A Novel Christmas

by Charity Shane

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Anthologies

Synopsis

A prominent romance author has a slump in her love life and book sales, but a chance encounter with a hot firefighter helps her reignite her muse in this swoony holiday romance, perfect for book romantics.

Saira Wright is a prominent Black romance author who has been signed to the most prestigious publisher of African American works, Brownstone Literature. Her career has been successful for the past five years. However, she’s in a slump, and so are her sales and reviews. The romance she has been known for seems to be zapped out of her stories . . . and her love life.

Eager to get Saira back on top of the charts, her publisher has given her an ultimatum—write a chart-topping holiday romance or be dropped from the publishing house. There’s only one problem: Saira strongly opposes penning holiday books. To her, they are cliché and off-brand, but with her career on the line, she’s forced to give it a shot. To capture the spirit of the holidays, she books a vacation in the most “Christmassy” town she can find.

Sharing the other side of her rented duplex is the owner, Dorian Black, a volunteer firefighter, and the town’s little league football coach. He’s also “Mr. December” in the firefighter’s annual fundraising calendar . . . and every woman’s dream. Years ago, Dorian was happily married to the love of his life until cancer took her away from him. Still coping with the loss, a romantic relationship is the furthest thing from his mind. However, when he encounters his new tenant for the holiday, sparks fly and a fire is ignited that not even he can extinguish.

As the two navigate through various encounters, holiday festivities, and a snowstorm, will the magic of Christmas help them rediscover a long-awaited connection?

Release date: September 24, 2024

Publisher: Black Odyssey Media

Print pages: 288

Sample

THIS CAN’T BE good. Whenever my publisher, Marle, requests to speak directly with me, I know there’s a problem. Usually, all communications occur through my agent and best friend, Linaya, but not today. I’ve been summoned. I feel like a juvenile delinquent being called into the principal’s office. However, my juvenile years are long behind me, and this is about my career, not detention.

I have been writing for Brownstone Literature in their Black Romance division for the past five years. I have released eighteen stand-alone novels, five series, and four novellas during my tenure. Eleven of my books are distinguished bestsellers. My career is stellar, and I’m proud of my works of art. Although my sales and reviews have slightly declined this past year, I still stand by every story I pen.

Again, why am I here?

The uncertainty has me perplexed. My nine o’clock flight to Atlanta, turbulence, and the lack of a good cup of coffee aren’t helping my anxious mood. Not at all. I need caffeine.

“Saira Wright for Marle,” I tell one of the desk clerks as soon as I exit the elevator on the tenth floor.

Brownstone Literature is housed in a fifteen-story building in downtown Atlanta. It’s a beautiful building. From the outside, it looks like a glass building. The large windowpanes give that illusion, and it’s gorgeous, especially when the sun hits the building. It’s one of the most exquisite buildings downtown.

“She’s finishing up a meeting. It will be another ten minutes. Can I get you anything?” she asks.

God, yes! “A cup of coffee,” I respond, and she hands me a laminated piece of paper. It’s a coffee menu. Fancy! “The Starbucks Flat White, one salted caramel creamer, and one Equal,” I quickly tell her as I return the elaborate menu.

“It will be out in a moment. Please have a seat in the waiting area.”

“Thanks,” I say with a huge smile on my face. As a self-proclaimed coffee snob, I’m in heaven just thinking about my cup. Plus, it will give me the boost I need to deal with Marle. She’s a no-nonsense, straight shooter, and there is no guessing what she will tell me.

As I journey to the waiting area, I hear the desk clerk on the phone. “I have two coffee orders. The first is . . .” she begins, but her voice fades the closer I get to the plush beige chairs.

The waiting area is as elegant as the building. Several plush chairs and two large sofas are spread throughout. Each chair is accompanied by a small, glass-topped wooden table constructed in different abstract shapes. The style is modern bohemian chic.

Books by Brownstone’s published authors rest on each table, fitting for a publishing house. I’m tempted to take a stroll and see if one of my books made it onto a table. There should be at least one there, considering my successful catalog. However, before I venture up, the young lady walking out with a drink holder that houses two cups grabs my attention. “Did you request a coffee?” she asks, and I affirm. “Name, please?” she asks.

“Saira,” I respond. Then she graciously hands me the cup. “Thanks,” I tell her. The heavenly smell spills from the cup, then tickles my nose as I take my first sip. “Oh,” I sigh as the liquid goodness enters my mouth. Thank God for good coffee.

Halfway through my delicious cup, another intern enters the waiting area. After ascertaining who I am, he escorts me to Marle’s corner office. In the five years I have been signed to Brownstone Literature, I have only been to her office three times: for my introduction, the day of my first release, and two years ago, to renew my contract. I don’t make the trip from Miami too often. Most things can be handled via Zoom and email; in-person meetings are becoming increasingly obsolete. Being forced to stay home during the pandemic a few years ago changed how the world communicates.

Since my last visit, she has acquired more art pieces. She is a collector of unique art by young, up-and-coming Black artists, and her office is full of beautiful artwork. I love her style. It makes her office feel very warm and inviting and promotes Brownstone’s “diversity in arts” mission. Her new pieces are paintings by the artist Genesis.

With her usual smile, Marle greets me as soon as I enter. “Saira. How was your flight?” she asks as she motions for me to join her on the brown leather sofa in her seating area.

After sitting, I respond, “Bumpy. There was turbulence for the last hour.”

“That’s not good. I hate flying. I prefer to drive or take a train.”

“I have never taken a train. Don’t they take as long as a car?”

“Not that long, but definitely longer than flying. Plus, the ride is peaceful, and depending on your destination, the scenic views on the journey can be beautiful.”

“For no turbulence, I might have to try that,” I say, and she grins.

She gets right to the reason for my summons. “I know you are wondering why I asked you to come into the office.”

“I am.”

“It’s about your future here with Brownstone.”

“My future?” I question defensively. “I didn’t realize that there were any questions or concerns about my future here.” This is not at all what I was expecting.

Her facial expression doesn’t change. She is still sporting a smile on her face even though my gut tells me that her next words won’t match it. So, I brace myself by slowly exhaling as she continues to discuss my future.

“Your last three books did not crack the Top 10 list, and your reviews were average.”

Excuse me!

I’m sure my facial expression is void of any pleasantry because she quickly continues. “We are used to different results from you. You set that high standard.”

“Back to Love and Broken Pieces of You are both still in the Top 25,” I rebut.

“Not the Top 10,” she counters. Then she picks up the iPad on the table before us and begins swiping on the screen, reading reviews. “This was just okay to me. I’m used to more passion and connection with her characters. I love Saira, so I am sure I will read her next book, but this one didn’t grab me or take me on an emotional journey,” she reads, then scrolls up on the device. Continuing, she reads, “No. This was not it. Where’s the romance? Where’s the energy? Please, bring back the old Saira.”

Damn! She’s actually reading my latest reviews. Although they are not all five stars, I am still averaging four and a half stars, and that’s pretty damn good. It’s not my usual high ratings, but I’m still getting some good reviews, and my fan base has not diminished.

“I’m still above a four on my reviews,” I argue.

“You may be okay with that, but we are not. Honestly, I’m actually surprised you are okay with this.”

Honestly, I’m not. I sigh. I am painfully aware that my career is in a slump right now. Average is not me, and it’s definitely not my brand or my standard, but this past year has been hard. I ended a two-year relationship and somehow lost my mojo, my inspiration. It’s hard to write about great loves, passionate relationships, and happy-ever-afters when my real life sadly lacks all three.

My last relationship ended in February, and I have been single ever since. Like the old song says, “Love don’t live here anymore.” With my laptop and imagination, I can skillfully pen the perfect, chocolate alpha man who isn’t afraid to be vulnerable for the woman he loves. However, I can’t seem to find him in real life.

“I know that my previous work has been received better, but I know I can bring that same fire and energy back. My current work in progress is flowing really well right now. I’m twelve chapters in and already at over forty thousand words. This one will definitely crack the Top 10, if not the number one spot.”

“We’re putting a hold on that.”

“What! Why?” I exclaim, completely caught off guard. This book is my chance to get back on top. She can’t put it on hold.

“Because you need to work on a holiday release,” she says sternly.

Just as sternly, I reply, “I don’t write those. They are cliché and not a part of my brand.” My words are adamant and forceful. I have never written a holiday book in five years, and I’m not starting one now. It’s a trend I have intentionally avoided adopting. It’s fine for the writers who enjoy writing Valentine’s, Halloween, and Christmas books, but I do not and will not participate.

“Well, if you want to stay on Brownstone Literature’s roster, you will. This is nonnegotiable.”

Speechless.

Brownstone Literature is the premier publisher of all Black publications, books, magazines, and journals. Their reputation in the industry is unparalleled, and I owe my career to it. Ending this relationship isn’t an option for me, but neither is writing a holiday book in less than three weeks. It’s the fifth of December. She has to be insane to think I can write a whole novel that fast. My shoulders deflate, and I lean back on the sofa. I feel blindsided and backed into a corner. This conversation is definitely not what I expected.

Almost in a panic, I blurt out, “Christmas is in twenty days. There’s no way I can have a completed novel in that short time. I don’t even know where to start.”

Although I celebrate Christmas, I’m not a fanatic. I don’t even put up a tree or decorate my house. However, I buy gifts for my parents, older brother, younger sister, niece, and nephew, and we all eat dinner together. I even have a traditional meal that I prepare, but I’m not the reindeer-antlers-wearing, ornament-earrings-dangling, and ugly-sweater-sporting type of woman. I barely wrap my gifts. If my sister Tyra doesn’t wrap them, I either pay the wrappers at the mall, or I use holiday-themed gift bags.

“The book isn’t for this year. That would be impossible. It’s for next year’s holiday releases. This season, I need you to get inspired. That’s why your current work in progress is on hold. Use this month for research and research only. I want three fabulous concepts in my email box by the fifteenth of January,” she says, then stands.

I guess the meeting is over.

Following her lead, I stand too. “The fifteenth. Got it,” I say, then exit her office. There is nothing else to say, at least not to her. She gave an ultimatum. If I want to stay with Brownstone, I have to come through.

My mind is going a mile a minute, and I can’t wait to call Linaya. As soon as I’m in the elevator, I press her contact. I don’t give her time to speak when I hear the call connect. “Did you know about this?” I blurt out.

“What happened, Saira?”

“Too damn much. She put my current book on hold and is making me write a Christmas book.”

“For release this month?” she asks, sounding just as surprised as I am. It appears she didn’t know about this either.

“No, releasing next year, but she wants the concepts by January fifteenth. I’m pissed.”

“Damn. You and a Christmas book. What are you going to do?” she asks.

“Hell, write it. It’s not like I have a choice. She basically said they would release me from the publishing house if I don’t write the damn book.”

“Let me schedule a meeting with her and see what’s really going on.”

“Don’t bother; there’s no need. She was very clear.” It would be a total waste of time and energy for Linaya to debate this with Marle. We both know how headstrong she can be. Her word is final. Scheduling a meeting isn’t going to make any difference. I have to write this freaking Christmas book.

Linaya lets out an exasperated sigh, then says, “Okay. I won’t, but what are you really going to do?”

“Find some Christmas cheer, play Boyz II Men’s ‘Let it Snow’ on repeat, and write the book,” I tell her. What other options do I have? Frustrated, I add, “I need to call my ride. I’m headed back to the airport.”

“I thought your flight was tonight,” she says with a hint of confusion. Initially, I planned on going into the city and eating lunch at Mary Mac’s Tea Room, but now, I just want to get the hell out of the A.

“It was, but there’s no use in me sticking around. I’m going to try to take an earlier flight. I have six weeks to find some holiday inspiration and get my mojo back.”

“We’ll link up tomorrow and come up with a game plan. Have a safe flight.”

“Thanks. Email me your availability, and we can meet tomorrow.”

I end the call and open my Uber app. After ordering an Uber Black, I open Google. I have to start somewhere. With no real plan in mind, I search for Christmas vacation spots. Being in Florida with seventy- and eighty-degree weather isn’t going to put me in the spirit. I need the whole winter experience: snow, fireplaces, sleighs, and Santa.

My search results are astonishing. I simply search Christmas towns, and over fifty results pop up. There’s actually a town in Indiana named Santa Claus. Who knew?

As I wait for my new two o’clock flight while sitting in the 40/40 Bar, I search for hotels in Santa Claus. The only national chains I find are the Comfort Inn and Quality Inn. Besides being picky about hotels, the rooms lack winter themes. I need a fireplace, so I expand my search to Airbnbs. There are a plethora of those, and some are actually exquisite. A huge, converted duplex catches my eye, and I message the owner, Mr. Black. By the time I’m buckled in my seat on the plane, I’m booked for Santa Claus, Indiana; my flight and Airbnb are confirmed.

“THERE’S A LADY up front asking to speak with the handsome fireman who helped her out of her car yesterday on the bridge,” Crystal, the chief’s assistant, says with a smirk.

“The entire truck helped her,” I explain. “We are a team. How do you know that she’s talking about me?”

Still smiling, she responds, “Because she specifically asked for the handsome Mr. December.”

“Ugh!” I sigh. “I should have never done that damn calendar,” I reply in disgust.

Every year, Truck 31 of the SCFD volunteer unit puts out a fundraiser calendar. All proceeds from the sales are used to fund our division and to support the local foster home. Every year for the past three years, I have graciously opted out of it, but this year, I couldn’t say no. Of the twenty-five volunteers, I was the last one who didn’t participate. So, very reluctantly, after much persuasion, I agreed.

Just my luck, I was chosen for the month of December. I’m featured on the calendar, dressed in Santa Claus-inspired firefighter pants with suspenders, no shirt, and a red firefighter helmet. Not only am I the December photo, but I’m also the cover photo. For anonymity, I wanted to have my shield down to cover my face, but the female photographer quickly nixed that idea. Unfortunately, there’s no denying it. I’m Mr. December.

“She has a Crock-Pot and everything. Maybe she cooked enough for the crew.”

“Go ahead, man,” Munch, one of my crew members, urges. A few of us are chilling in the lounge area watching ESPN highlights. The station is basically two parts: the administrative office and the actual house side that has the kitchen, large lounge area, dining tables, lockers, showers, and bed pods. A long hall separates the admin from the residential side.

“You know I hate accepting any gifts. I do this because I love being a fireman.” Besides, I’m selective about what and from whom I eat.

“Then get the food for us,” Keith, my friend and crew member, suggests.

For the team, I trek to the front, following Crystal. She gets a kick out of this. The population here in Santa Claus, Indiana, is barely three thousand. In this small town, everybody knows everybody, especially us few minorities. The town only has a 3 percent Black population, so whenever a sister comes to the station looking for Mr. December, Crystal does the damn most.

“Maybe you should take off your shirt. Give the woman a treat since the poor lady doesn’t stand a chance,” she says, barely controlling her laughter.

“She clearly has a calendar for that,” I scoff.

Being a recent widower, I’m not interested in pursuing other women. I was lucky to meet my true love eight years ago when I was twenty-seven. Like a tornado, Mya came into my life and made a huge impact. No other woman can compete with that.

I was in Atlanta playing for the Falcons. It was my fourth year on the team. They drafted me straight out of UG. She was a junior agent representing me at the sports management company. During one of my many meetings with my agent, she barged into the office, running right into me. When her gorgeous face looked up at me to apologize, I swear I was instantly in love.

It took a few grand gestures and constant nagging for her to agree to finally go to dinner with me. Like most female agents, she had a strict “no dating athletes” policy. When she gave in, I was the happiest man alive. Our first dinner lasted for three hours, and we fell fast in love. I proposed six months later, and we were married within a year. I had found my forever.

Together, we built the perfect life in Atlanta. All we needed were the two kids and a dog. Then during our fifth year of marriage, we received the most devastating news. During her yearly women’s exam, the doctor discovered a lump in her right breast. Two weeks after the discovery, her doctor ordered a biopsy.

Mya had breast cancer, stage four, and it was metastasizing to her lymph nodes. Her health and treatment became my main focus. When we were given the planned rigorous schedule, I left the league to ensure I was there for her every day, every doctor’s appointment, and every treatment.

Through chemo, radiation treatments, and surgeries, I was by her side as she fought with all her might to beat the disease. She never gave up, even when the doctors did. When they finally started measuring her life in months, she asked to move back to her hometown—Santa Claus, Indiana—so we did. Whatever she wanted or needed, I did it with no hesitation.

Three years ago, she lost her battle, and I lost the love of my life. She is buried here. Therefore, I will always be here. I can’t bring myself to leave. My heart is here in Santa Claus.

I’ve built as good of a life as I can without her. Aside from my twenty hours a week as a volunteer firefighter, I also own and manage rental properties, and I’m the coach of our city’s AAU football team, the Warriors. My life is uncomplicated, and I’m content. I don’t need any distractions, and I’m not looking for another wife.

When Crystal and I make it to the front of the station, a fairly attractive woman is standing by the door holding a Crock-Pot. She’s average height with a nice body. Her face is even cute, but her eyelashes are too distracting. As she bats them at me, all I picture are butterflies. I hate those exaggerated lashes. I study her before I speak because we had a few rescues yesterday, and since it was a team effort, I don’t recognize her, but I will be cordial.

“Oh my God! I really wanted to come and personally say thank you. You saved my life,” she gushes.

“It’s our job, ma’am. You don’t have to say thanks. I’m just glad that you are okay.” I don’t recognize her.

“Well, it’s the least I could do. I figured you big, strong men get hungry, so I made some Brunswick stew. It’s homemade. I even cooked and deboned the chicken,” she says as she hands me the Crock-Pot. Her eyes roam my entire frame when I grab the pot. There’s an index card attached to the top. She notices that I’m reading it. “That’s my address and number,” she says seductively, and I can hear Crystal grinning from behind. “When it’s all gone, you can either drop it off or call me, and I’ll stop by and pick it up.”

To show her just how uninterested I am without hurting her feelings, I remove the taped card, then turn and hand it to Crystal. “We will clean it and leave it with Crystal up front. She will call you so you can come and get it. Thanks again,” I say, and her whole face drops. Her girlish grin quickly disappears, and she stops blinking her extra-long eyelashes.

Relentlessly, she tries again. “But I was hoping—”

“Thanks again,” I say, interrupting her before she embarrasses herself. “Like I said, she will give you a call.”

I turn before she tries yet again to say something. As I journey past the front desk to head back to the house area, Crystal shakes her head. When I’m halfway down the hall, I hear t. . .