Dear Santa, I do not want a Frost brother for Christmas.
In fact I do not want anything for Christmas—no annoying Christmas carols, no holiday family drama, and no last-minute presents.
And I certainly don’t want to be a bachelorette in The Great Christmas Bake-Off. Yes in the spirit of holiday commercialism, the bake-off is also a date-off and Jonathan Frost is the prize.
I should be hiding away with wine and snacks while waiting for Christmas to end. Instead I’m wearing a reindeer mascot costume and pretending I’m oh-so-excited to meet New York City’s most eligible billionaire bachelor!!! Just look at those blue eyes and six-foot-five tall frame!!! Don’t you want to take him home for the holidays?!?!!
Barf.
Unlike the other bachelorettes, I refused to debase myself and stroke some billionaire’s ego.
Instead, I threw a candy-cane dildo at his stupidly handsome face.
Then I laughed when he yelled at me.
Of course Jonathan couldn’t take the hint. He came around offering to put a little frosting on my Christmas cookies.
I attempted to shank him with a spatula.
He got offended and said that as a judge on The Great Christmas Bake-Off, he was just trying to help.
Sure…
Not that I’m looking for holiday romance.
Christmas is already a stressful time of the year without adding a billionaire in the mix.
Between dodging bake-off sabotaging cousins, applying for a long-shot prestigious museum internship, and trying to survive being broke in Manhattan, I’m up to my black lipstick in my own special nightmare before Christmas.
And it’s making me wound tighter than a nutcracker.
So when Jonathan offers to put some frosting on my cookies—and a few other ornament shaped parts—his washboard abs and sexy smirk start to seem like the perfect stress relief.
Especially when he offers himself all wrapped up in a bow.
So no, dear Santa, I do not want Jonathan Frost, but I won’t say no to his Christmas package!
Frosting Her Christmas Cookies is a standalone holiday romantic comedy. If you love Christmas baking, hilarious holiday hijinks, and a big thick Christmas stocking, then pick up this full-length, steamy romance novel! There are no cliffhangers but there is a very merry (Christmas!) ever after!
To my adoptive grandmother…you made a mean lasagna
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1
Morticia
Christmas. The absolute worst time of year. It was Black Friday—not so named because it was a day of pagan rituals but rather because it kicked off the season of shallow consumerism and obnoxious Christmas music that burrowed into your ear. I walked down the avenue near the harbor. Workers were putting up an excessive amount of street decorations, including wreaths, lights, and huge bows that would make Mrs. Claus salivate. One of the men waved to me.
“Merry Christmas!” he shouted.
I ignored him.
“How about a little Christmas cheer, sweetheart?” he called out.
I pulled my Taser out of my black bag and brandished it.
“Merry Christmas this!” I yelled at him.
He flinched and almost fell off his ladder.
I smirked.
When people saw me with my gothic outfits, long black hair, and dark makeup, they assumed that I was weird and off-putting. Once they got to know me, they found that their assumptions were, in fact, correct.
I adjusted my grasp on my cat Salem’s carrier and on my Victorian steamer trunk. I had to finish up the final decorating touches on the set for The Great Christmas Bake-Off. Cue the elf barf.
The Great Christmas Bake-Off was another character in the nativity scene of things I hated about Christmas. Baking, sparkles, ornaments, and festive Christmas outfits. Blech.
Salem howled as I took a shortcut and picked my way through the defunct industrial warehouse complex from the 1850s that had not yet been renovated to another soulless Manhattan condo tower development. Though with all the COMING SOON! signs on neighboring properties, the guillotine would soon fall on these old buildings too, I was sure.
“One more hour,” I assured Salem, “then we will be on a train back to Harrogate and the old Victorian house, where we will watch Penny and her walking sack of money, Garrett, be all lovey and couple-y.”
It was almost enough to make me not want to go home. But staying in Manhattan was out of the question. Christmas was encroaching. I needed to isolate myself in my crypt and count down the days until Halloween—and count the days until I hopefully started my internship at the Getty Museum in Los Angeles. I sent up another prayer to the spirits. I needed that internship. Working at the Getty was every artist’s