penning them for over twenty years and has 70+ books to her name.
As well as
unforgettable characters and great sex you’ll also be treated to some laughs
and a dollop of quirk because Amy doesn’t seem to know how to write a book
without a bit of both. You might also cry a little because there’s nothing she
loves more than a laughy-criey book!
She also loves
sunsets and rainbows, unicorns and mermaids, booze and travel. And her home
that overlooks the ocean. She may also happen to believe she was a Roman
goddess in her past life because its the only thing that explains her adoration
for all things Italy.
Connect with Amy
Instagram:@amyandrewsbooks http://bit.ly/2Z7Ss28
Twitter: @amyandrewsbooks http://bit.ly/2uYHcqQ
Pinterest: http://bit.ly/2Ssnmh9
Goodreads: http://bit.ly/2Su0Owi
Website: http://amyandrews.com.au/
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