The Christmas Project: A laugh-out-loud romance from bestselling author Maxine Morrey

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One (#u27559d27-b1b9-578b-adff-c37b57b9653b)

I peered down at my feet and wondered exactly how many toes I’d have left when I finally got home this evening. It was totally possible to get frostbite in North London, right? The snow that had been threatening all afternoon had finally begun to fall about half an hour ago, right around the same time I’d lost all feeling in every single one of my extremities. It had already started settling and the heavy flakes now falling looked set to continue all night. And yet, here I was, huddled under an umbrella that was doing very little for the bottom half of my body, still waiting.

Had I known I was going to be stood outside, freezing my backside off whilst waiting for a client who was, at this point – I checked my watch – exactly fifty-seven minutes late, I would have worn my fur-lined boots rather than the gorgeous four-inch heeled Mary Janes that currently adorned my feet. Still, on the upside, I was at least fully colour-coordinated: My nose now matched my scarlet shoes and lipstick, and my hands and feet were likely a fetching shade of blue to tone perfectly with my tailored navy wool coat. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I checked the screen again - no new messages or missed calls. I’d give it precisely three more minutes and then I was off.

I gave another glance up to the house. In contrast to many others I’d passed down this avenue, there was no clue here that we were in the midst of the countdown to Christmas. No tree twinkled with fairy lights in the beautiful bay window, no decorations or cards lined the windowsill. Outside, in the tiny bit of garden that was left from making it into a parking space, instead of illuminated reindeer and snowmen, the border was filled with blackened, soggy annuals left over from the summer. The other houses looked warm and welcoming. This one appeared cold and impersonal.

I stamped my feet, trying to kick-start the circulation, all the while hoping not to break off any icicled digits. Next door, a late model 4X4 pulled up and two designer-clad children tumbled out the back doors, laughing as they charged up the path. From the driver’s seat emerged one of the yummy mummies the area was well-known for. I surreptitiously admired her crocheted beanie as she busied herself unloading the car. She wore it with the assured style of Kate Moss, and looked fabulous. I knew from experience the moment I put one on my head it magically transformed into a tea cosy. Bit unfair.

The deep, throaty rumble of a powerful motorbike caught my attention. As I looked up, the cyclops-like headlight flashed across me as it turned into the driveway on which I was standing, coming to a stop almost beside me. With a final throttle blip, the engine fell silent. The rider kicked out its stand and then swung a long leg over to dismount before turning to me. A hand lifted and flicked the visor up. Vivid green eyes looked out as the figure towered about me.

‘Can I help you?’ The tone was deep, Irish accented, and less than friendly.

‘Are you Mr O’Farrell?’

‘That would depend on who’s asking.’

‘Hello Michael,’ Yummy Mummy called, several designer shopping bags looped over each arm. She flashed Motorbike Boy a stunning smile that showed impossibly white, perfectly straight teeth.

‘Evening Tamara.’

It was impossible to tell if he was smiling as he hadn’t yet removed his crash helmet. But I took a wild guess at no, judging by those eyes.

‘Good day?’ she pursued. Her gaze flicked briefly over me before returning to focus on her neighbour.

He gave a non-committal shrug that made his leathers creak. ‘You know how it is.’

She tilted her head and pulled a sympathetic face, oozing empathy and understanding.

Yeah, right, I thought, doubting very much that she had a clue what it was ‘like’, at all.

‘Well, if you ever need anything, you know where I am.’

Mentally, I raised my eyebrows so high they barely connected with my face. Physically I kept my face impassive. I saw the man glance at me, briefly, before he replied. I studied my feet for a moment as I considered the possibility that my ‘impassive’ face may need some work.

‘I do, thanks.’

She gave him another full-wattage smile before moving gracefully up the steps and in through the large black painted front door.

The man turned his attention back to me and tilted his head in question, apparently still awaiting a reply to his enquiry.

‘My name is Kate Stone.’ The name didn’t seem to spark any recognition. ‘You had an appointment with me for six o’clock this evening.’

He lifted his arm and wiggled his wrist a little until a watch face peeked out enough from his sleeve to see the time.

‘It’s gone seven.’

‘Yes. It is.’

‘So why are you still here?’

This is exactly why I hate doing favours for friends. My business was in demand and had a waiting list. Without trying to sound smug, I didn’t need this. Ordinarily there was no way I would have waited so long for a client to show. Add that to the fact that there was no explanation or even attempt at apology for his lateness, and my patience was being severely tested. But Janey had begged me to come and help her brother, even paying for the initial consultation herself. I’d rearranged other clients and missed my yoga class tonight because, according to him, six o’clock was the only time he could possibly make it this week. Or not apparently.

‘I suppose you’d better come in before you freeze to death.’

‘Thanks. I’d hate to inconvenience you by croaking on your doorstep,’ I mumbled.

‘Sorry?’ He spun round, the bottom of his boot grating on the step.

Whoops.