A Hamilton Family Christmas

by Donna Kauffman

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; Holiday Romance

Synopsis

Come visit Hamilton, Virginia, a small town that's big on Christmas spirit, and where it's always the perfect season for falling in love. . . .
 
Unleashed
When Emma Lafferty is hired by a billionaire CEO to watch his pets over the holidays, she expects to enjoy a quiet Christmas in opulent surroundings. Instead, she gets a week trapped in a mansion with Trevor Hamilton, her employer's sexy great-nephew, whose motives are as shady as his desire is crystal clear
 
Lock, Stock and Jingle Bells
Holly Berry Bennett is not a fan of the holidays—or of having to put her life on hold to manage her mother's Christmas novelty shop. But her childhood pal, Sean Gallagher, is determined to warm Holly up to Christmas and to him.
 
Naughty But Nice
Thomas Griffin Gallagher has plans that will put Melody Duncastle's hometown on the map—and land him at the top of her naughty list. The sassy-sweet baker has shaken his world, but she likes her community just the way it is. Is there a way for Griffin to build his empire without letting go of love?  

Release date: September 29, 2020

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 322

Sample

“Good Lord, more of the bloody damn things.” A cluster of the silver nuisances jingled and chimed cheerfully as Thomas Griffin Gallagher entered Cups & Cakes, the small bakery and coffee shop on the edge of the town square. He winced at the increased throb in his temples. The American celebration of Thanksgiving was still weeks away, but the town was already riddled with the festive touches of the pending Christmas season. In fact, everywhere he went in the rural little burg of Hamilton, he heard bells ringing. Each and every doorway or archway had one hanging somewhere; men in red suits standing over black kettles clutched at least one or two. Moments ago, when a trundling service truck with the damn things tied to the grille had come within an inch of running him down, they’d almost been the last thing he’d seen on this earth. Ringing and clanging, clanging and ringing.

It was enough to drive a bloke bloody, raving starkers.

The rich scent of coffee beans filled his senses, and the jangling bells went mercifully ignored as he shut the door behind him. He’d arrived in Virginia from Dublin two weeks ago, but the nagging headache wasn’t due to prolonged jet lag. His arrival in the village proper that morning was the next critical step in his mission ... and not likely to do anything to help the throbbing in his temples.

It was why he was in a cupcake shop—to gird himself with a bit of freshly ground armor. He took a moment to breathe in the most heavenly of scents and thought about that morning, almost one year ago, when he’d been informed by his Gallagher cousin, Sean, that the only Irish in him came from his mum, who’d been a Houlihan before marrying his father. Otherwise, he was a red-blooded American. It had explained many things, possibly among them the reason why he’d always preferred the rich, dark taste of coffee over tea. In fact, he could feel the pinch of the headache he’d woken up with already receding, just from the scent alone.

He walked up to the short tidy counter. Given the typical Yank’s apparent addiction to the stuff, he was surprised that he’d yet to find anything comparable there. After mentioning as much to the owner of the rustic inn where he was staying, just on the outskirts of town, he’d been guided to this quaint little shop. Posh hotels were more typically his style those days, but the closest one to Hamilton was several hours away in Charlottesville. He supposed there were some who found the cozy, rural setting something of a respite from their usual hectic pace of life. Griffin, on the other hand, would have given anything for room service and a decent concierge.

However, if the coffee tasted half as good as it smelled, he’d have to thank Mrs. Crossley, the innkeeper, the next time they crossed paths. It hadn’t been often of late, given the hours he’d been keeping since his arrival. One cup, then he’d brace himself for a day of trying to explain to the fine citizens of Hamilton how his ideas on globalizing the town’s potential would revolutionize their little world. His plans were going to improve the quality of living for every man, woman, and horse presently living in Hamilton Township proper, as well as the surrounding county of Randolph. They would see improvement on every measureable scale. Who wouldn’t want that?

At least, that’s how he saw it. But he knew from personal experience with his family back home that not everyone understood or appreciated possibilities and potential. Especially those who had never had their fair share of it. He smiled again at the irony that this little village, thousands of miles away from his childhood home, was, in many ways, just as strangled by tradition and conservative thinking as West Cork.

He could only pray that, unlike those who had raised him, the fine folks of Hamilton—his blood family, as it were—would embrace his ideas, rather than turn a deaf ear before hearing him out. In order for them to fully realize the depth and breadth of his plans, he would need their cooperation.

But change was coming, regardless. Fearing his death was imminent, aged and frail Lionel Hamilton had signed off on Griff’s every idea, knowing it would ensure the future for the empire that Lionel, along with his ancestors, had built.

Griff’s train of thought was abruptly broken by a loud yelp coming from somewhere in the rear of the small shop, followed by a ringing crash of what sounded like metal on metal.

He gritted his teeth against the renewed ringing inside his own head, even as he called out in the ensuing silence. “Hullo? Are you in need of some assistance?”

What followed was a stream of very ... colorful language that surprised a quick smile from him. He’d found Americans, at least the ones of his immediate acquaintance, to be a bit obsessed with political correctness, always worrying what others might think. So it was somewhat refreshing, to hear such an . . . uncensored reaction. He assumed the string of epithets wasn’t a response to his query, but then he’d never met the proprietor.

He debated heading around the counter to see if she might need help, then checked the action. “No need to engage an angry female unless absolutely necessary,” he murmured, tipping up onto his toes and looking behind the counter, on the off chance he might spy the pot of coffee. “Ah,” he said, on seeing a double burner positioned beside an empty, tiered glass case.

He fished out his wallet and put a ten note on the counter, more than enough to cover the cost of a single cup, then ducked under the counter and scanned the surface for a stack of insulated cups. Oversized, sky blue mugs with the shop’s white and pink cupcake logo printed on one side and the name on the other were lined up next to the machine. He didn’t think she’d take too kindly to his leaving with one of those.

“Making an angry female even angrier . . . never a good thing.” His mouth lifted again as a few more, rather unique invectives floated from the back of the shop. “Points for creativity, however.”

He glanced at his watch, saw he still had some time, and took a moment to roll his neck, shake out his shoulders, and relax his jaw. He could feel the tension tightening him up, which was a fairly common state of late. But he’d never been so close to realizing his every dream. He fished out the small airline-sized tube of pain relievers he’d bought when he’d landed. Upon popping it open, he discovered there was only one tablet left. He shrugged and dry swallowed it.

He crouched down to look under the counter and had just opened a pair of cupboard doors when he felt a presence behind him.

“May I help you with something?”

Hmm. Angry female, immediately south of his wideopen back. He was fairly certain there were sharp knives within reach. Not the best strategy he’d ever employed.

Already damned, he reached inside the cupboard and slid a large insulated cup from the stack, snagging a plastic lid as well, before gently closing the doors and straightening up. “Just looking for a cup,” he said as he turned, a careful smile on his face.

The smile froze as he got his first look at the cupcake baker.

He wasn’t normally given to poetic thought, but there he stood, thinking her clear, almost luminescent skin made her wide, dark blue eyes look like twin pools of endlessly deep, midnight waters. It was surprisingly difficult to keep from looking away, every self-protective instinct he had being triggered by her steady hold on his gaze, which was rather odd. She was the village baker. Despite the tirade he’d just overheard, he doubted anyone who made baking cheerful little cakes her life’s work would be a threat or obstacle to his mission. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said, lifting the cup so she could see what he’d been about. “You sounded a bit ... occupied, back there.”

“Yes, a little problem with a collapsed rolling rack.”

His gaze, held captive as it was, used the time to quickly take in the rest of her. Thick, curling hair almost the same rich brown as the steaming hot brew he’d yet to sip had been pulled up in an untidy knot on the back of her head, exposing a slender length of neck and accentuating her delicate chin. All of which combined to showcase a pair of unpainted, full, dark pink lips that, even when not smiling, curved oh-so-naturally into the kind of perfect bow that all but begged a man to part them, taste them, bite them, and ...

He looked away. Damn. He couldn’t recall his body ever leaping to attention like that, after a single look. No matter how direct. Especially when his attentions were clearly not being encouraged in any way, if the firm set of her delicate chin was any indication.

“Nothing too serious, I hope,” he said, boldly turning his back to her and helping himself to a cup of coffee. After all, he’d paid for it. Not that she was aware of it as yet. But he thought it better to risk her mild displeasure until he could point that out ... rather than engage more of the fury he’d heard com. . .