Once Upon a Christmas Tree (The Valentine Nook #0.5)

by Lulu Moore

My theory is there’s enough bourbon in it to start a bonfire if you hold a match too close, therefore one glass and any germs within a fifty-yard radius are killed by the fumes. But hey, that’s just me.

Lando became the eleventh Duke of Oxfordshire the day our father died. He was fourteen years old. I was twelve.

How is she even real? She looks like she should come with wings and sit on top of the tree. I could give her something to sit on. Oh dear god. What the fuck is the matter with me?

I don’t want to see Haven laughing with anyone else. I want all her laughs.

Like Theo James soaked himself in a vat of honey. Is it possible to be turned on by an accent?

“No, sadly. I’m just regular Haven.” “I don’t think there’s anything regular about you?”

I’d spend ten times that if I got to see her blush again because that shade of pink on her cheeks did something to me.

I can’t stop myself. I grip the front of his shirt and tug him into me. I can’t tell if his mouth crashes to mine first or if I lift on my tiptoes to get there right before he does, but I forget all about it when his tongue sweeps into my mouth.

“To gingerbread competitions, and the prettiest mayor of Aspen I’ve ever met.”

“No…you know what? We should toast your parents, for they made one hell of a daughter.

I don’t know how he’s done it, but I’ve never been turned on by someone pouring me a drink before.

I mean…I don’t think they even make Americans like this Englishman, let alone Englishmen like him. It’s not alcohol talking. This guy is a straight-up, certified god. A Christmas miracle.

“Fuck…look at you.” The timbre of his voice licks fire across my skin. “Taking my cock…like you were born to.”

But it’s still there when I open them. My store. My store in gingerbread. My store in precise detail.

“That first day I saw you next to the jukebox, I knew I wanted to fuck you. But I never thought I’d enjoy fucking you this much. I never want this to end.”

My dick’s been ruined by an American Christmas Tree farmer. Go figure.

“Time is of the essence. Sit on my face, then I’ll fuck you in there while you’re watching the sunset. It’s heated, don’t worry.”

But Haven…no, not Haven. I don’t want to share her with anyone. She’s mine. No one gets to see her how I see her.