Counting Down to You

by Emily Stone

Genres: Women's Fiction

Synopsis

A young woman travels to the Alps to complete her best friend's last request - and finds a love that's closer to home than she realises in this gorgeous festive romance from the author of Always, in December and Yours for the Season.

Ali has always loved Christmas. She and her best friend Robyn had a tradition to exchange advent calendars filled, not with chocolate, but with fun challenges to complete.

Only this year, there is no Robyn. Ali would rather skip December altogether, and the reminders it will bring.

But before she died, Robyn left Ali one last calendar.

The first challenge? Book a flight to Chatel, in the French Alps.

The second challenge? Post a selfie with an attractive man to make your ex jealous . . .

Determined to give Robyn's calendar her all, Ali takes a position in a hotel in Chatel, nestled in the snowcapped mountains, and snaps a selfie with a gorgeous stranger on the way.

But when she arrives, Ali is shocked to realise the surly hotel manager is the man from her photo. And now everyone already thinks she's dating the boss...

Suddenly the season looks a lot more complicated than she'd planned. But as the snow falls, will this be the Christmas to thaw Ali's heart?

Your favourite authors love Emily Stone...
'Romantic and full of warmth' SARAH MORGAN
'A gorgeous, festive, romantic read. Highly recommend!' SOPHIE COUSENS
'A life-affirming story that will wrap around you like a hug in any season' JOSIE SILVER
'Tender and gorgeously romantic. I LOVED it!' CATHY BRAMLEY
'Page-turning... A must-read' SUE MOORCROFT

Release date: October 6, 2026

Publisher: Dell

Print pages: 400

Sample

Chapter 1

I sit at my desk, looking out of the office window at a gray, gloomy London. I’m half listening to my colleague, Cal, reassure a candidate on the other end of the phone that twenty-four hours is not a long time to wait for feedback, and that he’ll be in touch as soon as he’s heard from the employer. The other half of my brain is concentrating on my audiobook, playing through the headphone stuck in my right ear, but I can still appreciate the way Cal is able to turn on the reassuring charm with a click of the fingers. I’m not surprised, though, when he hangs up the phone, rolls his eyes, and mutters, “Honestly.”

“A needy one?” I ask.

He yawns, rumpling up his hair—a shade lighter than my own dark blond. “It’s a temp job, Ali. Why does she even care that much?”

“Well, presumably she needs the job.”

“Yeah, but it’s honestly the most boring temp job you could imagine.”

I snort. “That the line you’re going with on the ad?”

He answers that with another yawn and a stretch, his pinstripe shirt—the designer one he saved up three months to buy because, to quote, “you’ve got to look the part in order to convince people you know more about finding jobs than they do”—tightening round his collar as he does so.

I try to refocus my attention on my computer screen, and the email I’m supposed to be replying to. It’s from one of the companies I’ve been working with since I started here, over six years ago, back when I was fresh out of university with a social anthropology degree and no real idea what to do with it. I’ve got bigger, higher paying clients now too, but I like this company. They want to start advertising for a new role and are wondering whether to wait until the new year, given Christmas is nearly upon us.

This largely depends on how you define “nearly,” given it’s not even December yet. Though tomorrow it will be. My gut spasms uncomfortably with that thought. I focus on my audiobook to distract myself. It’s one I’ve already listened to multiple times, so it doesn’t matter if I tune in and out. I like the story well enough, but it’s the narrator I keep going back to. Robyn has such a brilliant way of bringing the story to life.

Had. Robyn had a brilliant way of bringing the story to life. Nearly ten months since my best friend died and I still catch myself thinking of her in the present.

I jump in my seat when someone taps my shoulder. Cal is standing above me, holding a long line of silver tinsel. I slide my headphone out of my ear.

“It’s time,” he says, lifting the tinsel for emphasis.

Thankfully, I’m saved from having to explain that I don’t really feel like decorating the office by the arrival of my boss, Farah, who is coming back from her lunch break with, predictably, a paper bag from the most expensive salad bar in existence round the corner. I’m pretty sure it’ll be a mark of my success when I can afford to have one of their salads for lunch every day like Farah.

Farah glances at Cal as she shuts the office door. “Do we really need to be doing that?” she asks, addressing the tinsel.

“It’s Christmas,” Cal says, as if explaining something incredibly obvious. “Of course we do. And I’ve bought advent calendars for us all.” He moves back to his own desk, one down from mine, and reaches for a bag under it, producing five advent calendars—one for each of us in the office. Though we’re two down right now, one person off and the other still on a long lunch break, supposedly with a client.

My heart lurches at the sight of them. Another reminder of what tomorrow will bring.

“What?” Cal asks. He’s frowning at me—probably because I’m still staring at the cardboard calendars. “They were on offer.”

Farah shrugs off her red coat, hangs it on the coat rack just inside the door. Misty rain still clings to her dark-brown hair. “Hmmm.”

“Oh, come on, don’t be a scrooge,” Cal says. “It’s not like I have a whole lot else to do right now.” Which is probably true. He mainly looks after temp and seasonal work, doing a lot with companies who recruit staff for ski seasons abroad, all of which was sorted months ago. “And by that,” Cal continues, clocking Farah’s arched eyebrow, “I mean that I am an exceptionally hard-working and integral cog of the machine, who will be getting back to some very important recruitment-based work immediately after I finish hanging the decorations and making this place look less depressing.”

Farah’s lips, painted red as always, twitch. “Good to know.” She turns to me with an assessing look. “And you?”

I sit up straighter. Farah could probably compete for the “world’s best boss” title, but she has a very direct, no-nonsense stare. And she can be more than a little intimidating.

“Me what?” I ask.

“How are things work-wise? Is there anything you need help with?”

“Ummm . . . no?” I have no idea why I make it into a question. “It’s like Cal says—it’s quiet at the moment, isn’t it?”

Farah studies me out of dark, intense eyes, then jerks her head toward the interview room at the back of our small office. She clicks her way over to it on her heeled boots and I get to my feet, knowing I’m expected to follow.

Cal glances over from where he is attempting to stick the tinsel above the window. “You’re being summoned,” he says.

“Looks like.” I keep my voice casual, but—despite the fact I know, objectively, that I’ve done nothing wrong—I can’t stop the squirm of anxiety as I follow Farah into the breakout room we use to interview new candidates. It’s all glass, which wasn’t hugely well thought out. It means some of the candidates get twitchy, thinking that they are being watched not just by the person interviewing them but by the rest of the office too. It also sometimes makes things tricky if, for instance, our assistant—a girl fresh out of university who almost definitely has no interest in recruitment—tries to mime “do you want a cup of tea” when you are asking people about their five-year plans.

Farah takes a seat at the circular table, setting her salad down on top of it, and gestures for me to sit opposite. When I do, she leans across the table, like she wants to be able to scrutinize every inch of my face. For the first time in a while, I remember what it was like to be interviewed by Farah, what seems like a lifetime ago, and how nerve-racking the whole experience had been. Only then, at least, I knew what the interview was for.

“So,” Farah says. “How are you doing, Ali?”

“I’m good!” But I sound way too over the top, the way I

almost invariably do when someone asks me this question. I try to tone it down to something more believable. “I mean, you know, I’m okay.”

“No, you’re not,” Farah says bluntly. I’m not really sure what to say to that statement—I can’t work out if it’s a criticism or an observation. Farah taps her nails, painted the same color as her lipstick, against the table. Farah always manages to make me feel slightly frumpy, no matter how much effort I put in. “It’s December tomorrow.”

“Right,” I agree with a nod, still not sure where this is going.

Farah stops tapping. “Didn’t you and your friend have a tradition in December?”

The calendar, waiting for me at home. The memory of Robyn handing it to me from her hospital bed in January, a few weeks before she died, making me swear to complete it.

“We did,” I say as evenly as I can. No point in lying about it, is there? Because the advent calendar Robyn gave me was not an ordinary one. Instead of chocolate, inside the little squares will be handwritten challenges, folded on little pieces of paper. Challenges that I’ll have to complete, ideally before the new year but definitely by next December. I tried to explain it to Farah one year. Or, rather, I’d had to explain it to Farah, because Farah was the subject of one such challenge. Be brave and ask your boss for the pay rise you know you deserve.

I nearly got all the way through the challenge before nerves got the better of me and I started babbling, saying I was only asking because of this tradition with my friend. I got halfway through the explanation before Farah, thank God, held up her hand to stop me.