The Text Before Christmas: Digital Dating, #5

By Delancey Stewart and Marika Ray

Can a widow find love again during the holidays?

Pamela Cunningham isn't sure whether it's the smell of cinnamon in the air, the glowing lights in every festive window, or the fact that each of her four grown sons has recently fallen in love, but she's finding herself thinking about things she hasn't considered since her husband died.

All thanks to the debonair winemaker she hired from France to teach her to turn her dream winery into a success.

Jacques, in the meantime, gets a text that his work visa will not be renewed, which means he'll be starting the new year back in France. He thinks he may have misread the entire situation with Pam, and that she does not have warm Christmasy feelings for him that match the ones he holds for her. He vows to enjoy the short time they have left, however.

Will the text before Christmas ruin this second chance at love?

The Text Before Christmas is a novella-length story featuring a holiday misunderstanding, all the Cunningham brothers and their significant others, every side character you're hoping to see once more, and a traditional Cunningham grand gesture.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Delancey Stewart
• Release date: Jan 17, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224827541

Delancey Stewart

Delancey Stewart writes contemporary romance. Stewart has lived on both coasts, in big cities and small towns. She's been a pharmaceutical rep, a personal trainer and a direct sales representative for a French wine importer. But she has always been a writer first. A wife and the mother of two small boys, her current job titles include pirate captain, monster hunter, Lego assembler and story reader. She tackles all these efforts at her current home outside Washington D.C. Find her at www.delanceystewart.com

Book preview

1

PAM

Islid my feet into reindeer slippers, pulled my Mrs. Claus robe around me, and headed for the kitchen. Thanksgiving dishes were still soaking in the sink, but I didn’t let that stop me from turning on my speaker and starting up the Christmas tunes. There’d never been a Christmas season I didn’t like. I had my cookie exchange all set up. The holiday party for the winery was already in the works. I even ordered a new Santa suit for the occasion, wanting to retire the pig costume that gave my boys nightmares.

Someone must have pulled the old family photo albums out after dinner last night. An old cracked, brown leather one lay on the counter. I waited until my milk was bubbling hot before dumping in my favorite cocoa mix and topping it with marshmallows. Then I sat on the barstool and cracked the album open, letting a range of emotions hit me square in the chest.

It always amazed me that a human could feel completely opposite emotions at the very same time. Like when my boys started dating women and tossed around the L-word in all seriousness. I was both ecstatic for them and yet sad at the realization that their youth was well and truly behind them. And then there were days like today, when I saw a younger version of myself and Michael with the boys. I could laugh at all the memories of the holidays we’d spent at this very same house while still having to rub at the ache in my chest. Every single one of those holidays had been filled with laughter, love, and enough sugar to keep the town dentist in practice through his retirement. My mouth was laughing, but my heart was aching.

I missed my Michael.

Being a widow in my fifties wasn’t what I’d signed up for, and yet here I was. Alone in this old house having myself a little wallow. Tears traced a path down both cheeks, and I wasn’t sure if they were from laughing or crying. Time had taken the stabbing pain of grief and turned it into a dull ache that never really left. I’d learned to live with it over the last few years, enjoying every second with my boys, saddled with a new appreciation for waking up every morning and getting another ride around the sun.

I lifted the chipped mug with Grumpy Cat on it, the Santa hat slipping off the poor thing’s head. The cat looked a lot like I felt. The hot chocolate, just now reaching maximum marshmallow meltedness, was easing me into the day. I had no reason to be grumpy. In fact, life was finally good again.

My four boys were paired up with wonderful women who’d hopefully give me a house full of grandchildren soon. And even my own love life was facing a renewal of sorts I hadn’t seen coming.

That was the other thing that amazed me about humans: a broken heart could somehow love again.

The phone rang—yes, I still had a landline—and I got up to answer it. Hello?

Good morning, lovely Pam, came the rich accent of my head winemaker and current boyfriend Jacques.

I twirled the curly phone cord around my finger, aware that a smile spread across my face and there was nothing I could do to stop it. Good morning, Jacques, my Frenchman. How goes it? I was picking up all kinds of slang from that app Dalton had me download with all the people dancing to music clips.

It is going very well, except I do not see your lovely face, he purred into the phone. Okay, the man didn’t purr, but with the thick French accent, it sure did something to my insides. I glanced at the clock on the microwave and nearly dropped the phone.

Oh! I must have lost track of the time!

Jacques chuckled into my ear. Yes, you are late once again, my dear, but do not worry. El has covered the front and I will always cover your backside.

My cheeks heated, and I was glad no one was around to see me. I was positively hot flashing, thinking about Jacques doing anything to my backside. Jacques and I had flirted relentlessly for months now, but neither one of us had taken things further. And call me old fashioned, but I wasn’t going to be the one to make the first move.

I must get changed first, and then I’ll see you shortly.

Wait! Jacques cried. Did you approve the payroll?

I winced. Oh, crap. I knew I forgot something yesterday.

Jacques, bless his heart, didn’t even sound upset. You had much to do with the turkey. I understand. And believe me, I would rather go broke than miss your pecan pie. He made some kissing noise that had me smiling. I wasn’t much of a winemaker, but you could call me Betty Crocker with the perfection of my pies.

I’ll do that right now and then I’ll be in. Thank you!

Anything for you, lovely Pam, he murmured before hanging up.

I put the phone back on the wall and rushed as fast as slippers with antlers allowed to the office that had been Michael’s. I hadn’t touched a thing since he passed, only pushing aside his keyboard to place my laptop in the middle of the desk. This room had never felt like mine and it still didn’t. Removing his personal effects felt like erasing him, and that was something I was not prepared to do. Just getting new bedroom furniture a few months ago had sent me into a full week funk.

Trying to work the accounting program El had put together for me reminded me of that horrific government website for employers to file extensions on their employee’s work visas. I’d had to navigate that just a few months ago to make sure Jacques’s work visa was good for another two years. While I waited for the computer to boot up, I remembered that day, just like this one. In my rush I’d forgotten my reading glasses in the bedroom, but if I squinted hard enough, I could read just fine. I entered my password and hissed at the screen when it said the password was wrong.

I know that’s correct! I yelled at the screen, but the screen did not listen to my complaints. I entered it again and got the same red verbiage telling me I’d lost my mind. I hit the forgot password link and steeled myself for having to come up with yet another password that would keep out those internet pirates, but be simple enough for me to remember. I didn’t know about my fellow citizens, but I was plum out of possible passwords.

It took some finagling and a few select curse words, but I got into the website before I threw my computer out the window. I clicked the register button and nothing happened. I clicked it again and then a third time before it loaded a new page. Technology was simply not my friend. I firmly believed you could teach an old dog new tricks, but only if the old dog wanted to learn new tricks. Sometimes old dogs just wanted to get their treat and be left alone to laze the afternoon away.

Gah! I jabbed my finger violently on the number two button until it finally showed on the screen. I clicked the mouse and voila. The form was submitted. Thank goodness I don’t need to do that again for another two years.

The computer beeped, and I blinked, coming back to the present moment. A double-click on the accounting program icon, another few buttons that actually were starting to look familiar, and bam! Employees were officially paid. I didn’t want to be boastful, but I thought I might actually be getting the hang of this computer thing.

I made it to