Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 59022 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59022 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
One brooding Christmas heir.
Charlie never expected the fine print to include stolen kisses, snowbound nights, and a Clause that could melt the North Pole. This Christmas, get ready to feel naughty and nice...
This agreement requires Charlie Lyn Horseman to deliver in-person services for one holly-jolly night. The specifics shall be determined by Charlie and Stetson, fueled by mistletoe, mischief, and mutual pleasure.
“Pleasure,” for legal purposes, shall include—but is not limited to—kisses, cookies, and Claus-related activities that may land one or both parties on the Naughty List
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
CHAPTER ONE
THE NORTH POLE
I’m frozen.
Like… toes- numb, fingers- tingly, nose- already feels like it has icicles kind of frozen. No, I’m not dying of hypothermia—but I might as well be. Disney has done me a great disservice here. I thought the word alone conjured up snowmen, friendly reindeer, and hot men who can sing and handle their ice, instead, I get this frigid weather. I hate the cold. Every part of it offends me. I’m a California girl, born and raised. I like the sun, the smell of sunscreen, the feel of sand between my toes and the uncanny taste of salt on my lips. And more than anything? I like vacations in the sun.
So why did I agree to come on this once-in-a-lifetime vacation from hell (that’s what I’m secretly calling it—don’t tell my bestie). Well, she invited me and apparently, I’m at that point in my life that I say yes to anything that sounds like a deserved distraction from reality—even if it is in the depths of hell.
Plus, again, she invited me.
Her and her extraordinary wealthy, charming, British generous husband paid because let’s be honest, I could never afford this. And at the time, I didn’t think it would be weird that I was the only single person going on a couple’s trip to visit the Arctic.
In out of this world luxury.
I just thought: hey, this is going to help me get over what’s his nut-devil face-asshole. The one who broke my heart, shattered my soul, and made me wish I’d fall into a deep coma and wake up in another timeline—preferably Bridgerton, or one where he didn’t exist.
Yeah, that sounded nice.
Bitter? Maybe.
Ok. Definitely.
Totally, bitter.
“Charlie, you’ve got that look on your face again,” my best friend, Grace, grumbles at me as we stare out on the tundra looking for any sign of a polar bear.
Or life for that matter.
We’re in a massive polar buggy—an all-terrain vehicle I didn’t even know existed--parked on what can only be described as an ice shelf of snow waiting for a rare sight of the infamous white bear. We’ve been here for what feels like hours… it’s been ten minutes. But at least the buggy is cool and glamorous, as is everything Grace lives, breathes and ingests in her life.
It’s long and boxy, towering high off the ground with massive tires built to crush through even the thickest ice. The body is a rugged silver metallic shell designed to withstand even the harshest conditions, which is apparently now, and has a panoramic windshield for our viewing pleasure that wraps around the entire vehicle, offering an unobstructed view of the white frigid cold. Inside, it feels like a small, warmly insulated fortress, with a dashboard full of dials and gauges that may as well be in a different language. I shiver. All I can see is ice and snow stretching endlessly, a completely barren and terrifying landscape of ice as far as the eye can see.
Honestly, I could have stayed home and happily watched a David Attenborough documentary and gotten the same experience—maybe better.
“I’m cold,” I finally answer and shrug in defense as I watch her unzip the ginormous white cold-suit they made us wear to move in and out of the vehicle—apparently there is one thing money can’t buy and that’s style when it comes to suits that keep us from getting hypothermia. We’ve got so many layers on I’m surprised we can even move. I wonder for the millionth time why anyone in their right mind would want to do this—like why, when you can watch all of this “our planet” shit from the comfort of your own home dressed in pajamas and sipping wine—and with a healthy distance from any version of hypothermia or animals that really do like to eat people.
And I’m not exaggerating. They do!
Just as this thought moves through my mind through the millionth time one of her husband’s friend’s “girlfriends” takes a selfie. She’s dwarfed by a glamorous white fur lined coat with a hood that drapes over her head, definitely not what our cold suits look by the way, and pouts her lips, striking a pose for her iPhone.
Sultry and ready, she’s the perfect picture of ice barbie. Wow, and another angle. She’s really committing.
“I can see the caption now,” Grace mutters under breath making me jump a foot as she too clocks the modeling shoot with the same morbid curiosity.