Connie Lane - Christmas At Cupid's Hideaway

“A man. A man named Gabriel Morrison. He’s checking in. By himself.”

Maisie’s blue eyes glowed as she looked at her granddaughter.

There was nothing for Meg to feel defensive about. She knew that. Which didn’t explain why her shoulders stiffened and her stomach tensed. “So you’re telling me this because…”

“I’m telling you this because we don’t often get single men at the Hideaway. It’s a romantic spot. Our guests are usually couples. And when couples check in, they usually have their minds on—”

“What they have on their minds isn’t what I want to have on my mind,” Meg reminded Maisie. “I told you, Grandma, I’ve given up waiting for Prince Charming. Prince Charming has left the building. And I’m pretty sure he’s left the island, the state and the continent. Besides…” It didn’t look as if Maisie believed her protests any more than Meg did, so she decided to change course. “Just because this Gabriel Morrison is here by himself doesn’t mean a thing. He might be meeting someone.”

“I don’t think so. He tried for a room at the hotel near the park. They’re booked. Christmas in July, you know.” Maisie’s eyes twinkled. “If he was bringing a woman, he would’ve asked for a room for two.”

“You asked.”

“Of course I asked. It’s my duty as an innkeeper!” And as your grandmother went unsaid.

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.

Dear Reader,

Welcome back to Cupid’s Hideaway, the wonderfully wacky bed-and-breakfast inn where anything romantic can—and does—happen! In Stranded at Cupid’s Hideaway, you met Laurel and Noah, two doctors who couldn’t agree about anything except that they were in love. In Christmas at Cupid’s Hideaway, a handsome guest checks in. Gabriel Morrison has his eye on Meg, the Hideaway’s sexy chef, but his mind is a thousand miles away. Gabe is a successful advertising writer with a serious case of jingle-writer’s block. But don’t worry—Cupid’s Hideaway will work a little magic on Gabe. He’s about to find out that inspiration comes from unexpected places. Just as Meg will learn that you can’t hide from love—even on an island in the middle of Lake Erie.

While Cupid’s Hideaway is a figment of my imagination, South Bass Island and the town of Put-in-Bay are real, and it’s one of my favorite vacation spots. The island is only three miles from the Ohio mainland, but as soon as I set foot on the ferry, I leave my everyday life behind. The leisurely place and friendly atmosphere are perfect for a little R and R. I love walking along the rocky beach and exploring the cottage-lined streets. My favorite thing? Driving one of the golf cars that residents and visitors alike use to cruise around the island.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned on South Bass, it’s that you can celebrate the holidays any time of the year. Because the weather’s often too harsh in December to allow for visitors, the island has a special Christmas-in-July celebration, complete with a visit from Santa in his Bermuda shorts and Hawaiian shirt!

Happy holidays! Enjoy this visit to Cupid’s Hideaway, and let the spirit of celebration live in your heart—all year long!

Connie Lane

P.S. Readers can reach me at connielane@earthlink.net.

Prologue

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

Tuesday, Noon

“Gabriel? Hey, it’s me, Latoya. You haven’t checked in since you left the office last week and I’ve got a stack of messages for you. It’s just after noon here in LA and if you’re driving and heading east—well, I’m not even going to try and figure out the time zones. I only know it’s got to be sometime in the afternoon wherever you are. It’s a beautiful July day, but I’ll be eating lunch at my desk. As usual. Give me a call.”

Tuesday, Late

“Gabriel? Latoya. Haven’t heard from you. Dennis says that means you found either a car or a woman you couldn’t resist. Which is it? When you’re done—ah…whatever it is you’re doing—give me a call. There’s plenty of messages here, including a couple from the Tasty Time Burger folks in New York. They’re anxious to talk to you.”

Wednesday Morning

“Me again. Bright and early. At least it is here. That means you can call anytime.”

Wednesday Afternoon

“I know you’re picking up your messages, Gabriel. You never let an hour go by without picking up your messages. Whatever time it is where you are, I can tell you one thing—they’re still working in New York. The folks over at Tasty Time Burger world headquarters have already called three times. And that’s just in the last couple hours. I’m running out of excuses, so do me a favor, will you? Call me.”

Thursday, Very Early

“Gabe? Dennis here. Dammit, Gabe, you’re making me nervous. And Latoya’s practically having apoplexy. She says you’ve never been away this long without checking in. Even that time you headed to Mexico with that what’s-her-name. You know, the one who had her own TV sitcom for a while. If you can check your messages when you’ve got a blond bombshell on your arm, you want to explain why you haven’t done it all week?”

Friday Afternoon

“Dennis again. Why do I feel like I’m talking to myself? They’ve started a pool at the office. A What-Happened-to-Gabe pool. The odds-on favorite is that you’ve been abducted by aliens. Can’t imagine why they’d want you. Stop playing games and give me a call, will you? The Tasty Time Burger folks are riding my tail. I’m running interference for you, buddy, but it’s getting tougher every day and they’re getting antsy. I’ll tell you what, let’s keep this simple. Call them directly. Hum a few bars of the new jingle. Give them some idea of the lyrics. I know, I know, you artistic types, you don’t like to be bothered while you’re working. But there’s only so much I can tell them. I explained that you’d decided to drive to New York—you know, to clear your head and give yourself plenty of alone-time to concoct the best advertising campaign in the history of greasy fast food? I assured them that you’re writing up a storm. I guaranteed them that you’re going to write the greatest jingle you’ve ever written. You are going to do that, aren’t you, Gabe? Gabe?”

He didn’t save the voice-mail messages. Why bother? The last thing Gabriel Morrison needed right now was the all-time roughest, toughest tag team of Dennis and Latoya. Instead, he tossed his cell phone down on the passenger seat of his Porsche, and, anxious to get his mind on anything but work and the office back in LA, he flicked on the radio.

Love my Tenders.

Love them lots.

Shaped like little steaks.

Love my Tenders.

Eat them all.