Chapter 1

Bang.

Scream.

Bang.

Scream.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

The sound of the headboard hitting the wall sounds over and over, accompanied by screams, and I throw my head back, sweating and aching in every imaginable place I could ache. I’ve not been this exhausted in . . . ever. I’m being tested to my limit, pushed past my comfort zone. Why did I agree to this? How did I ever think I could handle it? More bangs from the headboard, more squeaking of the mattress. More sweat. I can’t take anymore.

A loud, ear-splitting scream bursts out of me, my eyes clenching shut as I finally lose the willpower to keep hold of myself. To not show my weakness. To breeze through this and come out the other end with my pride still intact . . . and my job.

Mega fail. I’m a loser. A poor excuse of a woman.

The second my scream stops, I frown into my darkness.

Silence.

Beautiful silence.

Gingerly opening one eye, I brace myself for what I might be faced with. Three kids stare back at me, eyes wide, their little bodies frozen on their parents’ bed. The sheets are strewn over every inch of the master bedroom—on the floor, the dressing table, even the attached bathroom. Every place except the bed. Why they believe their parents’ bed is a trampoline is beyond me. They have toys, for God’s sake. Shit loads of them.

I quickly pull myself together and draw breath to speak. “It’s lunchtime.” No sooner have I uttered the words, they’re off their mum and dad’s bed like little rockets, stampeding down the stairs of the Georgian townhouse to the kitchen.

Leaving the mess behind for later, I follow them, trying to pull myself together— clothes, composure, and all. I look down at my slim-fitted trouser suit—my pride and joy—and my gorgeous heeled pumps as I take the stairs. This suit, these shoes, they’re my power office wear, bought especially for my new job as Executive PA to the most famous Editor in Chief at the most famous sports publication in the UK, Mr. Pete Russell.

The kids that just shot down the stairs are his. So, I hear you asking, why the heck am I in his house looking after them?

Blame his wife. I snarl to myself, just thinking about the self-important wench. Apparently, my new role includes babysitting when she so demands it. For such a high-profile influential businessman, Mr. Russell is a wimp when it comes to standing up to his demanding wife. The schmuck.

When I arrive in the kitchen, all three Russell spawn are sitting at the table like good little children. I eye them with suspicion as I round the island to the hob, collecting the plates and sliding one in front of each of them. Because, yes, feeding them comes with the job too, apparently.

Petal, the eldest, looks at her lunch like it’s been served from a dustcart. “What’s this?” she asks, poking the nuggets around her plate. At six, she’s way too smart for her own good, with a counter to whatever I ask her to do. She also has a hair flick down to a fine art, performing one each and every time something smart comes out of her mouth. Which is often.

“Lunch,” I answer, cutting up Holly’s, the youngest Russell, into small pieces. She’s just turned four, and a total hurricane. Then there’s Arthur, the middle at five, who seems to take immense joy in correcting my English at every opportunity. He’s hailed as the creative one of the three siblings. He acts and sings everything he says and does.

So, basically, Mrs. Russell was permanently pregnant for three years. And now, her husband’s new PA is providing light relief and looking after her boisterous army of kids whenever she so desires. And today she so desires to go Christmas shopping. I’ve been in the job for a month. This was most certainly not in the job description. In the past few weeks, I’ve cooked dinner and fed their kids more nights than not. It’s not long-term, according to Mr. Russell. And my help is much appreciated, apparently. It’s the time of year, so he says. Parties to attend and fun to be had. That’s all good and well, but it’s Christmas Eve, my parents are due to arrive in a few hours, I haven’t bought one present, put up a tree, or prepared the guest room for them. I’ve been too busy being a skivvy to the Russells. But what am I going to say? No? To Mr. Pete Russell? The man can open endless doors for me in the world of journalism.

“We usually have a sandwich for lunch,” Petal mumbles. “And a lot earlier than this.”

I grit my teeth. “There’s no bread. We’ll call this an early dinner.”

“Well if it’s dinner, where’s the vegetables?” Petal pipes up again. “Mum says we have to have vegetables with every meal.”

“Then Mum should be here to cook for you.” I smile sarcastically but immediately chastise myself for it. She’s a kid. It’s not her fault her parents are selfish arseholes. “Eat up,” I order them all gently, grabbing my phone off the counter when it rings. “Mum,” I sigh, despite trying not to, as I walk across the kitchen and start collecting up the toys scattered everywhere.

“Hello, Shannon darlin’.” Her soft Irish accent soothes me, and I need soothing. “I have an update for you. We’ve just docked.”

I smile. I’ve had an update every hour since she woke up this morning. “Good crossing?”

“A bit choppy. Your dad got seasick.” She chuckles. “He’s spent the past eight hours looking green.”

“You should have flown. It’s an hour, and Dad wouldn’t be green.”

“You know your father. He can’t get comfy on those plane things. And it ain’t natural for us to be thirty thousand feet in the air. Is the tree up? You know your dad likes a good tree.”

“Of course,” I lie.

“Turkey ready?”

“Just prepared it.”

“And you got the sausage meat so Dad can make his special stuffing to stuff the bird?”

Now that I have done. “Check.”

“Marvelous. Finished all your chores?”

I drop a few Lego bricks into the toy trunk and look across the kitchen, where three children are all eating quietly. “All my chores are done.” Another lie, but I don’t want her to worry. Come hell or high water, I’ll have everything ready for their arrival, and I’ll have gifts for all, too. On that note, I glance at the huge station house clock on the bare brick wall in the Russells’ kitchen. Three o’clock. The stores close in two and a half hours, and Mrs. Russell gave me her word she’d be home by two thirty. I’d booked this afternoon off to do Christmas stuff, not babysit. “So looking forward to seeing you, Ma.”

“You, too, darl—” She’s cut short by a loud yelp, and I dart my eyes to the kids at the table. “What was that?” she asks, and I cringe. Ma wasn’t best pleased when I told her I’d helped out once or twice with my boss’s kids. She said I’d be a skivvy before I knew it. And I hate that she was right.

I stare in horror as Petal points at Holly. “Shannon, look what she did.”

“Shannon,” Ma asks down the line, “is that a child shouting I hear?”

“Might be,” I squeak. “Ma, any idea how to get a marble out of a kid’s nostril?” I rush over and take Holly’s fork from her hand as she pokes at her nostril with her finger. “Stop, you’ll push it up more.”

“You’re looking after his kids again?” Ma asks, obviously shocked, and a bit disgusted, too. “The feckin’ nerve those people have. Where the bloody hell are they?”

“Work emergency.” Yet another lie, and before I can spill more, I say, “Ma, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you later.”

“Aye, ya will.” She huffs a few times and then hangs up, understandably pissed off. She struggled enough when I left Ireland two years ago . . . and for a man. A man who dumped me for a leggy blonde with killer boobs and a brain the size of a pea. Now Ma’s struggling with the fact that I haven’t returned to my homeland after my life went tits-up because of that arsehole. But there are more opportunities here for me. More chances to climb the ladder.

“Right.” I collect Holly from the table and sit her on the countertop. “I want you to blow your nose real hard, okay?” I push into her left nostril as she nods, a massive grin on her face. She thinks this is a game, which is probably a good thing. Oh God, please don’t make me have to go to casualty. I haven’t got time. “After three.” I bend to get to Holly’s level and start to count, and on three I blow with her. The marble shoots out and smacks me on the forehead. “Motherfucker,” I yelp, releasing her to clench my head. “Ouch.”

“Oh, you said a bad word,” Petal sings, and Arthur starts chanting along with her. “Bad Shannon, bad Shannon, bad Shannon.”

I’m so busy cursing that I barely notice when something scuffs me. But I do open my eyes as I hear a bang, followed by a slightdelay before a huge, almighty roaring cry starts. Shit. Ilook at my feet, where Holly is wrapped around them screaming bloody murder. “Oh my God.” I dip and scoop her up, bouncing her in my arms as I scan her for injuries. I can see nothing obvious—no cuts, bruises, or scrapes. “You’re fine,” I say gently, rubbing under her eyes. “Aren’t you?” She hiccups over her receding sobs as she nods, and I pool a little in relief, thankful I’ve not killed one of my boss’s kids. “I’m really not cut out for this, guys,” I say under my breath as I take Holly back to the table. Sitting her down and reloading her hand with a fork, I scan the rest of the children to make sure they’re all in one piece since my attention was diverted. “How about some ice cream?” I chirp, clapping my hands enthusiastically.

“For our silence?” Petal asks, just before shoving a potato wedge in her mouth. I narrow one eye. She’s a cute cookie.

“Or for your discretion,” I counter. It sounds less cunning.

“Okay,” she sings, and I hurry to the freezer, quickly checking the time again. Three thirty. Shit, I’m cutting it fine.

“Yoo-hoo.” Mrs. Russell’s voice travels into the kitchen, the front door slamming soon after. What’s she so damn happy about? She’s an hour late. I turn with the tub of ice cream, just as she dances into the kitchen, weighed down with shopping bags. “Sorry I’m a few minutes late.” She lifts the bags, as if to rub it in that she’s been shopping and I haven’t. “Last-minute outfit for Pete’s company Christmas gala this evening.” She smiles and disappears up the stairs as I grit my teeth and proceed to dish out the ice cream before quickly tidying up the counter. I’m not loading the dishwasher. Or waiting for the kids to finish their dessert. I’m off.

I’m collecting my bag when she waltzes back into the kitchen. “What happened to our bedroom?” she asks, pointing out the door. “It looks like an earthquake happened in there.”

An earthquake? You could say that. “Your kids decided to use the bed as a bouncy castle. Sorry. I hadn’t got around to tidying it all up.” I had no intention of tidying it up.

Mrs. Russell gives me a look that makes me feel like a child. All condemning and disapproving. “Never mind.” She rolls her eyes and goes to the table, dropping loving kisses on each of her kids’ foreheads. She pauses when she gets to Holly. “Oh my goodness, what happened?” She moves aside, giving me a clear view of her youngest . . . and the huge lump slap bang in the middle of her forehead.

Shit.

Petal jumps down from the table and performs one of those amazing hair flicks. I fear the worst. “Holly got a marble stuck up her nose, and Shannon left her on the countertop by herself. She fell off.” I balk at Petal as she grins around her last mouthful of ice cream. The traitor.

“What?” Mrs. Russell swings to face me, an appalled look on her face. “You left her alone on the countertop? And she got a marble stuck up her nose? How? Weren’t you watching her? I’ve told you before she has a habit of putting things in holes.”

Breathe. Don’t let your Irish feistiness take this woman down. It’s Christmas, after all. The season of goodwill and all that bullshit. “It was nothing.” I head for the door. “She’s fine now.”

“Where are you going?” She’s hot on my heels, and I frown as I grab the door handle and open it.

“I have Christmas shopping to do and relatives to prepare for.” I don’t mention that I already explained all that this morning when she abandoned me with her kids for the day.

“But you can’t.” She sounds a little panicked, and I turn to find she looks panicked, too. “I have Pete’s Christmas gala this evening. You have to look after the children.”

I have to? I balk at her. This woman is something else. “I already told you, Mrs. Russell. I booked this afternoon off as annual leave. I have things to do.”

Her demeanor changes in a split second, going from panicked to stern. “I’m afraid I must insist.”

“Sorry?”

“If you fail to fulfill your duties, my husband will be forced to find another PA.”

Another PA, or a nanny? I’m trying to rein myself in—really, I am, but this self-important wench would test the patience of a saint. I straighten my back and clear my throat. “I don’t believe my duties listed childcare.”

“What part of personal assistant don’t you understand?”

She just keeps on giving. Unbelievable. “I haven’t got time for this right now.” I whirl around and take the steps down to the street. “I will discuss it with Mr. Russell myself after the holidays,” I call over my shoulder, hurrying to the main road to hail a taxi. I have two hours to find five Christmas gifts. I can do it. No sweat.

I fall through the doors of the nearest department store, which happens to be Harrods, still reeling at the nerve of Mrs. Russell. My phone rings as I’m marching past the designer handbag section, and I inhale the patience I know I’m going to need when I see my sister’s name glowing up at me. “Judith.”

“Where are you?” As always, she’s straight to the point.

“Working.” I’m just one big fat can of lies today. But listening to my older sister harp on about how disorganized I am isn’t something I want or need to hear right now.

“Working as always. When are you going to get a life?”

I straighten my lips, marching on. “I have a life, thanks.” I catch an old lady as I pass, and she drops her bag. “I’m so sorry,” I say, scooping it up for her.

“Working?” Judith asks.

“Okay, so I’m shopping, but before you tell me how disorganized I am, I’ve literally just finished work.”

“I know. Ma just called me with an update and told me.”

“Then why the hell did you ask?” I put the bag in the lady’s hand and smile as I hurry away.

She ignores my question and hits me with a typical scathing—very Judith—statement. “I mean, it’s not like you have anything better to do. No fun to have, or men to date.”

“Did you call me to point out my supposed shortcomings?”

“No, I called to see if you’d babysit Ellis on New Year’s Eve so Heath and I can go out. Since we’re in London for the holidays, may as well make the most of it.”

“Why not? It’s not like I have anything fun and exciting to do. Or any men to date.” I’m not averse to dating. I just don’t have time.

“Fabulous. We’ve just got our bags at the airport. See you soon.” She hangs up as I find myself at a display of designer sunglasses.

“Excuse me.” An arm appears, reaching past me, and plucks a pair of fancy Chanel frames from the stand. The sleeve of his suit jacket slides up his arm as he does, revealing the cuff of a crisp white shirt and a shiny cufflink. I tilt my head to read the letters engraved on the silver square. An S and an F.

I look up and come face to face with the owner of the arm. And recoil. Whoa. I just stare at him as he inspects the shades, caught in a bit of a trance, my eyes traveling up and down his suited form. A damn fine form. He’s dashingly handsome—insanely so—with big hazel eyes, floppy blond hair, and a strong jaw. I breathe out slowly. He’s lovely, and then he flicks his eyes to mine and smiles, taking that loveliness up a thousand notches. Heat floods me, and as I continue to admire him, I decide here and now that S and F stand for “Sexy as fuck”. Good lord, where did he come from?

“Hi.” His voice is softer than his tall, well-defined frame would suggest, and it quickly snaps me out of my stupor.

Suddenly realizing that I’m gawking, I swallow and smile awkwardly, moving aside to give him room. “Sorry.” I continue browsing the designer shades, of which I can’t afford to buy. But, lord have mercy, another minute browsing him won’t hurt. Merry Christmas Eve to me.

“No worries,” he replies. “What do you think to these?” He holds up the Chanel glasses, and I dart my eyes to his. He’s asking me? I look over my shoulder, thinking maybe he’s with someone and they’re behind me. Or maybe there’s a store assistant lingering somewhere beyond.

But there’s no one around. Only us.

I return to him and find his stare is definitely on me. I point to my chest, and he smiles again. I nearly tell him to stop, because it’s rather disarming, and I don’t have time to be disarmed.

“They’re nice.” I shrug, a bit lost. “Are they for your wife?” I have no clue where that question came from, and I blush terribly when his smile turns wicked.

“No wife.”

“Sorry.” I turn back toward the display and reach for a pair of Dior, if only for something to do.

“For my sister, actually.” He puts them back and pulls another pair out. “It’s Christmas Day tomorrow, and I haven’t bought one present. I’m on an emergency mission.”

“Me too,” I practically screech, strangely delighted that I’m not the only poor excuse for a relative on a crisis shopping spree.

“Then let’s help each other out, shall we? I need a woman’s input.” He turns to me and presents me with another pair. “What about these?”

“Is she showy?”

He frowns, and it’s adorable. “Showy?”

I take the glasses from his hand, and our skin touches briefly. It makes me falter a little before I quickly pull myself together. “These big gold motifs might not be everyone’s cup of tea.” I point to the arms. “Your sister might like them, but I’d prefer something a little subtler.” I take another pair and slip them on, smiling. “As you can see, these are far more understated, maybe for the more demure woman who lives by the saying less is more.” I pout, and he laughs. It’s a gorgeous laugh—low and rough.

“Thanks for the fashion show.” He reaches for the glasses on my face, and I lean back as his hand comes closer and closer, until it stops in midair. Now, I’m virtually bent backwards, Matrix-style, and Mr. Sexy as Fuck has a half-smile half-frown emblazoned across his face, which now that I’ve looked at it for a good two minutes, I have decided is painfully gorgeous.

A long, uncomfortable silence passes before he extends his hand the final few inches and slowly pulls the glasses from my face. “Thought so,” he says quietly when my eyes are revealed.

I dare not ask him what he’s talking about, and quickly clear my throat, shaking myself back to life. “I’d better go. Good luck finding your gifts.” I’m off like a greyhound, rolling my shoulders as I go to rid my skin of the tingles tickling me there. Christ, I have no idea what just happened, but I don’t have time to figure it out. I’m on a mission.

I weave through various departments, disregarding most displays as I go—not suitable, too expensive etcetera—until I find a store guide and scan the list of floors and departments, getting more desperate by the minute.

“Perfume,” I blurt, reversing my steps and dashing to the fragrance department. “This Chanel I can afford.” Or a small bottle, at least. I take a box of Nº 5 for my sister and hand it to the store assistant, slipping it into my bag once I’ve paid. One down, four to go.

I’m at the elevators a few minutes later, on my way to the toy department for my niece, my inspiration now found.

The doors open.

I go to step inside.

And am greeted by a familiar face.

He smirks, moving to the side to let me in. “Are you following me?”

I roll my eyes and reach to press the floor for the toy department, cringing when I notice the button is already lit.

“Going up?” he asks, obviously catching my hesitation over the button. I look at him blankly, already feeling the tension building. The doors aren’t even closed yet. God, when we’re contained . . .

No escape . . .

“Or going down?” His playful smirk widens, and my mouth falls open.

“Did you just say that?”

“Say what?”

“Going down.”

He suddenly frowns, playing confused, but he’s not fooling me. “What are you insinuating?”

I snort as the doors close and the lift shifts, taking us up. Not down. I’m not going down. And with that thought, my eyes drop to his groin area. “I’m going up,” I say quietly.

“Shame,” he counters quickly, and my gaze shoots to his. Twinkling eyes nearly blind me, and it takes me way too long to compose myself.

“I should have you reported for indecency,” I mutter, full of indignation. But I’m actually hot. Stifling hot. I reach for the front of my blouse and flap it a little.

“Please do. It’ll remove me from this hellhole.” His back hits the wall of the elevator, and he looks exasperated, his hand running through his floppy hair until it falls back onto his forehead.

“Not a successful shopping trip?” I ask.

He holds up a small bag. “Actually, I bought the sunglasses you chose.” Nodding at my empty hands, he looks smug. “It’s more than you have.”

“Actually, I bought my sister some perfume.” I sound ridiculously haughty as I tap the side of my handbag. “So up yours, mister.”

“Oh, listen to you all high and mighty with your one gift.”

“You only have one yourself.” I laugh. “And I pretty much chose it for you. Typical man. Clueless.”

“I’m offended. I can do this shopping lark.”

“Then do it.”

“I will.”

“Good for you.” I shake my head to myself. “Is it hot in here, or is it just me?”

“It’s you that’s hot.”

There’s that grin again. And a wink. This man is far too cheeky for his own good. And for mine, undoubtedly.

But as if he didn’t say something provocative, his shoulders roll, pushing out his broad chest. “So, how many more gifts have you got to buy?” And that snaps me back to the actual task at hand.

I grimace and check my watch again. “Four.”

“Me too,” he says. “I’ll race you.”

Looking up at him, I tilt my head, part humored, part wary. “What?”

“I’ll race you. The first to complete their shopping list wins.”

“Wins what?”

“Dinner with the other.”

Oh? How did we go from naught to dinner so quickly? “Isn’t that a bit backward? Either way, we’ll be having dinner.”

His eyes gleam. “Exactly.”

Oh, he’s cute. “But I’m not dating at the moment.”

“Even better.”

I turn away, forcing myself not to engage with his playfulness. It’s hard. His playfulness is quite charming. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

“Why?” He sounds affronted.

“I just can’t.” Why can’t I? What’s stopping me? Pride? Ego? I hear my sister’s voice condemning me for the lack of excitement in my life. Would accepting his offer be exciting? Outlandish? Stupid? “I just can’t,” I say again, sounding as unsure as I am.

“Okay, I’ll make you a deal.” He steps forward, and I instinctively step back. “You win, I’ll admit defeat like a good loser. If I win, I get to take you out for dinner.”

“You don’t know me.” And that’s a crying shame,because this man is gorgeous.

“I know you’re as disorganized as I am when it comes to Christmas shopping.” He smiles, and I can’t help returning it. “Been busy at work?”

“Yes,” I breathe, my whole body going soft, my back meeting the wall next to him. “You could say that.”

“Me too. No time for dating?”

I shake my head.

“Me either. How do two people get to know each other?”

“Shopping together?” I suggest, hiding my secret smile.

He laughs a little under his breath. “Or they go on a date and have dinner. So what do you say?”

“I’m too busy.” I dig my feet in before he talks me around. The last time I went on a date, I ended up giving up my job, leaving my family, leaving Ireland, moving to London, and all to be shat on from a great height. I’m still wounded. And bitter. My heart is still not repaired and concentrating on my career is safe. Having no excitement in my life is safe. Being boring is safe. I can’t be sorry about that.

I can tell Mr. Sexy as Fuck is reading between the lines by the way he’s looking at me with curiosity. No woman is that busy she can’t spare an evening for a date.

“Come on,” he coos lowly, pushing his back from the wall and holding his hand out. “Let’s make this painful task a little more fun.”

“I’ll win anyway,” I tell him.

“Then you have nothing to fear. If you win, I’ll give up my quest to tempt you to dinner.” His hand reaches forward, and I don’t know why, but I nod, agreeing and accepting his game.

“Okay.” What does it matter? Like he said, he won’t win anyway.

His smile is wide and satisfied. “Great.” He gives my hand a little squeeze and drops it, turning to the doors as they slide open. “I’ll make reservations.”

“What?”

Walking off, he looks over his shoulder to where I’m a statue in the elevator. “I never lose.”

The doors start to slide close, and it jerks me to life. I slip through the small gap and go after him. Oh, he’s getting it. In the non-sexual way, of course. I’m as competitive as they come. A terrible loser. I will not lose to this cocky bastard. “We need rules.” I round him and block him, but he doesn’t stop, colliding with me. I’m knocked back a few paces, until he grabs me and steadies me, and I get a waft of his aftershave. It has me closing my eyes and inhaling.

“Okay,” he says softly. “Let’s set the rules.” Releasing me, he moves away, putting a safe distance between us. “Shoot.”

I blink a few times, looking away from his lovely eyes. “We need budgets. Say fifty quid a gift.”

“Fifty?” He coughs. “What am I going to get for fifty quid?”

I poke him in his chest. It’s solid. Of course it is. I quickly reclaim my finger as he glances to where it just prodded him. “You can’t have a bigger budget than I have. It’s not fair. You can go on a free-for-all and buy anything that takes your fancy. I can’t afford more than fifty, so the budget is fifty.”

“Can I buy you?”

My head tilts in question and confusion. “No, you can’t.”

He shows the ceiling his palms on a little shrug of his shoulders. “Then I can’t buy anything that takes my fancy, can I?”

I don’t think I’ve ever met such a forward, cheeky, and charming male in my life. It should deter me. It doesn’t, and I’m not terribly comfortable about that. So I ignore his statement and get on with winning our little bet, feeling my competitiveness building. “First one back to this exact spot with their gifts wins.”

The excitement clouding his hazel eyes is really something. “It’s a deal.”

“Who do you have to buy for?”

He pulls a face to suggest he’s thinking about it. “My mum, dad, niece, and brother-in-law.” He holds up his little Harrods bag. “I’ve sorted my sister.”

I tap my bag. “Snap. So the toy department is next for your niece, right?”

Dread evidently fills him as he glances around the department. “Any idea what to buy a six-year-old girl?”

“Might have,” I tease. “But I’m not telling you.” I dash off, hearing him cursing behind me, and head straight for the dolls. It’s like the pressure he’s applying is helping me. I’m great under pressure, and I know exactly what I’m buying my niece.

I watch him like a hawk as he follows me around the department, keeping an eye for what I might chose. Sneaky. I stop and turn to face him. “What about that over there?” I point past him. “Apparently, it’s the latest craze.”

He turns to look, and I grab a LOL Pearl Surprise Doll and sprint to the nearest checkout to pay. By the time my niece’s gift is safely in a carrier bag, Mr. Sexy as Fuck is behind me, nudging me in the shoulder. And he has a LOL Pearl Surprise Doll in his hand too. “Playing dirty, eh?” he asks as I scowl at him.

“It’s the only way to play.” I walk off and make sure there is a good amount of sashay to my step as I do. I’m not trying to appear seductive. Really, I’m not. And with that thought, more sway. I peek over my shoulder, finding Mr. Sexy as Fuck frozen in a stupor, his wallet loose in his hand, his eyes on my backside. Yes, I’m playing really dirty, and as he blinks and looks up, he realizes that. He narrows an eye, his lips straightening. I can’t figure out if he’s pissed off with himself for staring, or with me for distracting him from his mission. Maybe both. I don’t care. It’s actually rather nice to know I can still attract the opposite sex when I put a bit of effort into it. He is a hot specimen and was checking me out. Thank you, sexy stranger. Strangely, this is turning out to be a rather fun game. Not to mention the fact that he seems to be getting better looking with each minute that passes.

I flip him a coy smile and a cheeky wave as I round the corner to the elevators, checking my watch as I go. “Shit.” Time is ticking, and I still have to sort my ma, brother-in-law, and dad. The doors open and I jump in, selecting the ground floor. The doors are almost touching in the middle when a hand appears between them, stopping them from meeting. I know who I’m going to see before the doors part again. The man can move fast. “Going down?” I ask evenly as he steps in, rearranging his suit as he does.

“I wish,” he quips, and I’m forced to press my lips together to stop my laugh. I can’t, however, stop my smile.

“That won’t be part of the prize if you win, just so you know. Not that you can win.” I look out the corner of my eye as he turns toward me, staring at me, though all playfulness has gone. Now, he’s serious, and it has me momentarily wavering in my confidence. His hand slowly lifts and extends toward me, and the closer it gets, the smaller my smile becomes until it has completely disappeared. His fingertip meets my cheek and rests there, and I swear I feel charged with something I haven’t felt before.

Energy.

Desire.

I breathe in a long, slow breath as he drags it down my cheek. “And just with one finger on your stunning face,” he whispers. “Imagine what I could do with both hands and my tongue.”

I gulp, my eyes close, and then I’m seeing a million sordid visions of us naked, kissing, touching . . . screwing. I bet he’s an animal in bed. An expert. Skilled and talented. Oh, yes, a master. His body suggests it. His confidence suggests it. What he could do to me . . .

Lost in my fantasy, it takes me a moment to realize the elevator has stopped, the doors have opened, and Mr. Sexy as Fuck has left the cart. Then the sound of a wicked laugh hits me, and I open my eyes and see him jogging backward, his satisfied face slap-worthy. “You bastard,” I breathe, stepping off the elevator on wobbly legs that I know he hasn’t missed.

“Bring it on, gorgeous,” he calls, flipping me a cute wink as he turns and races away.

God damn it. Focus, Shannon. Where was I heading? Quickly gathering my thoughts, I zoom off to ladies wear, and hit the jackpot when I see a beautiful scarf for Ma that’ll do her well this winter. I’ve paid for it two minutes later, and I’m on my way to the food hall, having had divine inspiration from the cashier who helpfully suggested a hamper for my dad, since he’s a real foody, and anything from Harrods would be a real treat.

I pick out a medium-sized basket, packed with lovely cheeses, chutneys, and biscuits. “Perfect.” I give myself a little pat on the back, at the same time wondering how my competitor is getting on.

And just as I’m wondering that, he literally skids into the food hall on his expensive leather-soled shoes and looks around frantically. I don’t want to count my chickens, but he looks flustered. And a quick glance at his hands tells me he still only has two bags—one for the sunglasses and one for the doll. Oh, the feeling is too good.

Since I’m obviously winning, I take a precious minute to admire him while he’s unaware, noticing for the first time when he moves to the cheese counter that he has on a rather snazzy pair of socks, the turquoise color with grey spots complementing his grey suit nicely. He’s really well put together, and obviously takes pride in his appearance. What does he do for a living? How old is he? I laugh out loud. What’s his name?

He’s facing away from me as I wander over to him, browsing the cheese counter. I reach up on my tippy-toes, getting my mouth close to his ear. And I inhale his lovely scent. “Victory smells good,” I say quietly, and he stills for a moment, and then slowly turns to face me. His wry, knowing smile hits me between my thighs.

“I don’t know,” he purrs. “Smells kind of cheesy to me.” Dipping quickly, he steals a kiss of my cheek, startling me, and his mouth lingers for long enough to send me back into a trance. “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he breathes across my skin. “I really want dinner.”

And I really want you.

What?Shocked by my thoughts, I pull back quickly and move past him. “You’re not getting it,” I retort with a smile that suggests otherwise. “I have one more gift to buy.”

“And I’m still looking forward to dinner.”

His cocky answer has my feet moving faster, and I head to the men’s department to claim my victory. He doesn’t realize it, but he’s given me the idea for my final gift. I select a few pairs of socks from the array of fancy pairs and make my way to the checkout, but I stop halfway there, thinking. But only for a moment. Reversing my steps, I carefully select one more pair and quickly pay for them.

Then I make a mad dash for the elevators where we agreed to meet, as I stuff my purse into my bag and my heart pumps with anticipation. There’s no way he could have beaten me. I smile to myself, already relishing my victory—smug as can be—but it all falls away when I round the corner, finding Mr. Sexy as Fuck sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, his knees bent, his face a million shades of self-satisfied. Looking up at me, he performs an over-the-top yawn and a stretch. “What took you so long?”

My shoulders drop. “How?” I scan the floor at his feet. He still only has two bags.

Reaching into his inside pocket, he pulls out something and flashes it at me. “Gift cards.”

My mouth falls open, stunned. “You can’t do that.”

“They’re all within the budget.” He pushes himself to his feet and tucks them back into his pocket. “The budget you specified, I might add. There were no rules about gift cards.”

“But . . .” I fade off, frantically searching for a loophole to supersede the one he’s found, the cheating pig. “But . . .” I have nothing. He’s done me over, and I’m pissed off about it, the clever, annoying sod.

“But, but, but,” he parrots condescendingly, swaggering toward me and bending to get his face close to mine. “Look on the bright side.”

“What bright side?” I grumble. I’ve lost the bet. I’m not good with losing.

Stealing another kiss of my cheek, he turns me and slings his arm over my shoulder. It feels good, and momentarily chases away my slight. “You get to have dinner with me.”

“It’s not a bad consolation prize, I suppose,” I tease, earning a nudge of his shoulder. I chuckle as he leads the way, but then frown when I realize he’s walked us to ladies wear. “Why are we here?”

Releasing me, he starts browsing dresses, pulling various styles and colors out. “The store closes in twenty minutes, giving us just enough time to find you a new dress for our dinner.”

I snort. Maybe, but that dress won’t be bought here. “I’m more of a High Street kind of girl.”

He holds up a lovely black short number, which probably has an insane price tag attached. “I’m buying.”

“What?”

Collecting me, he directs my dazed form to the nearest changing room, practically placing me inside one of the cubicles. He hands me the hanger. “I’m buying, therefore I get to choose. And I like this one. Put it on.” He whips the curtain across, and I stare at the dress for a good few moments, pondering what to do. I can’t let him buy me a dress. I’ve known him a matter of minutes. “I can’t accept this,” I say to the curtain, and it’s quickly whipped across again.

He smiles at me. “Yes, you can. Now try the dress on.” He disappears behind the curtain again, and I shrug to myself, starting to strip down. When I’m standing in my underwear, it occurs to me that I’m virtually naked, and there is only a pathetic piece of material between us. Is he thinking the same? I look down my body. It’s not bad. I have great boobs, good upper arms. I’ve slacked at the gym in recent weeks, not surprising given my demanding new boss. Or rather, his exacting wife. I bet Mr. Sexy as Fuck works out every day. I bet under that suit is the body of an Adonis. I bet there’s not one scrap of fat on him. I bet . . .

No bets.

I get into the dress and bend my arms up my back to try and fasten the zip. “Does it fit?” he asks through the curtain.

“I don’t know. I can’t reach the zip.” I wriggle and wrestle in front of the mirror, and then yelp when he yanks the curtain across, my arms shifting to my front to hold the dress to me. “Whoa, mister.”

His gaze lingers on my chest for a few moments, his eyes flashing heat, before he physically shakes himself back to the here and now, coughing his throat clear. “Let me help.”

I laugh, nervous as shit. “Oh, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Turn. Around.”

I’m facing the mirror fast, my caution tossed to the wind, his stern tone turning me on. Turning me on so bloody much. And then his hands are on the dress, and I’m stiff as a board waiting for the inevitable dash of contact. And when it happens, my eyes fly to his in the reflection, and his hands still. There’s heat in his eyes again. No one’s bantering and laughing now. Fucking hell. Desire swirls through me too fast to stop, and I part my lips to get air into my lungs. I can read his intentions in his gaze, and I know he’s reading the acceptance in mine. God, am I really going to do this? In a changing room? In Harrods? With a man I don’t know? Does he do this often? Hunt women in department stores and have his wicked way with them?

Oh, the questions.

“Okay?” he asks quietly, his hands paused on the back of the dress.

“I think I’m about to have sex with a total stranger.” Let’s just start firing our arrows straight.

“I’m in the same boat,” he all but murmurs, still holding my dress. “Would it make you feel better to know my name?”

Would it?Or should I take this unexpected Christmas gift and just go with it? Live on the edge. Throw caution to the wind. You’re boring. Your life lacks excitement. You should be out there dating. Why the hell aremy sister’s words swirling in my mind now? Live on the edge. “No, I don’t want to know your name,” I say, turning to face him. But he stops me with two firm hands on my shoulders.

I look at him, and he shakes his head. “Stay there.” He reaches for the hem of the dress and slowly drags it up my thighs to my waist, watching me closely the whole time. “Put your hands on the mirror.”

My palms slap the glass as he yanks his tie loose and starts unbuttoning his shirt, revealing inch by perfect inch of his chest. A broad, manly chest, with neat dark hair dusting it. I swallow. It’s as I suspected. No fat. Nothing but ravines of muscles. “Condom,” I mutter mindlessly, locating a small piece of sensibility amid my chaotic thoughts.

He falters unfastening his fly, a look of devastation replacing the lust. “I don’t have one.”

I close my eyes and think real hard about what I’m going to say next. This is the perfect opportunity to call a halt on this. But when I have a solution to our problem, it would be silly not to offer it. It’s either that or walk out of this changing room feeling like a bomb ready to detonate, and I’ve already kissed goodbye to that option. “I have one,” I breathe, “in my purse.”

I don’t like the look of surprise on his face. I could explain that the strip of condoms has been there for months since my ex left me and my sister stuffed them inside and told me to get over him. But I won’t share that. I don’t need to. Let him think me a player. It’s better than him thinking me a mug.

He dips and pulls out my purse, handing it to me. “I don’t know whether I should be grateful or disappointed.”

I smile as I pull out the condoms and hold them up, holding my breath at the same time. His eyes take in the collection of six rubbers, and then he pouts. He’s even sexier when he pouts. “You plan on being busy?”

“It’s not what it seems.” I have to defend myself a little, even if I’m not willing to explain.

He plucks them from between my fingers and rips one off, dropping the rest to the floor. “I’ve heard that line before.”

His response and the way he said it makes me think about his life. Or, more specifically, his relationships. Was he cheated on too? I don’t know if my experience has made me super sensitive to fellow victims, like his line then, and the almost sarcastic edge to it. I think he has. No time for dating, he said. Busy at work. Like me. He pulls open the condom with his teeth. “Would you like the honor?”

“Honor? Listen to you, Billy Big Balls.”

“Oh, baby, you have no idea.” He lets his trousers drop, and I’m suddenly faced with black boxers . . . and a rather large bulge. “Ready?”

“Nope,” I choke, unable to find the will to be embarrassed by my honesty. I look up at him, wanting to ask him what the hell he thinks I might do with it, but I manage to save myself further embarrassment.

He shrugs and slips his hand past the waistband of his boxers. “I come from a long line of well-endowed men.”

“Lucky you.”

“And lucky you,” he whispers, passing me the condom, which I take with cautious hands. “Merry fucking Christmas.”

I can’t help but laugh at his boyish grin, as I pluck the foil packet from his hand and slip it out. “Merry Christmas to you too.”

He smiles as I drop to my knees and get up close and personal with his manhood, my tongue naturally tracing a wet line across my bottom lip as I stare at it. “Ready to bottle it?” he asks.

His doubt in my ability to live on the edge drives me forward, and I douse his cockiness with a bit of my own, letting my tongue slip free to meet the tip. He bends forward on a hiss, his palm slapping the mirror behind me. His breathing becomes instantly labored. “Gently does it,” he murmurs, taking his other hand to my hair and fisting it, as I open my mouth, close my eyes, and slide down his shaft. “Holy . . . shit.” I retreat, sucking my way back and relieving him of my mouth while I slide the condom on. His hands quickly take me under my armpits and haul me up, and he thrusts me against the mirror, pressing his body into mine. Breathing down on me, he rests a fingertip on my cheek and draws tiny circles. “I’m so glad I left my Christmas shopping until the last minute.”

“Me too.”

And with that, he slams his mouth against mine and virtually eats me alive, pushing me up the wall and grabbing my thigh, lifting it to his waist. A bend of his knees and a small roll of his hips has him in position, and he breaks our kiss to watch me as he slides oh so very slowly inside of me, stealing my breath. My fingers claw into his arms, my eyes rooted to his, unable to look away. His gradual, measured advance seems to last forever, and then he hits me at my deepest, unable to go any farther, and I cry out at the fullness.

His hand lands over my mouth. “Shh,” he whispers, holding still inside of me.

And then I hear a distant voice. “Is there someone in here?” a woman calls.

Oh fuck.

My eyes widen, and so do his.

“Hello?” she calls again, her voice getting closer. “The store is closing.”

He removes his hand from my mouth and withdraws, making me wince and him hiss. He quickly fixes himself first, leaving the buttons of his shirt undone and fastening his suit jacket to conceal his bare chest before pulling his trousers up. “My wife is just trying on a dress.” He gives me a wicked grin when I shake my head at him. “Won’t be long.” He spins me around and yanks my dress back down, so hard I stagger a little.

“Gentle,” I mutter.

His mouth is at my ear fast as he draws the zip up. “You wouldn’t be saying that if I was still buried Billy Big Balls deep inside you.”

“But you’re not.” I sound like a petulant child, my slighted state unmistakable. I had one stroke—an amazing stroke—and I want more.

With a pat of my bottom, he whips the curtain across and takes the zip of my dress. “We’re having a problem getting it off.” He wriggles it, as if to demonstrate. “Could do with some help.”

I wait for the sales assistant to take in the scene, to conclude what’s been going on in here, and when her eyes drop to the floor and she frowns, I find my stare following hers to whatever has her attention.

The collection of condoms. And the empty wrapper.

Oh my.I cringe as my partner in crime coughs, dipping and scooping them up. “Must have fallen out of my wallet.”

“Indeed.” The sales assistant’s arms fold across her chest. “And is the dress suitable?”

“Very,” he confirms. “We’ll take it.” Turning me around again, he unzips me. “Oh, and look at that. The zip’s working again.” He ushers the haughty looking sales assistant away before whipping the curtain across and helping me out of the dress, and I can do nothing more than let him. I suppose a husband and wife getting down and dirty in a public place is more acceptable than complete strangers.

Pulling the curtain back a little, he steps out and hands her the dress, flashing a dashing smile. “Thank you.”

“I’ll have it wrapped and bagged.” She gives me the eye past my accomplice as I pull my trousers back on, forcing me to look away, my cheeks heating.

I want to explain myself, tell her that I’d never usually be so wild and reckless. But instead I murmur a meek, “Thank you,” as she leaves. “Oh my God.” I put my head in my hands, so mortified. “I’m not facing that woman again,” I tell him straight.

“Me either.” He collects my blouse from the floor and helps me into it.

“But you told her we’d take it.”

“I was trying to appease her.” Scooping up our bags, he grabs my hand. “Ready to walk the walk of shame out of Harrods?”

“Can we run?”

He laughs and starts jogging, tugging me along behind him, and when we break out of the changing rooms, we run in the opposite direction of the cashier desk, both of us laughing like fools.

When we make it outside the store doors, I fall against the window and try to catch my breath, and he joins me. “I’m knackered for the wrong reason.” He rolls his head toward me, giving me a melt-worthy smile. “But it’s still the best shopping trip I’ve ever had.”

“Mine too,” I agree, holding his eyes as we both wait for our labored breathing to come down. Mr. Sexy as Fuck. Oh, how sexy you really are, especially standing here all disheveled and sexed-up. “It was nice almost knowing you,” I say on a coy smile, taking my bags from his hands. “Do you make a habit of seducing innocent women in department stores?”

“Never,” he answers without hesitation, and, oddly, I believe him. Past his handsomeness and that dash of cockiness, there’s a nice, genuine guy. Maybe it’s my Wanker Sensor working, or it’s simple women’s intuition. Maybe losing his silly bet is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. “Do you make a habit of distracting men in department stores?” he asks.

“I generally avoid men,” I admit, ignoring his raging curiosity as I pull my phone from my bag. I have a mild panic attack when I see my ma’s calling me. “What’s up?” I say when I answer, hoping they’ve not broken down, or hit traffic, or worse, had an accident.

“Ringing with an ETA,” she sings. “We’ll be two hours.”

“What?” I throw my panicked eyes at Mr. Sexy as Fuck, though he couldn’t possibly know what I’m panicking about. They said eight o’clock. It’s not even five-thirty.

“The traffic is being good to us,” she says. “Right, Seamus?”

“Right,” Dad grunts from beside her in the car.

I start running, needing to get home ASAP. I’ve got to tidy up, make the guest beds, and prepare supper. “Fuck,” I curse as I pick up pace and pull out my purse, diving in a cab and throwing my instructions at the driver, at the same time waving my cash at him. Thankfully, sensing my urgency, he pulls away from the curb quickly. I look out the back window to see him standing in the road watching me, and as the distance between us grows, I’m torn, bouncing between stopping and giving him my number, or continuing on my way. But then it registers . . . he didn’t try to stop me leaving. I might have been fast about it—fast and panicked—but a shout would have snapped me back to the moment and reminded me of our deal. Hell, the man has feet—that probably match his truly well-honed body—so don’t tell me he can’t run. He could have caught up with me with ease and stopped me. He could have reminded me of our dinner deal. But he didn’t. Has he changed his mind given he didn’t succeed in having a good screw in the ladies’ changing room? I laugh—it sounds wicked—and turn around in my seat. “Silly, Shannon,” I say to myself. But my laugh fades quickly. Did that really happen? Did I really flirt with a stranger? Did I almost have sex in a ladies’ changing room in Harrods on Christmas Eve? My cheeks puff out, and I shake my head, trying to get my brain back to the present. Back to reality. “On with real life, Shannon. Living on the edge is not for you.”

After dashing to the butcher to collect Dad’s sausage meat, I make it home, throwing my shopping in the cupboard under the stairs. Wrapping presents is bottom of my list of things to do, and the fact we traditionally open gifts on Christmas Day in the evening gives me some breathing room. I’ll sneak off for half an hour while Ma and Dad have their time-honored snooze after their big Christmas feed.

In a whirlwind, I fly around my apartment, ticking things off my list of stuff to do one by one. An hour later, I’m slightly out of breath but chuffed by what I’ve achieved in my tight timeframe. I’m ready. Let’s do this, Christmas.

I’m just yanking on a clean dress when the door knocks, and I race down the stairs as I button up the front. Swinging the door open, my parents bowl in, ever large as life.

“Merry Christmas,” Dad says, grabbing my shoulders and hauling me in for a squeeze. “Did you get sausage?”

I cough on nothing, my mind going to a terrible place momentarily. It’s an effort not to blurt, “Almost, Dad. So close.” But . . . “I got sausage,” I practically squeak as he releases me and slaps a kiss on my cheek.

He smiles fondly at me. “You got color in your cheeks, boo.”

I have? I reach up and feel them. That would be talk of sausage. And it really had been a damn fine sausage.

“My girl.” Ma shoves Dad aside and crushes me against her ample bosom. “He’s right. You’re glowing.”

I look past her when I hear a car door slam, courtesy of my niece, Ellis, and see my sister and her husband lugging bags out of the car. Judith catches sight of me and immediately cocks her head. Jesus, I feel like I’ve got a neon sign on my head declaring my recent illicit activities in a Harrods changing room. “Hey.”

She wanders up the path, pouting. “You pregnant?”

I laugh hysterically. “No, for crying out loud. What’s everyone’s deal? I’m just pleased to see you all.”

She sniffs. “I smell bullshit.” Kissing my cheek as she passes, she drops her bags and heads straight for the kitchen to fetch wine.

My niece enters the house like a hurricane, all full of beans. “He’s coming, he’s coming.”

And in follows my brother-in-law. “Hey, squirt.”

I shut the door on an exasperated eye-roll. “I’m thirty, Heath. When are you gonna drop that?”

“Never.” He kisses my forehead and disappears up the hallway as I shake my head, not at all annoyed. Judith and Heath have been together since she was sixteen and I was twelve. They’re lifers. And I’ll always be squirt. I shut the door and take a moment to listen, to inhale the smell of Christmas, family, and happiness. Perfect.

Everyone is sprawled across the two couches in my lounge the next day—Christmas Day—after a mammoth Christmas feast. Judith and I are on our second bottle of wine, Ma and Dad are snoozing, Heath is smoking his obligatory Christmas cigar in the garden, and Ellis is playing with the one gift we let her open this morning, a doll house.

It’s relaxed. Lovely. Peaceful. I’m about to disappear to wrap my gifts when the doorbell rings. Judith looks across to me as she tops up her wine. “Seriously, who the hell could that be?”

“Maybe it’s Father Christmas again,” Ellis chirps.

I drag myself up and make my way to the door, swinging it open.

And nearly fall over from shock.

“Mr. Sexy as Fuck,” I blurt mindlessly, stuck in a stupor. Yet however paralyzed by shock I am, I still manage to register his casual attire—jeans and a rather fetching Christmas jumper . . . with two big baubles on the front.

I come from a long line of well-endowed men.

I burst into fits of laughter. “Oh my God.”

“Mr. Sexy as Fuck, eh?” He waggles a cute eyebrow. “Suits me.”

I pull myself together. “What are you doing here?”

He holds up a bag. “Our shopping must have gotten mixed up. My sister isn’t a fancy socks girl. You hadn’t noticed?”

Confession time. “I’ve not wrapped them yet. Was just about to.”

He grins, the bag lowering. “Me either. You dropped your driver’s license as you ran away. Must have fallen out of your purse.” Pulling it out, he flashes it at me. “Shannon.”

I laugh lightly as I accept it. “And your name?”

He motions down his fetching Christmas jumper. “Mr. Billy Big Baubles.”

And I’m laughing again, holding on to the door to steady myself. “Your real name.”

“Shaun,” he says, biting at his lip. “Nice to meet you.”

“And you,” I say thoughtfully, nibbling on my bottom lip too. “You tracked me down on Christmas Day.” How far should I read into it?

“Well, like I said, jazzy socks aren’t my sister’s bag. She’d be pissed off with me if I didn’t give her a gift.” He shrugs, like it’s that simple. Is it? Something about the way he’s looking at me tells me otherwise. He wanted to see me again.

“Actually, one of those pairs I bought for you.” I motion to the bag he’s holding. “I noticed your socks yesterday. Cute.”

“You bought me a present?”

“Well, it was supposed to be a consolation prize.” I’m nonchalant, playing it cool, when on the inside I’m buzzing.

“I think my consolation prize was better.” His smile is wolfish and sexy and all-round gorgeous.

“Me too,” I admit. God, I like this man. I’ve never been so happy to lose, because something tells me losing with this man is the new winning. Something passes between us as we stare at each other, both smiling knowingly. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” he replies. “I have a feeling it’s going to be a good one.”

I inhale, thriving on the confirmation that we’re on the same wavelength, and then he’s moving in, coming closer and closer, and I brace myself for his kiss.

Suddenly a burst of activity occurs behind me, and my sister hustles me out of the way, coming to an abrupt halt when she finds Mr. Sexy as Fuck on my doorstep.

“Oh,” she breathes, giving me the side-eye and an accusing glare before returning her attention to Shaun. “You must be bullshit.”

“Sorry?” Shaun laughs, looking at me for confirmation he heard right. I can only shrug in apology for my sister.

“Guys,” she hollers, smirking crazily as she flicks her stare between us, “we have a visitor.”

I close my eyes, hearing the rest of my family pile into the hallway to find out who our visitor is. They all crowd together in the small space, staring at Mr. Sexy as Fuck like he’s a monster from the black lagoon. “Would you like to come in?” I ask. If they’re gonna stare, I could at least give him a drink to survive their scrutiny.

“Would love to. Is this your dad?” he asks as he steps in offering his hand to my old man.

“Dad, this is Shaun.”

I hate how chuffed my dad looks. I know he’s desperate for me to find happiness again, but he might not be too fond of Shaun if he knew how little we know each other. “Pleased to meet ya, son,” Dad says, happy as Larry. “Come in, have a drink.”

Shaun is directed to the kitchen by my very eager family, and what do I do? I find more wine and down a glass.

“Like cigars?” my brother-in-law asks as I enter.

“I don’t mind a puff on special occasions.”

“Good man.” Heath holds up a fat Cuban, half smoked, as he gives me an approving nod. “He’ll do.”

“Heath,” I choke, flaming red.

“Shaun,” Ma says, throwing him her famous Irish smile. “What a pleasure to meet ya. How do you and Shannon know each other?”

My wide eyes swing to Shaun. “We—”

“We’ve dated once or twice,” he says.

“How lovely.”

“You never told me you were dating again,” my sister hisses in my ear, slighted. “And my-oh-my, isn’t he delicious?”

“Hush up.” I bat her away, feeling totally exasperated, for Shaun and myself. Talk about a baptism of fire. The poor man is probably kicking himself for coming here.

My sufferable relatives disperse, and Shaun moves in beside me. “I’m sorry,” I say sincerely.

“You have nothing to be sorry about. Unless you back out of our deal.”

“Dinner?”

“No, sex in the changing rooms at Harrods.”

“Behave.” I laugh, feeling butterflies erupt in my tummy.

“It’ll happen,” he asserts confidently. “But until then, I’ll settle for the dinner date you owe me.” He hands me a bag, and my brow furrows.

“What’s that?”

“Your Christmas present.” He pulls out the little black dress. “I owe you a dress.”

“How—”

“I went back after you hightailed it in a cab.”

I balk at him. “And faced the disapproving shop assistant?” He’s braver than me.

He shrugs, his grin adorable. “Well, I really want to see you in it again, so yeah.” Tossing the bag on the counter, he takes my hand and pulls me into the hallway, away from watching eyes. I’m up against a wall a few seconds later. His mouth is close to mine, and he’s holding back his smile. “Come Christmas shopping with me next year.”

“Oh?”

His lips meet mine, and Christmas just got better. “Say yes,” he murmurs into my mouth.

“I’ll see you next year, then.”

“Oh, you and I will be seeing each other a lot before next year.” My thigh is grabbed, lifted, and pushed into his waist as he breaks his kiss and nuzzles at my cheek. “There are dozens of department stores in London, and I’d like to buy you a new dress from each for every date we have.” He covers my smile with his.

“Deal,” I agree easily. And how can I not? Not only did this tall, gorgeous, sexy man pursue me in Harrods on Christmas Eve, but he found me today too. On Christmas Day. And he wants me. He also wants to buy me dresses, although my bet is he’s more interested in taking those dresses off.So, yeah. It’s a deal. The easiest deal ever made.

Mr. Billy Big Baubles can buy me as many dresses as he likes.

Merry fricking Christmas to me.