Forgetting Christmas : A Steamy Standalone Instalove Romance, page 1
CONTENTS
Forgetting Christmas
NEWSLETTER
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
Epilogue
Epilogue
NEWSLETTER
Top Reads
A MAN WHO KNOWS WHAT HE WANTS
BRATVA BEAR SHIFTERS
LAIRDS & LADIES
RUSSIAN UNDERWORLD
IRISH WOLF SHIFTERS
INKED BY LOVE
TEXT ME YOU LOVE ME
Collaborations
About the Author
FORGETTING CHRISTMAS
AN OLDER MAN YOUNGER WOMAN ROMANCE
_______________________
A MAN WHO KNOWS WHAT HE WANTS, 314
FLORA FERRARI
Copyright © 2022 by Flora Ferrari
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The following story contains mature themes, strong language and sexual situations. It is intended for mature readers.
FORGETTING CHRISTMAS
Christmas. A time for family and friends. A time for…. Ah, who the hell am I kidding?
It’ll just be another day at the office. I’ll grab a cold turkey sandwich and a lukewarm coffee.
Same as every other damned Christmas.
Although I can afford it, I can never repay certain debts from my past.
Certain people helped me get to where I am today. The closest thing I ever had to a family, but it’s just not quite the same.
And this time of year always rubs my nose in it.
Alone again, with the world at my feet and an empty throne beside me, ready for my Queen.
But where is she? Who is she?
A little air to clear my head answers both questions in a split second.
The trouble is, I have no memory of who I am since some not-so-friendly locals tried to take what wasn’t theirs.
Like a Christmas angel, she appears. Perfect and ready. Willing and able to do what nobody else can or will right now.
Help me remember who I am.
I don’t know if I’ve died and this isn’t quite heaven yet or if she’s an angel come to guide me through to the other side.
But heaven can wait because I’ve got everything I need right here.
Forever.
My angel.
Mine, dammit.
Forgetting Christmas is an insta-everything standalone romance with a curvy FL, HEA, no cheating, and no cliffhanger.
NEWSLETTER
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CHAPTER ONE
Steve
“No, of course, I won’t forget.”
Looking out the fortieth-floor office window, light and silent snow drift past me like tiny, winking mirrors. I remind myself not to forget.
Not at Christmas.
Not ever.
“You paid us a visit personally the year before last, and it would mean so much more to the kids at the hospital to see you this year,” Sister O’Halloran says in a near whine, making me grip the phone a little harder.
It’s not like I have anyone waiting for me, either.
Not today or any other day.
The office has wound down for the year, just basic staff for the next few days until Christmas, and then I’ll haunt the place like I always do.
My usual Christmas dinner was a cold turkey sandwich from the hospital shelter and coffee from the machine.
Like the good old days.
Days I thought I’d have grown out of by now, having a family of my own, kids, and a wife by my side.
I dealt with my Catholic guilt years ago, but there’s something in Sister O’Halloran’s voice that gets me, today of all days especially.
Donation day.
There’s so much more I owe the hospital she helps run than just money.
I was a very poor, sick kid myself once, and the sisters of Saint Rosemary’s took me when nobody else could or would.
I never forgot that, but sometimes I do forget the little things.
Like calling up to say hi, or even turning up in person when I know she thinks it would help the hospital.
Having kept a few vows of my own once I left the nuns, I make sure I give back every year.
Making sure they get a little bit of everything I earn – every dime since I was old enough to ride a paper route or be a busboy.
I’m forty-two now, and the only sickness I’ve known as an adult is what other people feel when they hear how much money I actually make in a year.
I buy and sell businesses. Big ones, usually. That’s my business.
The hospital’s one of the biggest in the city now, and Sister O’Halloran still runs the old orphanage we managed to save from demolition.
Nowadays, the place I grew up in has been converted to a specialty children’s ward for kids with nobody else to help them, which she helps run and is mostly paid for by yours truly.
A homeless and battered women’s shelter runs through the same channels too.
Yeah, I admit. Sometimes I forget to turn up or drop in on the nuns, but I’ve never forgotten to keep trying to pay the debt that money could never match.
It’s the least I can do, and I can certainly afford it.
Glancing at my newest Rolex, my early Christmas present to myself, I watch the snow-powdered scene outside shift as I stab my head in a nod.
“I tell ya what,” I almost sigh, trying not to feel guilty after all. “I could head over soon-ish… I’m kinda done for the day, and you’re right. It’s much better to say hi than just write a check.” I admit, and not only because it’s useless to argue with a nun.
“You know it’s not just the money, Mr. Carter.”
I click my tongue, shaking my head now and reminding Sister to call me Steve.
“Mister Carter is what the staff here call me. Makes me sound so… old!” I exclaim, laughing aloud.
“You’ll always be that sweet little angel baby to us, Steven,” she reminds me affectionately and warns me to take care before saying goodbye.
“Those streets are icy as all hell today,” she laughs quietly to herself before hanging up. That’s the closest thing to a sin to come out of her mouth, which makes me smile.
The closest thing to a mom I ever had, too.
God bless and watch over every one of those nuns who have been doing his work every day for decades now.
There is still good in the world, ya know, Steve. Just gotta learn to see it.
Hmm. Not sure about that one most days. My world is a dog-eat-dog kind of place.
There’s a hurried knock at my open office door, and even though I make a low sound of annoyance, it’s what I do. What I’m here for.
“Uh, Mr. Carter? Paris is on one. And the D.A. is still on hold, line two.” The familiar and clipped voice of my personal assistant, Madison, reminds me with the look I’ve grown to ignore.
“I’m in a meeting,” I murmur absently, not even looking at him as I turn my back to the doorway.
Looking at the snow again, sensing the quiet outside. The quiet that exists somewhere else but here, and I finally turn around.
“I’m still here,” my faithful assistant almost snaps at me. “The D.A. doesn’t buy the meeting story anymore, and Paris…?” he starts, but my eyes have moved past him toward my coat.
“Alright. Think I’ll go for a walk instead,” I tell him, creasing a smile and noticing his effort not to roll his eyes in my presence.
“A walk…,” he parrots back somberly, pretending to jot it down on his legal pad before spinning on his heel and leaving me alone as I slide into my coat and scarf.
I mean it, though. A walk in the winter snow will do me good.
Clear my head.
Paris and the D.A. They’ll still be there when I get back, or maybe even tomorrow if I can make it through the rest of today without being interrupted again.
Just don’t forget about the hospital. Sister O’ Halloran.
I won’t.
I promise.
The thought echoes in my mind as the voice of the good Sisters. Almost like angels themselves.
And that quiet solitude I was yearning for?
It certainly looked possible forty stories up, but at street level, the noise, smells, and skiddy slipperiness of downtown sidewalks a few days before Christmas hit me in the face like a ton of bricks.
With my collar turned up against the icy wind whipping up from the alleys, I keep my eyes down, watching my steps on the icy pavement.
I thrust my hands into my pockets, and feeling my thin wallet reminds me I’ll need some more ready cash.
Donations are one thing, but Steve Carter has a reputation for visiting sick kids and handing out crisp hundred-dollar bills around Christmas time.
Some people call it other things, nasty, jealous things. But the face of a sick kid who can choose what they want, or maybe help mom or dad with something like rent or food when they see sorely needed cash?
That means a hell of a lot more than wrapping paper and stuffed toys.
More than newspaper or TV spots on what a ‘helluva guy’ some rich asshole is for just turning up and smiling for the cameras.
The corner branch is closed early, but there are a dozen ATMs on the way, so I decide to stock up on money before I get there, as most seem to be doling out a limited amount.
Christmas… Bah, humbug! I smile to myself. The sound and feel of crisp hundred-dollar bills that were once beyond my wildest dreams always make me smile, even to this day.
But only because there were so many years when I couldn’t even afford to eat, let alone live the life I take for granted now.
I make a few stops, and once I feel the wallet straining to close at the last ATM, I figure I’m good to go until my next visit on Christmas Eve.
The kids on the ward, the ones with moms and dads as well as the sisters, will all rest a little easier tonight, I hope.
Turning to put my wallet back into my pocket, I bump into a thick-set man and offer an automatic apology in a low voice, but the guy doesn’t move.
Then one guy turns into three as I look up from my wallet, stifling a groan at their cruel, creased faces.
The dull sheen of a Glock grabs my attention from under number one’s coat.
“Just hand it over and keep walking,” he says in an equally low but more edgy voice than my own.
That hand has a slight tremor, and it’s not just from the cold.
I don’t feel like getting shot today, and anyone living in the city has their own mugging stories, but today? Right now?
With all those Ben Franklins I just took out for those sick kids?
I don’t fucking think so.
“Uh, fellas,” I say calmly, eying each of them with a small smile.
“I can buy us all a nice hot cup of coffee, give ya a hundred a piece even, but I can’t give you my wallet,” I tell them, suddenly deadpan.
“Not today. Not this wallet.”
Suddenly annoyed at myself that I even offered to buy them coffee, I should be laying all three flat right about now.
The wallet was a birthday gift from the hospital when I turned ten, and it had the first dollar I ever earned in it, which I keep framed in my office now.
I hear the sound of the gun cocking in a wordless reply.
Blinking slowly, I realize these guys aren’t playing a game, and they’ve most likely followed me since I left my office.
Idiot!
I feel my knuckles creaking into a fist, the guy’s hand flashing in front of my face as he hits me with the butt of his gun, and then I find myself falling.
Falling backward as I hear Sister O’Halloran’s laughter echoing in my mind.
Those streets are icy as all hell today.
I don’t think they expected a man my size to fall like this, but I slip on the ice as I tense up. I’m helpless even as I feel the wallet yanked from my fingers before I feel as if I am about to black out.
The pain at the back of my head is like a white heat, only made worse by what feels like nails being driven into it.
Tiny snowflakes that feel like hammers peppering my face.
Then I hear her.
I hear her before I see her, unable to say anything myself before I slump back further, all the way into the blackness, but I hear her all the same.
And then I see her.
Catching just a glimpse as she runs across the street through my watering slits of eyes.
An angel.
My Christmas angel, swearing like a pirate at the top of her lungs, lucky not to get hurt herself as she trots over to me, skidding on the ice and forgetting all about herself as she kneels next to me.
If I had just been shot, if that pop was the gun and not my head hitting the sidewalk, I could go happily now.
But something tells me this angel has come to take me somewhere else and that I’m gonna be more than fine.
By the looks and feel of her shape pressing into me, I would gladly spend eternity alone with her, too.
And that’d just be for starters.
CHAPTER TWO
Holly
I can’t help but replay it over and over in my mind.
Most girls on the shop floor saw this coming and knew we could all be out of work by the New Year.
But me?
I actually thought it wouldn’t come to that.
Come to this.
My only real job since leaving school and the only way of trying to pay for my way to live in the city is gone.
A nail gun factory isn’t exactly a dream job, but with overtime, it’s helped keep me off the streets until now.
“Now, ladies… Y’all knew it might happen. Some of y’all have shifts until Christmas Eve, and those with time owed still have a holiday with full pay… starting today.”
It was our union rep’s ‘sorry, not sorry’ speech. Try as we might, fighting for better working conditions, more pay, and keeping our jobs was never an option.
Helluva way to find out, and just days before Christmas too.
I’m one of the lucky ones if I could call it that.
Leaving early today with two weeks of paid holidays, but then what?
The thought makes me wanna chuck my cookies on the street, but it’s too damned cold to even throw up.
The shudder of reality runs through me like ice water as I leave work for what I know is the last time somehow. Still not knowing if they’ll keep their word about ‘holiday pay’ either.
I remind myself that I still owe a month’s rent which that will barely cover. I hear my entire body groan and ache.
I decide to just walk until I can’t feel my legs, hop on a bus and spend the night crying over a giant box of pizza pockets and a gallon of chocolate chip ice cream once I get home.
It’s late afternoon, but the sudden shift in the weather makes it dark and cold real quick.
The light, fluffy snow is turning to something sinister by the time I spot the only ray of light it what feels like the whole city.
The only light on a very, very dark day so far.
I haven’t been walking long and almost give up on the idea on account of the weather when I see a man like no other I’ve seen. Walking amongst us in public, I take notice.
Something in me today as well makes me want to follow him.
Why not? What else have I got to lose, right?
If my life’s imploding, I may as well stalk the first and absolutely hottest guy I spot.
A little like my Christmas window shopping. If I can’t actually have it, I may as well look at it.
My mystery man, whoever he is, stands a good head and massive set of shoulders above everyone else, so he’s easy to keep track of.
It’s pretty crowded, with most folks just wanting to get where they have to and out of the weather.
It feels like this is meant to be because every time I nearly lose him at a crosswalk or when someone slams into me, I notice he’s stopping at ATMs.
