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  DO NOT KISS ’TIL CHRISTMAS

  She hadn’t put her keys in the door. And Bret became aware that his pulse had started racing.

  It was a classic scenario, and he suspected Chloe realized it, too. He didn’t feel like an editor and an employee. He felt like a boy walking a girl home after a first date. Her door didn’t face the street. No one would see. Except that he was her boss again and he needed to start remembering that.

  No matter how tempting it was to pretend he wasn’t, just for a few more minutes.

  Professional ethics, he reminded himself, and took half a step back. Just half a step. “Thanks for coming,” he said. “Today would have been just an obligation for me. You made it a lot better.”

  Chloe’s face softened into a smile, and God help him, it was one of those smiles, its glow soft and genuine. “Thank you,” she said. “I had a wonderful time.”

  She hesitated a fraction of a second. Then she stepped toward the door, and Bret turned to go. Mission accomplished. He’d gotten through the day without crossing the boundaries, professional ethics intact. And doing the right thing had never felt so stupid.

  A voice in his head said, Screw professional ethics.

  The moment was almost gone and it would never be here again, so before it was over, before he could stop himself, before Chloe could get her keys in the door, he wheeled around, pulled her into his arms, and kissed her. . . .

  Books by Sierra Donovan

  NO CHRISTMAS LIKE THE PRESENT

  DO YOU BELIEVE IN SANTA?

  WE NEED A LITTLE CHRISTMAS

  DO NOT OPEN ’TIL CHRISTMAS

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  Do Not Open ’Til Christmas

  SIERRA DONOVAN

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  DO NOT KISS ’TIL CHRISTMAS

  Books by Sierra Donovan

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  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

  Epilogue

  ZEBRA BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2017 by Sierra Donovan

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4201-4152-8

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4201-4153-5

  eISBN-10: 1-4201-4153-8

  For Charlie, for your love and all your patience over the years. I couldn’t have written a love story without you, and there’s a little bit of you in every hero I’ve ever written.

  I love you.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Special thanks . . .

  To Sharon Wild, who started this journey off when she gave me my first Nora Roberts book. Love you!

  To Stephanie Newton and Roberta Smith. You’re on opposite coasts and you’ve never met, but you’re the two most steadfast critique partners a girl could ask for. You encourage me, keep me grounded, and let me know when I’m on the right track.

  To Tania Ramos, for providing valuable medical advice to help me with a plot point. Any errors in translation are mine.

  To the baristas at the Starbucks at Bear Valley Road off the I-15. You’ve seen a lot of me over the past few years. Special thanks to Adam, Carleton, Marina, and Chelsea, for smiling when you see me, remembering my name, and never complaining about the table space I take up. And a very special thanks to Sergio, for keeping the place running.

  To my readers. A book isn’t worth the paper (or e-ink) it’s written on unless the story reaches someone. Thanks for picking me up off the shelf or tucking me into your e-reader, and giving my characters a few of your precious hours. May you all live happily ever after!

  Chapter 1

  “Just once, couldn’t somebody kill someone?”

  Bret Radner bit out the words as soon as he hit the period at the end of his latest story for the Tall Pine Gazette. The headline read: EVERGREEN LANE SHOPS PREDICT SUCCESSFUL CHRISTMAS SEASON.

  Shocker.

  “I’ll get right on it.” Bret’s fellow reporter, Chuck Nolan, didn’t even glance up from his own computer screen. “Who’ve you got in mind for the lucky victim?”

  Bret released a long, slow sigh. Chuck had heard it all before. And there wasn’t really anyone in Tall Pine he was that annoyed with.

  “Okay,” Bret said. “A tourist.”

  Chuck battered out a few words on his keyboard with his oddly efficient hunt-and-peck method. He was in his early forties, and somehow Chuck had never learned to type. “And how about the murderer? I’m not doing your dirty work for you.”

  “Another tourist. How’s that? Two really rude tourists.”

  Bret returned his attention to the story on his screen, running the cursor down the text to proofread it once more before he sent it to his editor’s in-box. Holding back another sigh, Bret reached for the writing pad that contained the notes from his interview with the head of the local water district.

  “Radner.” His editor, Frank McCrea, stood in the doorway of his glass-walled office, twenty feet from Bret’s desk. “I need to see you for a minute.”

  A summons to the editor’s office at four o’clock was pretty unusual. Too quick to have anything to do with the story Bret had just sent over. And if it was a reaction to his mini-rant, that would be a first.

  Only one way to find out. Bret followed McCrea into the editor’s inner sanctum, aware of Chuck’s curious stare behind him. He sat in one of the straight-backed chairs facing McCrea’s massive oak desk. Massive, but scarred with age, like just about everything in the Gazette’s offices. At thirty, Bret sometimes suspected he was the youngest thing in the newsroom. Including the coffee machine.

  “What’s up?” Bret asked.

  McCrea—middle-aged, graying, and broadening around the middle—took his seat in the larger, cushioned chair across from Bret. “I’ve got a curve ball for you.”

  Bret’s brows lifted. Ordinarily, he loved curve balls.

  McCrea continued, “I had a call last week from our corporate office in St. Louis. The editor at their paper in Chicago stepped down about six months ago, and the associate editor they promoted is making a hash of things. They asked me to step in and do some damage control until they find somebody permanent.”

  Bret blinked, trying not to show signs of whiplash. After all, it
was logical enough. McCrea had headed up the Chicago paper before he moved his family to Tall Pine a decade or so ago. If he’d been looking for peace and quiet, he’d certainly gotten what he was after. What Bret had never understood was how McCrea had ever found Tall Pine. Tucked away in the mountains some two hours from Los Angeles, it was barely on the map.

  But any good newspaper story led with the most pertinent point of the article, and Bret had the feeling his commander-in-chief had buried his lead.

  McCrea moved quickly to correct that: “I’m putting you in charge.”

  That, too, was logical. McCrea had hired Bret when he came home from college, and Bret had spent the last seven years living and breathing the job, such as it was. When McCrea took vacation time, it was Bret who filled in. Although he couldn’t recall McCrea taking as much as a full week off at any one time.

  “Okay.” Bret couldn’t hold back a half smile. “Sure you don’t want to trade and send me to Chicago?”

  “Were you listening? I’m going there to clean up the mess from another guy with years of experience in a major metropolitan area.” Bret flinched at that. McCrea pretended not to notice. “You’ll have your hands full here, I guarantee. The Christmas season is coming up next month, so you’ll have to work smart, with the holidays to schedule around. I know you’re not big on Christmas—”

  “It’s not my favorite thing, no,” Bret responded automatically. McCrea knew that better than most. And he’d remember why, better than most.

  “—but on the up side, as I said, this will keep you busy. It’s no secret you’d like more of a challenge.”

  Bret inclined his head. “You think?”

  “Trust me. There’s more to running this place on an ongoing basis than you realize. We get by okay on two full-time reporters plus me. But you’re going to need to delegate. I know your work ethic, and if you don’t watch out, you could end up trying to write the whole paper by yourself. By the time you figured out you were in over your head, you wouldn’t have time to look for someone else. So I hired one of our freelancers to fill in while I’m gone.”

  “A freelancer?” Bret kept his features still.

  Generally, freelance reporters were amateurs. They worked from home, usually as a sideline to another job. Their skills left a lot to be desired, and they didn’t tend to last long. More trouble than they were worth, in Bret’s opinion.

  “I know what you’re thinking. But this one’s consistent. She’s been working with us for nearly two years. Chloe Davenport.”

  The byline rang a bell, but barely. Freelancers were entrusted with less timely articles, the kind that even Bret tended to skip over. Church bake sales, prize-winning pickles, interviews with this year’s valedictorian. McCrea added, “She was in the office yesterday.”

  Bret remembered glimpsing the back of a blond female head through McCrea’s glass walls. “I thought it was one of your daughters coming in for lunch money.”

  McCrea shook his head. “Chloe graduated college a couple of years ago. You’ve probably met her. She’s a waitress at the Pine ’n’ Dine.”

  Bret frowned. He didn’t know of any blond waitresses at the local diner. Unless . . . A faint image surfaced in his mind.

  “She works nights most of the time,” McCrea added.

  The picture snapped into focus. Bret didn’t usually go to the Pine ’n’ Dine in the evening. But a couple of months ago, he’d stopped in to write up his notes on a town council meeting before he came back to the paper to file the story. A petite, blue-eyed blonde had waited on him. She looked like a china doll, for heaven’s sake.

  He dredged his memory further. She’d made some sort of joke....

  Whatever it was, it wasn’t important right now. But he wondered if McCrea was suffering from a touch of middle-aged crazy. His editor was a family man, ethical to the core, and Bret didn’t think he’d ever dream of cheating on his wife. But that didn’t mean a pretty face couldn’t cloud his head.

  “Are you sure about this?” Bret picked his words with care. “She’s awfully young.”

  “Older than you were.”

  Hard to get around that one. Bret flicked a brief smile. “Yeah, but I was a prodigy.”

  “Then you should have no trouble getting a newbie up to speed.” McCrea leaned back in his chair. “Unless you’re not up to it. I could always put Chuck in charge.”

  It was a transparent bluff, and both of them knew it. Chuck was a great guy and a good worker, but organization wasn’t his strong suit.

  “Hey, they say print journalism is a dying field,” Bret deadpanned. “No point in rushing the process.”

  “It’s a yes, then?”

  “I didn’t know it was a question. But sure. I’m your guy.”

  “Glad that’s settled. I’m leaving this weekend. You take over Monday.”

  Monday? “You’re telling me this on two days’ notice?”

  “Didn’t want to listen to your griping any longer than that.” McCrea sat forward again, resting his arms comfortably on his desk. “Now get out.”

  Most of their talks in McCrea’s office ended that way.

  “Fine.” Bret stood. “But you’re going to freeze your butt off in Chicago.”

  He walked back out, his head spinning. A lot had changed in ten minutes, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t salivating just a little bit. He loved a challenge, and he was overdue for one. Now McCrea had given him the keys to the kingdom.

  And a freelancer to babysit.

  * * *

  Chloe Davenport pushed through the door from the reception area to the newsroom Monday morning, brand new briefcase in hand, trying not to feel like a kid on the first day of school.

  It was only her third time inside the Tall Pine Gazette offices. All of her other contact had been by phone or e-mail. Just like school, it was a roomful of desks. Instead of thirty small ones, a half-dozen big ones stood lined up in two rows. And at the far end of the room, the mystical, glass-walled editor’s office.

  The editor’s office was empty, and only one of the desks was occupied. Behind it sat a brown-haired man, probably about forty, rifling through disorderly stacks of paper on top of his desk.

  “Good morning,” she said.

  He looked up, startled, although Chloe hadn’t exactly tiptoed in. “Hi.” The man gave her a puzzled, but not unfriendly, smile. She was a few minutes early, but he didn’t look as if he’d been expecting her.

  She smiled back and put out her hand. “I’m Chloe Davenport.” As he rose to shake her hand, his puzzled expression didn’t clear, so she added, “I’m looking for Bret Radner?”

  The man looked distractedly over his shoulder. “He’s around here somewhere.” He turned back to her. “Sorry. I’m Chuck Nolan. I’m on my way to an interview at the school district office.” He sifted through his papers again until he fished out what he’d apparently been searching for: a blank notepad. “You must be the freelancer?”

  Good. They did know she was coming. “Right. Well, not a freelancer anymore. I’m here full-time, at least until Mr. McCrea gets back. He said to come in at nine. I guess I’m a little—”

  A door opened at the far side of the room, and a trim, dark-haired man burst through it, wearing glasses with thin black wire frames, a cell phone in one hand, a cordless phone handset pressed to his ear. As he spoke into the phone, his calm tone of voice belied his rapid stride. “There’s been a delay. We’ll have your photographer out there shortly.” He hit a button to disconnect the call, then punched a few keys on the handset. “Jen?” His tone was more brisk. “We still haven’t heard from Ned? Okay, thanks.”

  He lowered the phone to his side, eyes closed as if in thought. Or as if willing someone to spontaneously combust. “Who dedicates a plaque at eight-thirty on a Monday morning?” he said to no one in particular.

  She recognized him.

  She could only hope and pray he wouldn’t recognize her. Chloe glanced at the pleasant, laid-back Chuck. Why couldn
’t it have been the other one?

  Bret Radner had been one of her customers at the Pine ’n’ Dine a few months ago. She’d noticed him because he was one of those men who looked good in glasses, which she liked. And he’d been typing away at a laptop, which intrigued her. Especially since the Pine ’n’ Dine didn’t have Wi-Fi, so he was probably writing something.

  But he hadn’t looked up from his laptop since he ordered. Not once.

  Curiosity warring with frustration, she approached his table when his cup reached the half-full mark. “Would you like more coffee?”

  “Please.” Not taking his eyes from his screen, he unerringly maneuvered his cup under the spout of her coffeepot.

  A little demon prodded her. “Excuse me.”

  She had to wait several seconds before he seemed to realize she wasn’t going to go away. Finally he raised his head and met her eyes with a dark-eyed stare behind the black wire rims.

  Now that his gaze was fixed on her, unblinking and waiting, she started to regret her gumption. But the little demon spurred her on.

  “Thanks.” She tried not to stammer. “We’re required to see all of our customers’ faces at least once. That way, in case you turn out to be the Unabomber or something, I can give a good description.”

  His stare sharpened, and she knew she’d had it. No tip for you, baby. You’ll be lucky if he doesn’t complain to the owner.

  “They caught the Unabomber in 1996,” he said. “You’re way behind on your current events.”

  Then his lips twitched in a faint smile. “Thanks for the coffee,” he said, and returned to his laptop.

  It all made sense now. The laptop, the writing, and especially the crack about current events. No wonder he’d known the Unabomber’s capture date off the top of his head.