Christmas in Snowflake Canyon by RaeAnne Thayne

Instead, she looked a little tousled, slightly buzzed and oddly delicious. He had always figured her for a prissy little society belle-the kind of vapid, boring woman who wasted her life on a solemn quest for the perfect manicure. He didn’t know her well, only by reputation, which wasn’t great. She was quite a bit younger than he was, maybe six years or so. He looked closer and suddenly recognized the alluring handful: Genevieve Beaumont, spoiled and precious daughter of the Hope’s Crossing mayor. She had obviously already had a mojito or three, judging by the careful precision of her words. Stupid me, I figured when the band canceled, nobody would show up. The longtime Lizard bartender frowned, his wind-chapped face wrinkling around the mouth. She was wearing a white sweater that was about half an inch too short, and when she leaned over, just a strip of pale skin showed above the waistline of a pair of jeans that highlighted a shapely ass. The woman with the husky voice squeezed past him to lean against the bar, and from the side, he caught only an equally sexy sleek fall of blond hair. The curves pressing into his shoulder were a good giveaway, along with a delectable scent of cinnamon and vanilla that made him think of crisp, rich cookies.

Somebody jostled him from behind and he could tell without turning around it was a woman.

He no longer liked crowds under the best of circumstances, and a bar filled with holiday-edgy, disappointed music fans with liberal access to alcohol struck him as an unpleasant combination. A popular local band was supposed to be playing, but from the buzz he’d heard around the bar, apparently the bass player and the lead singer-married to each other-had shared a bad Thanksgiving tofurkey the day before and were too busy yakking it up to entertain the masses. On this, the evening of Black Friday, the Liz was hopping. He hadn’t wanted to meet at the bar in the first place, and he certainly wasn’t in any mood to sit here by himself listening to a bad version of a song he’d never liked much in the first place. The way Dylan figured, it would serve Jamie right if he bailed. His brother was now-he checked his watch-ten minutes late. If another one flipped, he was going to knock a few heads and then take off.

Some idiot had just played three versions of the same song. IF HE HAD to listen to The Little Drummer Boy one more time, he was going to ba-rum-bum-bum-bum somebody right in the gut.ĭylan Caine huddled over a whiskey at the crowded bar of The Speckled Lizard, about two seconds and one more damn Christmas carol away from yanking the jukebox plug out of the wall.

Christmas in Snowflake Canyon by RaeAnne Thayne