Snowflake Wishes, Christmas Kisses

By Annalisa Russo

Cyber security expert Cord McQuada heads back home with his twelve-year-old niece in tow. Not that he ever planned to return after the community booted him out eight years ago. And since his only Christmas presents growing up came from the local gas station, he'd rather skip the town's over-the-top festivities.

Giselle Delacroix, heir to a French fashion line, decides to jump ship and open a children's clothing store. Busy and overworked, the last thing Giselle needs is a Christmas romance—even if the man involved is every woman's pièce de résistance.

Melah, Heaven's unofficial matchmaker, sends her new protégée to quell problems, but can she help Cord and Giselle ignite some Christmas sparks?

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Nov 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9781509228126

Annalisa Russo

Annalisa Russo is a midwest girl who grew up in an overpopulated first generation Italian family in the burbs of Chicago. Along with a passion for reading and writing, Annalisa enjoys gardening, cooking for company, and frequently invents reasons for traveling. The mother of two grown children, she now shares her home with a narcissistic cat named Buster. She loves hearing from readers so check out her website at www.annalisarusso.com.

Book preview

Inc.

He raced around the corner of Main Street and screeched to a halt in front of Miller’s. He jumped from the truck, rounding the cab.

Hey! You jerk! What were you thinking? I’m dripping wet here.

The words stopped him in his tracks. He turned to see a short, sexy woman in mile-high heels, pulling a small dolly with what looked like a large oxygen or helium tank. Had he splashed her with rainwater when he skidded to a stop?

Ah, sorry. I didn’t see you there. He reached out to help her, and she yanked herself back.

"Sorry doesn’t cut it, pal. How could you not see me? It’s not like it’s dark yet. Well, not totally dark. What were you thinking?"

Out of the corner of his eye he saw one of Miller’s employees at the front door dig in his pocket for the key and push it into the lock. Desperate now, he replied with caution, I’m sorry, but I have to go. If you can wait a few minutes, I’ll help you haul that thing wherever you want. I’ll be right back.

Don’t bother, the woman said between clenched teeth. I don’t want your help. She lifted her chin and her umbrella and strode down the street, pulling the dolly in the rain.

As she swung around, Cord took note of her pretty derrière snugged into a pair of black slacks and her thick caramel-colored hair pulled into a high, curly ponytail before he headed into Miller’s and stopped the man from turning the key in the lock.

Praise for Annalisa Russo

ANGEL LOST, ANGEL FOUND by Annalisa Russo was one of the winners of the 2016 International Digital Award Contest for historical romance.

~*~

Books by Annalisa Russo

RAGS TO RUBIES

A GIRL’S BEST FRIEND

~*~

The Cavelli Angel Saga

Book One: AN ANGEL’S REDEMPTION

Book Two: AN ANGEL HEALED

Book Three: ANGEL LOST, ANGEL FOUND

Book Four: ANGEL BOY

(Also available in a boxed set,

THE CAVELLI ANGEL SAGA, with special prequel)

~*~

The Green Earth Christmas Series

Book One:

ALL HEARTS COME HOME FOR CHRISTMAS

Book Two:

WHEN THE HEART FINDS CHRISTMAS

Book Three:

SNOWFLAKE WISHES, CHRISTMAS KISSES

Snowflake Wishes,

Christmas Kisses

by

Annalisa Russo

Green Earth Christmas, Book 3

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Snowflake Wishes, Christmas Kisses

COPYRIGHT © 2019 by Johanna Shapard

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [e-mail]

Cover Art by Tina Lynn Stout

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Fantasy Rose Edition, 2019

Print ISBN 978-1-5092-2811-9

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-2812-6

Green Earth Christmas, Book 3

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

To my readers:

In this loveliest of seasons,

may you find many reasons for happiness.

Chapter One

Brad McQuada rolled off his wife, sated and content, and tucked her to his side. The scent of their lovemaking clung to the twisted sheets and mixed with the lavender scent of his one and only love’s shower gel. He nuzzled her neck and reveled in the feminine sigh of approval. Damp hair, in a short sassy blonde cut, clung to the back of her neck. He tucked a tendril behind her ear and ran a hand over her body, illuminated by October’s lackluster morning light as it slanted across their bed. Mel was long and lean and soft.

His wife elbowed up and rested one arm across his chest. Was this your way of distracting me from the problem at hand? Because if it was, it worked. And now, you might be in a better mood to listen to my side.

Brad groaned his response. The woman was like a dog with a bone. If he didn’t quell the escalating issues now, he’d deal with them for days. Why does every conversation about Cord end in an argument, Mel?

His wife lazily traced the tattoo of the American flag on his forearm with the tip of one finger. The finger hesitated on the three teardrops displayed beneath it, representing the Army Airborne brothers he’d lost in his thirteen years of service in the 75th Ranger Regiment.

Uh… she said, gearing up for a counterattack, because your cousin isn’t exactly a model citizen, and you want to bring him into our home when we’re still reeling from the birth of our second child. And you’re still new on the job at BetaForce. Do you really have time to babysit an egotistical, self-centered pretty-boy with a penchant for evading the truth? When is the guy going to grow up?

That guy just spent the last two years in and out of Afghanistan—which is no picnic—and he didn’t cut and run.

He’s only in the military because a judge who believed in second chances gave him a choice—join up or go to jail.

Brad threw an arm over his eyes. If he kept arguing his case, he’d lose the battle. Okay, Mel, you have the last word this time. It’s all up to you, honey.

Melissa sat up. "Uh-uh, no way. Don’t make me the bad guy. He’s your cousin. Besides, my hands are full with Wendy and a four-month-old, and a part-time job. Plus, I promised to help Giselle get her new shop up and running for the holidays. I don’t have time to fix up the apartment over the garage."

I’ll take care of the apartment. Tristán volunteered to help me with the repairs this Saturday. Besides, Cord could care less what it looks like as long as it’s clean and cheap.

Even if you do the repairs, I’ll still need to deep clean.

His cousin could use a break. Cord had gone through a lot in his four tours in the Middle East. They both came from military families, and even though the guy had been on a self-destructive path, he’d managed to turn his life around. If he could help with Cord’s return to civilian life after eight years, he’d do whatever it took. Hopefully, the military had knocked off his shoulder the chip he’d carried since his teenage years. Not that he blamed the guy. If he’d had the same kind of home life as Cord growing up, he wouldn’t have stuck around either.

Brad pulled out his ace in the hole. After Tris and I do the repairs, I’ll babysit while you clean, sweetie. I’ll even make supper.

Melissa seemed to mull his offer over. Your mom’s lasagna? Wendy loves her Gram’s lasagna.

Sure, no problem, he promised, leaning over to kiss his wife’s forehead. When Mel blew out a deep breath, he knew he’d won the argument. No sense gloating, though. He could afford to be accommodating.

Mel scrunched up her eyes. I probably have postpartum depression.

Brad chuckled and nudged her onto her back. He let his hands roam. You don’t seem very depressed to me.

Melissa let out a long-suffering sigh. The holidays are just around the corner. I guess I could use some extra cheering up.

Chapter Two

Where you from, Boo? Melah eyed the young girl across the shiny glass-topped table. She appeared confident for a scrawny twenty-year-old. After giving the report folder in her hand a cursory glance, she pinned her gaze on the girl’s booted feet, which were propped on a nearby chair and crossed at the ankle. The expression on her face warned just-try-to-knock-that-chip-off. Melah raised her eyebrows and waggled her index finger at the girl’s boots.

The girl pursed her lips, but she took down her feet and cleared her throat. I come from N’awlins, back o’ town, sixth ward.

Melah cocked her head. And…The Boss said to see me?

Yes, ma’am.

Hmm. Melah leaned one elbow on the table and ran a multi-ringed finger down the information in the report. She’d heard through the grapevine this was Goot’s first assignment, and the girl probably didn’t want to blow the deal, but she didn’t look like she’d take orders very seriously. I lived by the seventh ward. How come I don’t know you, Boo?

Prob’ly ’cause y’all is old. You might know my Maw-Maw or maybe Mama and ’em.

Melah smiled and set the report aside. Her fingers drummed a staccato on the table while she contemplated her next words. The girl was pretty sassy for a newbie. She just might have to knock her down a peg or two. So…how you take your po’boy, girl?

Goot snorted and leaned back to rock on the back legs of her chair. Fully dressed, of course. Is this a test? Cuz it don’ madda. The Boss wants me to go.

Melah scrutinized the tie-dyed skintight leggings sporting rips at both knees and the black leather jacket that had seen better days. Her spikey magenta hair didn’t match her porcelain complexion and the sprinkling of freckles across her nose. The silver nose ring would have to go, of course—along with her name and accent and just about everything else. And what kind of name was Goot? What was He thinking?

Whoops. Sorry, Sir. You always right. Yessireebob. Melah will get her all done up and ready to go by Green Earth in time for the holidays. You can count on me, Sir.

Melah blew out a quick breath. You take this on, girl, you better find some clothes that don’t look like you be a masker on a Mardi Gras float. They ain’t got those in Green Earth, Minnesota. You need to fit in, and you only gonna git one chance to do it.

Over the years, Melah had grown fond of the people in Green Earth, and she wasn’t about to turn them over to a sassy upstart. She had until October fifteenth, Earth time, to whip Goot into shape, and she had boo-coo ideas on just how to accomplish the feat.

Melah rose, rounded the table, and hooked a thumb at the door. Let’s go to my place. We ain’t done talkin’ yet. She slapped a hand on Goot’s shoulder and squeezed. Maybe a new hairdo, some new clothes…

Goot looked down at herself. Huh? Why?

Melah just smiled. School was about to begin. I’m fixin’ to help you walk and talk like a local, sha.

Laissez les bons temps rouler.

Chapter Three

Cord McQuada was still two days out from Green Earth, Minnesota, and one brief glance at the truck’s rusty dashboard told him he’d need a stroke of good luck to make it that far. He could have delved into his savings to buy new when he got back from overseas, but he didn’t want to waste time getting out of town.

The old vehicle and nasty weather could account for his sullen mood, but it wasn’t the beat-up truck or the sleeting rain creating the all-around gloom inside the vehicle. It was the guilt he’d been carrying around for the last month, and the rub was that his actions, while well-intentioned, hadn’t been exactly legal.

He shot a glance at his eleven-year-old niece, whose face was turned to stare past the icy rivulets on the passenger-side window to the barren landscape of one post-harvest corn or soybean field after another. Maybe if fat snowflakes replaced the icy drizzle as the morning weatherman had predicted—a treat for a girl who grew up in Georgia—Hanna’s mood would improve.

Or maybe not. She’d been selectively mute the last four days, talking politely to waitresses, motel clerks, and the occasional stranger.

But to him? Not a word. Nothing. Nada. He’d have settled for a grunt.

Why had he ever thought he had the ability to take on a tweenie? Maybe he should have left Hanna in Atlanta with her best friend’s family. Nice people, and they had offered, but he’d refused—not that he’d given the offer much thought. Hanna was family, which meant she was his responsibility, and he owed his sister, Hanna’s mother.

We’ll stop for lunch in a few. You didn’t eat much at breakfast. Are you hungry? he asked, not really expecting a response. The question was meant to inform her of his intention to eat at one of the roadside truck stops and maybe quell the raw feeling in the pit of his stomach from too much coffee and not enough decent food. First thing he’d do when he got to Brad’s would be to stock the apartment fridge with healthy food and snacks. He’d eaten more junk food in the last two months than he had in the last eight years.

He turned his attention back to the icy road. Small talk for the first hundred and fifty miles hadn’t worked, so he’d given up days ago. Maybe, in time, Hanna would forgive him—or maybe not. Why had he convinced himself he had the instincts to raise anyone, let alone an eleven-year-old who hated his guts? Moving to Green Earth, Minnesota had been the only answer. Not that he would have volunteered to come home. He had no interest in returning to the old homestead and the memories bottled up there, but he and Hanna would adjust—new home, new school for Hanna, new job for him. Hanna’s future had been at risk. One day she would realize he’d made the decision for her own good.

Besides, nobody else had stepped up.

****

Giselle Delacroix rubbed a saturated paper towel over the filthy window so she could gaze out at Green Earth’s quaint town square—a painted, white gazebo, lovingly kept, an extensive playground for children, a VFW war memorial, and a rose garden she suspected would bloom profusely and gloriously come spring.

The old clapboard storefront stood proudly across from the town square, a definite plus in the location column for retail. Too bad it was practically falling down. She turned in a tight circle to scrutinize the main room. Her business acumen screamed, Run for your life, but Giselle’s love of the small Minnesota town had developed over several years of visiting her college roommate’s family during summers and holidays. And while she and Melissa McQuada hadn’t seen each other since college, their reunion last week felt like they’d never lost touch.

With one hand on her hip, she eyed the space critically. Her rain boots had left footprints in the dust on the scarred hardwood floor. Dirty windows, squeaky doors, broken wooden counters, and a leak in the roof—under which she’d stuck a rusted old bucket—were only several of the myriad problems. But when had she ever run from a challenge? Hard work and long hours were part of her wheelhouse. She glanced at her sports watch. Mel would be here soon, and hopefully George and Clem, of McGrady Brothers Construction, would be prompt for their appointment at one o’clock.

She grabbed an old straw broom leaned against the wall and started sweeping. When the job seems overwhelming, just start it. Wasn’t that what her beautiful, sophisticated French grandmère would advise? The woman’s words of wisdom had proven correct over the years.

An hour later, Melissa arrived. Holy cow, Gee, she said, using Giselle’s old college nickname. I didn’t think it would be this bad, when I suggested the Old Sweet Shoppe as a possible location for your shop. It’s only been closed for about a year. How could it have gotten into such bad shape?

Squirrels, leaky roof, a window left open after the season ended, and I think a family of raccoons has moved into the attic. Giselle’s laugh echoed in the empty space. But you know what they say: location, location, location.

I guess, Melissa said with a concerned lift of her eyebrows. Is the landlord willing to repair anything? I bet it’ll cost a fortune to turn this place around. She ran a finger along the counter and wrinkled her nose at the accumulated dust. I don’t know where to start.

Giselle phffted. You’re the most organized woman I know. I’m counting on you to be another pair of eyes and ears. You could run circles around my extremely efficient personal assistant at Urban Choice.

Do you miss it? Melissa ventured. I mean the big time, the two enormously popular lines of women’s clothing you created. Green Earth must seem tame compared to New York and Paris. Whatever you build here won’t be anything remotely like Regis, or even Edge or Urban Choice.

Giselle bristled at the mention of Regis, the famous Parisian fashion line her parents had built, and the two spinoffs she herself had created for the American market. Green Earth is a blessing, Mel. You don’t know how lucky you are to have grown up here.

She pulled out a legal pad and a pencil from her large satchel. The McGrady brothers are due to arrive in about an hour and a half. Help me make a quick list of necessary repairs, and then we’ll run over to Nola’s for lunch—my treat—unless…since you’re not waitressing today, you’d rather go elsewhere.

No, Nola’s is fine. Cleo and Jillie might be there, too. They usually head to Nola’s on Fridays during their lunch period from school. Melissa sighed, but at least her brows had evened out. She waved an arm about. Do you think the owner might be willing to knock the Old Sweet Shoppe down and rebuild? Could be cheaper.

I can ask…but since I’m the landlord and owner of this lovely establishment now, I’ll have to make do.

Melissa slapped a hand over her mouth. Oh, no. What have I done? I’m so sorry. I should have minded my own business. I guess I got caught up in having my best friend from college back in my life.

"Don’t worry, honey. The shop has