Total pages in book: 9
Estimated words: 8854 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 44(@200wpm)___ 35(@250wpm)___ 30(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 8854 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 44(@200wpm)___ 35(@250wpm)___ 30(@300wpm)
There’s sharp tongues, bruised egos, and unapologetic swagger. It’s playful, indulgent, and written purely for fun. No rules. No consequences. Just all of my alphas together, being exactly who they are. Loud, competitive, irresistible, and utterly convinced that they deserve the crown.
Thank you for reading, for loving these characters as fiercely as I do, and for making this year unforgettable.
Curl up, pour something festive, and enjoy the chaos.
JEM xxx
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
It’s the night before Christmas, and all through my house . . .
It’s quiet. Gloriously quiet.
I inhale, feeling all the deadline stress leave me, and pour myself a glass of wine, admiring my tree. My tree that’s not got one decoration on it. Yes, it’s late. Yes, I should have done this weeks’ ago. But I’ve been up to my eyeballs in words, scrambling to get the first draft of my WIP done and off to my editor so I can enjoy Christmas Day without a deadline looming over my head. I’ve just scraped through. Email sent, out-of-office on. Now all that’s left to do is decorate this tree.
Setting my wine on the table, I tell Alexa to play some carols and drag the gigantic plastic box toward the tree, pulling out one of the baubles and carefully unwrapping it from the tissue paper, mentally wondering which alpha it’ll be. I roll my eyes to myself at the irony when Jesse Ward is revealed. But of course. As if he’d let anyone else come first.
“Control freak,” I murmur, setting the glass bauble carefully on the table and taking another sip of wine before unwrapping the rest until I have all eighteen of my alphas laid out on the wood. Wine in hand, I pout as I cast my eyes across them all. Then over the tree. I hum, foot tapping. Who gets the top of the tree? How do I make this fair? After a few more contemplative sips of wine, I’m still not sure. Names in a hat? I ponder that, and decide, quite quickly, it’s the only way. A fair contest.
I need a hat.
Setting my wine on the table, I head for the cloakroom in the hallway to find my beanie, but headlights shining in through the kitchen window stop me, along with the sound of a car coming down my driveway. I glance at the clock on the cooker. It’s too early for my husband to be home.
I make my way to the front door with a mammoth frown, swinging it open, and the sound of the engine turns from a distant hum to a deep roar. It sounds nothing like J’s car. But very much like a growling engine I’m all too familiar with.
Then I see the registration. “Oh no,” I murmur, watching as the Aston Martin rolls to a stop. “Oh no, no, no.” The driver’s door opens, and he slips out smoothly, rising to his full six foot three inches with slow purpose. I know this man. I know him to his bones, and just the way he’s moving—as if he’s planning a trample—tells me I’m in some serious trouble.
Fuck. I quickly step back inside and shut the door, swinging around and resting my back against it. Cringing. Not today. I don’t have the time or the head space to deal with a Jesse Ward intervention today.
My back jolts when he gives the door a firm knock. I cringe harder, keeping still and quiet. Holding my breath.
Knock, knock, knock.
I squeeze my eyes closed, like that might help me hide.
“I know you’re in there,” he says quietly, a certain edge of amusement in his tone. “Open the door.”
“No,” I snap, and then immediately kick myself. “I’m not home.”
He chuckles. “Open the door, Jodi.”
Fucking hell. We all know this door is being bashed down if I don’t open it. I exhale, facing the door and taking a few deep breaths, yanking it open with one eye narrowed. I’m greeted by a mega-watt smile reserved only for women. “Don’t smile at me like that,” I warn. “You’re forgetting I gave you that smile. What are you doing here?”
That famous, roguish grin falls, a familiar scowl replacing it. “I heard you’re decorating your tree. I’m here to make sure you make the right decision about alpha placement.” He takes the tops of my arms and sets me to one side, opening the way and wandering in. “And who gets the top spot.”
“Come on in,” I say over a sigh, closing the door. “And who told you I was decorating my tree?”
“You did?”
“I did?”
“I’m in your head, remember?” Off he strides into my kitchen, leaving me to follow on behind, my scowl nailed to his grey-suited back.
“I remember,” I grumble. “You’re like a maddening, irritating itch that won’t fuck off.”
He comes to an abrupt stop, his shoulders rising. “W—”
“Don’t you dare tell me to watch my mouth,”
There’s a brief silence, and I just know he’s considering his approach. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he eventually says.
“Sure.” I overtake his static form and swipe up my wine. “It’s Christmas Eve. Aren’t you busy?”
“Not too busy to pop on by and make sure I get top spot on the JEM Alpha Christmas tree.” He flashes me a dashing smile—as if to remind me of his power—and meanders across to my bookcase, casually browsing my library. “Oh, look, there I am,” he muses as I swig my drink. “And there.” He slips his hands into his trouser pockets and moseys along the bookcase, my eyes following him. “Oh, and there. And there. And there. And there, and there, and—”