When it’s Christmas
I love Christmas. and when I start planning my Christmas romances, which is 18 months prior to publication, you can imagine how happy that makes me. I’ll be spending the next 18 months thinking of Christmas and romance.
The Billionaire’s Christmas Gift is FREE today
Christmas is filled with magic and romance, which makes these stories so much fun to write.
He wants her screenplay. She’ll agree, but on her terms. Will the sparks flying between them burn up more the script?
Quint Fairchild, head of Fairchild Films, learned long ago that in Hollywood everything’s make believe, including love. So why can’t he resist the small town innocence of struggling scriptwriter Chrystelle Bach? She’s entirely too fascinating, but he can convince himself he doesn’t want her⸻he wants her script.
Chrystelle wishes she could spend Christmas with her beloved grandmother in her Colorado hometown. Then Quint offers her a contract to produce her TV series. She almost believes this is the best Christmas ever⸻until she reads the contract. He doesn’t just want rewrites, he wants her to change everything. The battle begins, but when Chrystelle’s grandmother takes ill, Chrystelle knows where she belongs and hops the next bus home.
What she hadn’t expected was Quint on her front porch, and not to wish her a Merry Christmas. He wants her script⸻on his terms, of course. Their conflict continues, but the more time Chrystelle spends with this stubborn billionaire, the harder it is for her to remember why she can’t change her script. But sprinkle this battle with grandmotherly wisdom and holiday charm, and the season of blessings reveals love in more ways than Chrystelle and Quint ever imagined.
A lighthearted romance that will bring you Christmas cheer. Click the link and download your copy now.
This Excerpt Will Pull You In
The sun hadn’t risen when Chrystelle Bach drove the limousine down the Beverly Hills street lined with towering palm trees. For the two and a half years she’d lived in Hollywood, she’d never get used to palm trees decorated with Christmas lights.
She’d spent the last two Christmases away from home, away from Gwilliam Park, Colorado. Away from family and friends preparing for the holiday that warmed her heart. She scraped her teeth over her lower lip. Though she called home every week, she was too busy working three jobs to long for the small town she never thought she’d leave.
Except at Christmas.
If she hadn’t wanted to be a scriptwriter, she’d still be living in the quaint mountain town, singing Christmas carols, drinking cocoa and meeting friends at the local shops and restaurants.
The cold fingers of disappointment closed around her heart. There wasn’t much Christmas spirit in Hollywood.
If she stayed busy, she’d make it through the holidays without getting homesick. She and her roommates had become family and planned to spend Christmas morning exchanging gifts and making French toast, before they rushed off to their waitress or chauffeur jobs.
Raw and exhausted, Chrystelle stifled a yawn. She’d driven for the limousine service for the past ten days. Every night, she tended bar until two o’clock in the morning, including this morning. She had planned to sleep late, but Mr. Lowery, owner of the limousine service, had called when her head hit the pillow. He was desperate to find a driver for Quinton Fairchild, chief executive of Fairchild Films.
Quint Fairchild would have his own private chauffeur, but for whatever reason he needed a driver and she wouldn’t say no. He headed the most powerful studio in the industry, and she had the perfect script to pitch him. All she needed was a chance.
She turned the steering wheel and stopped at the end of the driveway leading to Quint Fairchild’s mansion. Her mouth fell open. Before her stood a gate that looked like the entrance to Middle-earth. The ten cameras anchored to the top of the burnished metal locked onto her every move.
She’d seen Quint once at a screenwriting conference. He seemed like a nice guy—a nice guy who lived in a fortressed Beverly Hills mansion.
A prickle of fear crept along her spine. Like the other drivers at the limousine service, she knew this job would give her access to Hollywood bigwigs. Maybe one would recognize her writing talent.
Dream on, her friends in Gwilliam Park, Colorado, had told her. Everyone in Hollywood has dreams of success.
She’d ignored the naysayers and hopped a bus to Hollywood. Some people made it. She could be one of those.
Her desire to be a screenwriter burned within her and motivated her even on the toughest of days, but today she was a chauffeur and here to drive Mr. Fairchild to his studio. If she had the chance, she’d pitch her best script. During the screenwriting conference, he’d said he was always looking for scripts, even from unknowns. He never knew when he’d strike gold.
Hope rippled through her. That gold could be the script sitting in the portfolio on the seat next to her.
Lifting her head to see past the brim of her chauffeur cap, she pressed the intercom button. “Lowery Limousine Service here for Mr. Fairchild,” she said and recited the security code.
At least her voice sounded normal. She hadn’t been this edgy since she’d pitched her latest screenplay to Steven Spielberg in an elevator at The Palacio Hotel. Of course, he called security. They threw her out.
Wherever she went, she took at least one of her screenplays with her, and showed them to every studio executive she met. So far, no one had been interested in her scripts, but this was Hollywood, and she believed in happy endings. All her scripts had happy endings.
The gate floated open. Her chest swelled. This could be her moment. When the right time came, she’d hand Mr. Fairchild her script … and hope he’d be happy to read it as he’d stated at the screenwriting conference.
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Wrapping her fingers around the steering wheel, Chrystelle drove through the gate and along the tree-lined drive to the porte cochère. Her heart pounded like the drumline in a marching band.
She took a calming breath. Her hands trembled slightly, and she winced. If she was nervous, he’d notice immediately and wonder why the service sent an inexperienced driver, or worse, complain to Mr. Lowery. She’d be calm. She’d be cool. Stepping from the vehicle, she repeated the sentiments to herself like a mantra and smoothed a hand over the black suit that fit her like a rented wedding tuxedo. She opened the rear door.
Quint Fairchild burst through the studded entrance doors. His powerful build was covered in a button-down shirt and tailored slacks, and his square jaw was chiseled enough to cut glass. He fastened his cuffs as he drummed down the granite steps.
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