“You have no idea.” I gestured toward my bag. “I’ve got two penis maracas in there I’ve got plans for—and a hungry tongue. It’ll officially be next year by the time you want to leave this room.” I lifted her up.

  She wrapped her legs around me. “Well…Merry Fugging Christmas to me!”

  THE END

  Merry Christmas to our Readers!

  Vi Keeland is a #1 New York Times, #1 Wall Street Journal, and USA Today Bestselling author. With millions of books sold, her titles are currently translated in twenty-six languages and have appeared on bestseller lists in the US, Germany, Brazil, Bulgaria and Hungary. Three of her short stories have been turned into films by Passionflix, and two of her books are currently optioned for movies. She resides in New York with her husband and their three children where she is living out her own happily ever after with the boy she met at age six.

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  Penelope Ward is a New York Times, USA Today and #1 Wall Street Journal bestselling author of contemporary romance.

  She grew up in Boston with five older brothers and spent most of her twenties as a television news anchor. Penelope resides in Rhode Island with her husband, son, and beautiful daughter with autism.

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  HENRY

  The Afina house was mine, until I lost it with a straight flush. Let me repeat … a straight flush. My great grandfather built the Victorian farmhouse for his bride, Marian, in what is still one of Ohio’s smallest river towns. Birdville has a population of just under seven hundred.

  The firstborn male inherits the Afina house. After my dad died two years ago, my mom moved to Germany where she and my dad had planned on retiring in the same town where my great grandfather was born.

  She moved out.

  I moved back in.

  Thankfully, I kept my trailer. It’s like the universe knew I’d fuck things up.

  We’re not a wealthy family—we’ve just always owned the most coveted house in Birdville. We were a coal mining family before my grandfather became a plumber, like my father, and like me.

  So while I sit in my pickup truck outside the Afina house, I can’t help but think of my mom’s announcement that she’s coming to Birdville for Christmas.

  That fucking straight flush.

  Since I lost the family home just over six months ago, this will be my first time back inside it—as a hired plumber.

  I knock on the door three times. It takes an eternity for someone to answer.

  “You must be the plumber,” a fifty-something woman says, blowing at her silver and blond bangs to expose her kind blue eyes.

  I hold up my toolbox and give her a guilty shrug.

  “It’s the bathroom down the hall and to the right.” She shows me a canning jar filled with what looks like the makings for cookies. “I have to finish putting these together. Let me know if you have any questions Mr. …” Her gaze slides to my shirt and the name tag I’m not wearing.

  I refrain from sharing my real name in case she makes the connection to it and the house she stole from me. Okay, it technically wasn’t her, but the sting is still too real to give a shit. I glance at the jar in her hand and smile. “Mason. Mason Ball.”

  “Very well, Mr. Ball.” She shoots me a courteous smile and sashays to the kitchen.

  I’m pleasantly surprised. She seems normal.

  After I lost the house, the loan shark put it up for auction. Serena Soro, a writer of some sort, purchased it and nearly everything in it. I’d never seen her until today, nor had anyone else to their knowledge. She has everything delivered to her house. Rumors have been flying around since the day the moving company pulled into the driveway and unloaded her belongings.

  She’s a recluse.

  A vampire.

  A witch.

  A serial killer.

  A child trafficker.

  And a million other wildly crazy speculations.

  Not gonna lie … I stuck a few bulbs of garlic in my toolbox just in case.

  After fixing the slow flushing toilet and the leaky faucet, I poke my head in the kitchen. It’s all so familiar, even the sweet smell of sugar and vanilla bean wafting from the kitchen. My mom loves to bake.

  Even the furniture is … was mine. However, there are no Christmas decorations. Not so much as a string of tinsel or sprig of mistletoe. Our house used to be the biggest attraction in town over the holidays. Garland for days and enough indoor and outdoor lights to illuminate a whole galaxy.

  “You’re good to go,” I say.

  She glances over her shoulder, a bit of flour smudged along her cheek. “Thank you. Can you leave an invoice?”

  “Sure.” I take another glance around the kitchen. “Did you know this house has been here for generations?”

  “Oh …” She measures baking powder and deposits teaspoons of it into the long row of jars. “Are you originally from Birdville?”

  “I am.” I scribble out an invoice. “Do you like the house?”

  She chuckles. “Sure. What’s not to like? It’s charming with a beautiful view of the river. The woodwork is a work of art. Every room feels like a warm hug this time of year.”

  I no longer feel that warm embrace, but it does have a beautiful view. There’s an attic room with a colossal window that makes one feel suspended over the water because the drop beneath it is so steep. Growing up, it was my favorite room. My sister thought there were ghosts up there. After she died, I believed she was the ghost in the room. I wonder if she’s still up there, trying to figure out how in the hell I managed to lose the family home.

  “Well, here you go.” I place the invoice on the counter away from the lineup of jars. “Let me know if you have any issues. I think it should be fine now.”

  “Do you bake?” she asks.

  “Sometimes,” I say, hoping reheating pizza in the microwave counts.

  She screws a lid on one of the jars and hands it to me with a wink. “For you, Mason Ball.”

  Embarrassment fills my cheeks. Women are too observant for their own good. I clear my throat and offer her a sheepish grin. “Thank you.”

  “Henry, I saw your van at the Afina house this morning. What was she like?” My neighbor, Doyle, coughs from his old gray Chevy Malibu. Cigarette smoke billows out the one-inch crack of his window. Betty won’t let him smoke in the trailer since he set the last one on fire, so he spends most of his days smoking in his car while on neighborhood watch. The only thing that needs watching is him—so he doesn’t set anything else on fire.

  “Uh … she was fine,” I say, glancing up from my mail.

  Doyle coughs up part of a lung. I expect a red splat against the window. Thankfully, there isn’t one. “Was she a hottie?” He waggles his bushy, white eyebrows before pinching his lips around his cigarette.

  “I’d say she’s in her fifties, so I’m going to decline making any comment on her level of hotness.”

  “Fifties, huh? She got a good pair of legs on her? I’m a leg guy. But you know this because you’ve seen my Betty.”

  “Indeed.” I smile. “I’ve seen your Betty. There’s something about her. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but it’s special for sure.”

  “Fingers to yourself, Henry.” He holds up his cigarette while wiggling his other fingers. “These digits will be the only ones to touch Betty’s specialness you speak of.” He winks at me. “If you know what I mean.”

  I taste a little bile. “Good talk, Doyle … good talk.” With a quick wave, I retreat into my trailer, peel open a can of wild caught salmon, and spread half of it on two slices of bread with some mayo and sweet relish.

  My phone screen lights up with a text from my mom. It’s the middle of the night in Germany. What’s so urgent?

  Mom: The garland’s in the attic. Use ribbons to tie it to the railing. Wire will scratch the wood.

  “I don’t know if it’s still in the attic,” I mumble my reply. I’m on the fence about telling her the truth via text message or waiting until the last possible minute when I see her in person.

  No garland.

  No railing.

  No house.

  The Penneys might save me on this one. They have to. Five years ago, they had a house fire across the street from our house. Lost everything except human lives. Mom repeated, “It’s just stuff, Elizabeth,” to Mrs. Penney on so many occasions I lost count.

  Just a house.

  Just furniture.

  Just materialistic things that don’t matter in the bigger picture.

  With Christmas upon us, I have to believe my mother will heed her own sentiments and stay focused on that bigger picture when she discovers the Afina house and all of its belongings are no longer in the family.

  Here’s the bigger picture: I haven’t gambled, not once, since I lost everything.

  Baby steps.

  A bone-rattling gust of wind shakes my trailer in the middle of the night like an earthquake. In fact, when I wake to silence, I’m certain that’s what happened because there’s no wind. I lumber from my bed to get a drink of water and see if anything was damaged. While I tip back a glass of water, my vision snags on headlights pointed at the back of my trailer in such close proximity it seems unlikely they’re not on my property.

  “What the hell,” I mumble to myself.

  Squinting to see if anyone’s in the vehicle, I grab my jacket and swing open the door.

  A white BMW is parked in my yard. Parked is a generous word. Crashed is more like it. The hood is bent from taking out my mailbox which is on its side beneath my bedroom window.

  I knock on the driver’s window. “Yo! What have you done? You’re in my yard! Are you alive?” I frown when the hunched body resting against the deployed airbag doesn’t move. “Are you okay? Need me to call an ambulance?” I ease open her door.

  A woman lifts her head with long dark hair stuck to her face. She blinks several times. “Where am I?”

  “You’re in my front yard. It’s a … no parking zone. I’m calling for help.”

  “No! No. No. Please no.” She pounds her fists into the deployed airbag and searches for the seat belt. “No police. No reporters. No one.” Her fingers peel the hair away from her face before she squeezes her body out of the car like the first stick of gum in a pack.

  “You’ve done some damage to my property.” I nod to my mailbox on the ground.

  She flinches when a gust of wind barges past me right into her car. “I’ll pay for it.”

  “I’m sure you will, but I want it in writing, which means we need to call the police and make an official report.”

  “Cash. I’ll give you cash.” She rubs her forehead with her palm. “Wait … crap … my wallet is at my house. Listen, help me get my car back to my house, and I’ll pay you double the damage and a little extra to keep this between us.” Her tired, brown eyes catch the glow of my porch light while she tucks her black hair behind her ears.

  She’s rather … pretty.

  And it’s the middle of the night.

  She’s shaky.

  And she just mowed down my mailbox with her fancy car.

  Yet … she’s still mesmerizing for some reason.

  “Why do you need help getting your car home? You can see over the airbag, and the dent in your hood isn’t too bad. It should run just fine.”

  Her nose wrinkles while she hugs herself. “I-I’m feeling a little woozy. I think it’s best if I’m done driving for the night.”

  “It’s after two in the morning, and you want me to what? Drive you home because after nearly hitting my house and killing me you feel a bit woozy?”

  She’s broke. She stole this car, and she’s broke. What other reason would there be for her to be out at this time? Drugs? Maybe.

  Her pouty lips dip into a frown. “It’s the holidays. Where’s your spirit of giving?”

  I cough a laugh. “Spirit of giving? That’s just perfect. It’s always the person with the short straw getting lectured on things like the spirit of giving.”

  She blinks slowly several times. “You have beautiful eyes. Did you know that?”

  Pfft …

  Is she trying to flatter me? Does she think batting her eyelashes at me and complimenting my eyes is all that’s needed to remedy the situation? Is this supposed to get my dick hard?

  It’s hard, but it’s more of a middle-of-the-night confusion, maybe even an angry kind of erection.

  “Where do you live?” I ask.

  “Five minutes from here.”

  “Fine.” I fake a grumble, but I’d be lying if I said I’m not curious about her situation. And her. But mainly her situation.

  Minutes later, she’s murmuring directions to her house.

  I nod with each one. “What were you doing in the trailer park at two in the morning?”

  “Research.” She stares out her window.

  “Researching what?”

  “The area.”

  “Why?”

  “Do you always ask so many questions?” She pins me with a look that would make a lesser man shudder. A lesser man with average eyes, not beautiful, blue eyes like mine. Yeah, yeah … I fell for her compliment.

  “When I’m driving strangers home in the middle of the night, I feel entitled with my line of questions. I’m Henry, by the way.”

  She nods several times. “I’m aware.”

  “Did I tell you my name earlier?” I squint at the road, trying to recall when I told her my name.

  “Go right here. Then left.”

  I turn right and then left.

  “Last one on the right,” she says.

  I let up on the gas, the tires slowing to a stop before I reach the driveway.

  “What are you doing?” she asks.

  I stare at the Afina house. “You live here?”

  “I do.”

  “I was here yesterday. I met the owner. She wasn’t you.”

  Her head whips in my direction. “You were here yesterday? You’re the plumber?”

  “Um … yeah. Why?”

  “I …” She squints for a few seconds. “I had no idea.”

  I laugh. “Why would you?”

  Okay, this chick is not playing with a full deck of cards.

  She shakes her head. “Lola … uh … you met Lola. She’s my assistant. I’m Serena.”

  “You’re the writer?” I pull into the driveway.

  “I am.”

  “I don’t know if anyone in this town has seen you … until now.”

  “I don’t go out much.” She steps out of the car.

  I follow her to the front door, zipping my jacket against the nippy air.

  “Cash work?” She heads down the hallway. Just before taking a right into the office, she glances over her shoulder and eyes me. I think she has a tiny grin stealing her lips, but it’s hard to see in the dim light.

  Do I amuse her? Is she flirting with me again?

  I tear my gaze from hers and glance around more than I did yesterday. My mom is going to kill me for losing everything. Unless …

  “I have a better idea,” I mumble.

  She returns with an envelope. “Will two thousand cover your mailbox and your time driving me home?”

  It’s a fifty-dollar mailbox. I charge seventy an hour as a plumber. Two thousand is more than generous. Or at least it would be if I didn’t need something else from her. “Listen, Serena … can I call you Serena?”

  “It’s my name. Go for it.”

  “What are your holiday plans?”

  Her eyes narrow in distrust. “Well … my plans are to pretend it’s not the holidays.”

  “Great. So you don’t have family coming into town? No big parties? Nothing like that?”

  Her head eases side to side.

  “I don’t want your money. I want to stay here for the holidays with my mom who will be arriving in a few days.”

  Serena blinks for a good five seconds. “This isn’t a bed and breakfast.”

  “I don’t need it to be a bed and breakfast. I just need it to be …” I pop my lips a few times and adjust my shoulders into the most confident posture I can manage.

  “To be what?” Her head cants.

  “Mine. I need it to be mine just for the holidays. Until December twenty-seventh to be exact.”

  “You need what to be yours?” Her eyes narrow even more.

  “This house.”

  Another long series of blinks. I’m not sure if she’s in shock or deep thought.

  “Why?” she asks.

  “This house is called the Afina house. It has been since it was built three generations ago by my great grandfather Hermann Bechtel. I inherited it two years ago after my father died and my mother moved to Germany.”

  Serena doesn’t respond for several long moments. She’s too busy chewing on the inside of her cheek, lips twisted. “So why’d you sell it?”

  I bob my head side to side. “That’s complicated. I didn’t have a choice, but my mom doesn’t know. And if I don’t have to tell her before Christmas, I’ll choose that option.”

  “What’s my role? If I’m not the owner, how will you explain me to your mom?”

  Holy Christmas miracle … is she really considering this? Just like that?

  I honestly hadn’t gotten that far, but now I need a solid plan. “You could stay at my place. A house swap for the holidays. No need for you and my mom to meet.”