Stacy Connelly - All She Wants for Christmas

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

Cover

Title Page All She Wants for Christmas Stacy Connelly www.millsandboon.co.uk

About The Author Stacy Connelly has dreamed of publishing books since she was a kid, writing stories about a girl and her horse. Eventually, boys made it onto the page as she discovered a love of romance and the promise of happily-ever-after. When she is not lost in the land of make-believe, Stacy lives in Arizona with her two spoiled dogs. Stacy loves to hear from her readers at stacyconnelly@cox.net . Thank you to Susan Litman and Gail Chasan for giving me this chance and for all the hard work that went into my first book.

Dedication To the Loaded Pencils - Karen, Dana, Teri, Pam and especially Betty (for assigning the short story that eventually became this book). Thanks for letting me be one of the “piñatas” all these years. To Kris - For asking when my book was coming out years and years before I was published! To Kathy - I’d need a whole book to list all the reasons why!

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

Copyright

Stacy Connellyhas dreamed of publishing books since she was a kid, writing stories about a girl and her horse. Eventually, boys made it onto the page as she discovered a love of romance and the promise of happily-ever-after.

When she is not lost in the land of make-believe, Stacy lives in Arizona with her two spoiled dogs. Stacy loves to hear from her readers at stacyconnelly@cox.net.

Thank you to Susan Litman and Gail Chasan for giving me this chance and for all the hard work that went into my first book.

To the Loaded Pencils - Karen, Dana, Teri, Pam and especially Betty (for assigning the short story that eventually became this book). Thanks for letting me be one of the “piñatas” all these years.

To Kris - For asking when my book was coming out years and years before I was published!

To Kathy - I’d need a whole book to list all the reasons why!

“Got some bad news, boss.”

Clay Forrester looked up as his assistant ducked beneath the painter’s scaffolding and played hopscotch over the electrical cords crisscrossing his office. Wallpaper swatches hung from a wall streaked with paint samples. Drop cloths protected his leather couch and chairs, but a fine layer of construction dust covered his mahogany desk. “What is it, Marie?”

Marie Cirillo opened her mouth just as the electrician started a high-powered drill. For a brief moment, the earsplitting electrical squeal seemed to emanate from his assistant. Clay choked back a laugh as she shot the construction worker an exasperated look.

The drilling stopped, and Clay asked, “Has anyone ever told you that you have a promising future as a ventriloquist’s dummy?”

“You know, walking in here, I felt bad having to tell you this, but I’m feeling better about it now.” She smirked. “Doug Frankle’s sick.”

His smile faded. “Our office Christmas party is in less than two hours, and our Santa is sick?”

The company party was being held two weeks before the holiday so it wouldn’t interfere with family gatherings and vacations. The event was the culmination of a long, difficult year, and Clay was determined nothing would go wrong.

“Tell me we have a backup,” he pleaded.

“His wife dropped off the costume if you want to substitute,” Marie offered, with a cheeky grin.

Unfolding his six-foot frame from his leather chair, he ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “Do I look like a fat old man with a beard?”

“If Christmas was for the naughty instead of the nice, you’re exactly what Santa Claus would look like.”

“Very funny.” Pulling out his wallet, Clay tossed two one-hundred-dollar bills onto his desk. “Go steal some supermarket Santa.”

“You dare to bribe St. Nick?” Marie gasped in mock horror.

“Why not? Good ole St. Nick has been putting the thumbscrews to overworked parents for years. Accepting a bribe would be a step up from consumer extortion and emotional blackmail.”

“You know, for a guy about to host a holiday party, you don’t sound very festive.” As the electrician left the office, mumbling something about splitters, she added, “You really haven’t been yourself since—” She shut her mouth so quickly, her teeth clinked together. That his outspoken assistant even tried to curb her tongue was proof of her worry.

“Since my father died,” he filled in for her. “You can say it, Marie.”

She stepped closer. “You’ve changed, Clay. Back when your father was running the company—”

“He’s not running the company anymore. I am.”

Marie drew back slightly. “That’s right. And you’re doing a damn good job. So don’t you think it’s time you start living in the present again?”

“What do you think I’ve been doing?”

“You’re locked on the future and where you want the company to go, as if you can erase where it’s been.”

Clay flinched at the reminder of where the company had been—held tight within his father’s hands. Only after Michael Forrester passed away had Clay realized how ruthless and relentless those hands could be.

“This is business, son,” his father had once explained. “And business is all about the bottom line.”

Growing up, Clay had accepted that statement, the same way he’d accepted that his father often missed the big game or the science fair, phoning in an excuse and leaving Clay and his sister to pretend to understand. It was business, after all, and business came first.

But not to everyone, Clay thought grimly as he recalled a confrontation several weeks after his father passed away. He’d been leaving for the day when an older man wearing a beatup trench coat stopped him in the lobby. Taking one look at the man’s bloodshot eyes and unkempt hair, Clay had assumed some bum had wandered in from the streets. Until the man called him by name.

“Where are your promises now, Forrester?” the man had demanded. “All the lies my grandchildren were foolish enough to believe about how you would ‘turn the company around’? With a little more time, the loan would have come through, and I would have turned it around. But thanks to you, I never got the chance. You went behind my back, bought out the company from my own family and sold it off piece by piece until there was nothing left. Nothing. ” His voice had broken on the word, and he’d pushed past Clay to rush out onto the sidewalk.

He hadn’t tried to stop the man, hadn’t said a thing. What was there to say? That time wouldn’t have made a difference? That no bank would give a struggling company a loan? That his father had been the one to decimate the man’s business?