Spotlight & Giveaway: Destination Christmas by Candice Y. Johnson

Today, HJ is pleased to share with you Candice Y. Johnson’s new release: Destination Christmas

Will this Christmas gift the possibility of love or yet another disappointment…

It’s the week before Christmas, and bestselling middle grade author Sutton Leigh is desperate to escape. She longs to rekindle her holiday spirit, but her meddlesome family is determined to keep pushing random bachelors on her so that she’s not alone for the holidays. Humiliating. But worse, a grumpy – but undeniably handsome single father–crashes her book signing and angrily demands that she stop communicating with his daughter. Sutton has no idea who his daughter is. She flees family and chaos to find her holiday bliss in a cozy, snow-capped Vermont resort – only to come face-to-face with the man who nearly ruined her release.

Middle school guidance counselor Drew Chambers is worried about his daughter Oaklynn’s blind devotion to Sutton, and now he can’t stop thinking about the intriguing woman. They call a truce for Oaklynn’s sake, so that they can each enjoy the holidays. Sparks kindle amidst twinkling lights, meddling relatives, and an unexpected blizzard. Will Sutton and Drew find love – or will their holiday magic melt away with the snow?

Enjoy an exclusive excerpt from Destination Christmas 

CHAPTER ONE
Sutton

“Excuse me, lady, I think I’ve done a pretty decent job raising my daughter on my own for the last twelve years, and I don’t need some mediocre children’s book author, telling me how to raise her! You need to mind your own business and find somebody else’s kid to fix.”

The gorgeous man who’d shoved his way to the head of the line trailing outside the door of Turning Pages Bookstore for my last signing of the year to tell me about myself, was rude, loud, and wrong. I’d never laid eyes on him or the invisible daughter he was so vehemently defending before … though under more civil circumstances, I might’ve found myself wanting to lay something more cordial on his ruffled feathers.

Scruffy beard.

Dazzling hazel eyes so mesmerizing they could turn a gawker to stone.

Dark, wavy hair sitting so pretty on top of his head, as if waiting for my ready hand to dip in and swirl, swirl, swirl.

Dang, the devil knows how to package what you want, in everything you don’t need.

I quickly dismissed the thought of being his private caroler and focused on the festive red and lime green sweater that was wearing him, instead of the other way around. The visual of a disgruntled elf vomiting what was left of its yuletide cheer all over the front of the shirt, came to mind. That I could overlook. But that disrespectful mouth of his?

It was too close to Christmas for that crap.

Before I lost myself and untamed my mouth in front of the PG-rated crowd clutching my latest bestseller, HARMONY HILL, QUEEN OF LOST CAUSES, to their chests, my literary agent and savior, Marcelle Trideaux, sprang into action, wedging herself between the irate girl-dad, and the six-foot table I was seated behind, creating a shield.

“Pardon me, Hideous Christmas Sweater Guy,” Marcelle said. “This isn’t the company holiday party, so you’re going to have to go find your pumpkin pie somewhere else.”

“First of all, my sweater’s ugly, not hideous.” He darted a thumb at the string of lights forming a halo over the scowling dog’s head, covering his chest. Or was it a grimacing reindeer? At any rate, hearing the jingling bells filling the creature’s scraggly beard made of yarn, hurt worse than my malfunctioning pride.

“Stop deflecting,” he lit into me. “After I finish here, I have a few dozen batches of gingerbread cookies to bake with my daughter for her school’s Sixth Grade Reindeer Trot tonight, so I won’t be long.” He turned to Marcelle, frowning. “And for the record, pumpkin pie makes me gag. Obviously, I’m not here to party—I’m here on business.”

“The business of ruining Christmas?” I chirped.

“No, the business of keeping you from ruining my kid’s holiday. The only Christmas ruiner I see around here is you.” He huffed, his annoyed energy quickly spreading to the impatient tweens fidgeting in the line behind him.

Marcelle crinkled her nose, defense mode activated. “Christmas ruiner? First of all, that’s not even a word. And I’ll have you know my client is the epitome of everything Christmas. In fact, she’s Miss Christmas to you, which is the only reason why she’s even here.”

“Seems to me, she’s here to capitalize off of a beloved holiday.”

“You can’t be serious. Do you even know who she is?”

Right on cue, Ugly Sweater Dad slammed a book on the table in front of me, pointing to the capitalized letters in blue, centered beneath the colorful illustration of my tween heroine on the front cover.

NEW YORK TIMES BEST-SELLING AUTHOR, SUTTON LEIGH

“This is you, correct?”

“Well, yes but—”

“Then, I know exactly who you are.” He cut me off with a raised palm facing me. “I’m asking you again, nicely, to please stay away from my daughter.”

“Who is your daughter, and what on earth have I done to her?”

Just as he opened his mouth to fill us in on his inside secret, Marcelle raised a hand, showing off the candy cane manicure I planned to replicate for myself once I left here. “Hold that thought.” She clapped, hushing the chattering of my readers who were ready to talk Harmony with me.

“Hey, everyone,” Marcelle said. “We know all of you are anxiously waiting for your turn to get your books signed, but if you’ll spare us five minutes for a very brief break.” She pressed her index finger to her thumb, indicating how quick it would be. “We’ll be right back.”

A chorus of disappointed groans crackled through the store, but not a single person budged from the line. All of the angst, lessons in puberty, fun with boys, heartbreak when those same boys grew into men, and every humiliating moment of the fraught adolescence that made me the master of the art I’d chosen to express it in, was enough for my audience to stay put. It was like my testimony was their salvation. Proof they weren’t alone, validation that they weren’t the weirdos the cruel world had made them out to be.

In fifth grade, I was crowned “Big Red” thanks to a sudden, mortifying act of nature that went down during world history. If I could survive that—along with the blunt bangs I’d mangled with a dull pair of crafting scissors in the aftermath of the ordeal—surviving horror pains would be a snap for my fans, too.

My stories told them so.

At least once the ignominy healed, of course.

I ran a hand over the side-parted, choppy bob I’d come to be known for, shuddering at thoughts of the ghosts that had made me a success—mainly, the bones of classrooms past—willing myself to time travel out of my third row desk, bristling as my English teacher Mrs. Clay, called me, Cute enough to get by, but not enough to rest on pretty.

I was the kid whose papers had grown synonymous with the letter F, because Mrs. Clay said my writing was just that god-awful, setting the precedent for my poor performances cementing the rest of my scholastic career. Every time I put pen to page, I thought about the first adult who bullied me. Mrs. Clay convinced me that my goals were merely dreams that I’d never see manifest. From her mouth to my heart, my motivation tumbled, and I graduated bottom of my class. Maybe I was dreaming after all. But after I woke up, I’d landed on top of multiple bestsellers’ lists.

Poised, humble, and still awkward.

Mrs. Clay was wrong. It wasn’t my writing that was bad. Apparently, at least according to this guy who was chopping my head off, it was my crappy advice that jacked people up.

“You, come with me.” Marcelle snapped her fingers at Ugly Sweater Dad, plucking me from my thoughts after I’d tuned him out. Dragging the plaid loafers matching her checkered scarlet blazer across the floor, she retreated to the festive, six-foot retractable banner bearing the likeness of me donned in a Santa hat seated in front of a Christmas tree, just out of earshot of the crowd. My nameless adversary followed behind.

“Look, you little sugarplum thug.” Marcelle’s sweet voice turned into a hammer swinging in the man’s face. “I did not drive a stake through both my parents’ hearts by quitting law school to open a literary agency all the way here in Hope Springs, Texas, just for a grump like you to blow up everything this woman and I have worked so hard to build. You will not be tinkling on any parades around here today, you hear me? Now either get to your moot point or get to skippin’ your little jingle bells out of here.”

Marcelle nodded toward the double glass doors, just as an adorable girl dressed in a white snowman hoodie that said GET FROSTY WITH IT barreled inside. She slapped her hands over her mouth, frantically hopping in place as soon as she spotted me.

“Oh my gosh … It’s you!” the girl squealed.

“It’s you, too!” I joked.

Before I knew it, she flew to me and wrapped her arms around my waist. “Merry Christmas, I love you!” she yelped.

“Well, I love you too, ladybug.” I gave her a tight squeeze, just before the woman who’d come in with her gently tugged her away from me.

Once we parted ways, Angry Dad was glaring at me, clearly unimpressed.

The woman pulled the girl backward into her, securing her in her arms to prevent another ambush. “You have to forgive my niece, Miss Leigh. All she wants for Christmas is to meet you. As you can see, she’s terribly excited,” the woman explained, out of breath from the dash through the door.

“It’s Sutton.” I cheerfully corrected her. “And I’m thrilled to see her too. No apologies necessary.”

A solemn expression crossed the woman’s face, as she glanced down at the girl, squirming in her arms. “This is her first Christmas without her mother.” She gulped a swift breath. “She’s learning to navigate.”

“Aren’t we all?” I smiled at my young fan, who beamed back at me.

“It’s been really sad without Mom,” the girl said, “but Harmony says ‘even when it rains, it’s still okay to smile’, right?”

Hands clasped, a sentimental grin on her face, Marcelle softly mouthed the line my new friend recited. The one I wrote for Harmony after my Aunt Dee Dee’s untimely passing last year, specifically to help kids through grief. Heck, I was thirty-six and needed a boost too.

I might or might not have swooned a little when the girl pushed up a sleeve and held up her hand for me to see the Harmony charm bracelet around her wrist.

Okay, I totally did.

“What’s your name, beautiful?” Marcelle asked the girl.

“I’m Kendra,” she boldly announced.

Marcelle shook her hand. “Well, it’s so nice to meet you, Kendra. Everyone’s waiting in the main area, and if you’ll join them, we’ll be right inside, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am, I will. Come on, Auntie!” Kendra snagged her aunt by the hand and started toward the end of the line. “Oh, and Miss Sutton?”

I turned to face her. “Yes, ladybug?”

“Harmony is the only reason why I love reading so much. Please don’t ever stop writing her.”

She spun on her heels and jetted away, leaving me exposed. My safety net was gone.

And Mr. Irate wasted no time returning to crabby form.

“So, that’s how it works, huh?” What’s-his-name attempted to cross his arms over his chest, but the massive antlers shooting from the creature’s head foiled his dramatic attempt.

I sighed. “How what works?”

“You just go around slinging subpar books and bad advice to little girls, making them believe they’re the only one you talk to, as if they’re special.”

I swallowed the pinch in my throat to keep me from socking him. “I’ll have you know all of my readers are special to me. Each and every one of them.”

His eyes narrowed. “So, I’m assuming you call each and every one of your underage groupies, ladybug?”

“It’s a term of endearment.”

“It’s to keep from bothering yourself to learn the names of the people buying into these ridiculous fantasies you sell.”

His eyes on me made me nervous. Judging, and checking me out. It wasn’t so much that he was intimidating; it was the steel behind the glare, unflinchingly lasered on me. Which explained the pool of sweat forming beneath my arms, and why my heart picked up. I was angry, but only at myself. For not being angry with him.

He’d be so beautiful, if he wasn’t such an—

“That’s enough,” Marcelle chided my false accuser. “You know, it takes a special talent to bust up in here looking like Santa’s helper with big Grinch energy. Come on pal, you’re out of here.”

Marcelle didn’t give the guy a chance to protest before ushering him toward the exit.

“Fine, I’ll go.” He reserved his best scowl for me. “But, do me a favor?”

I raised my brows, questioning.

“If my daughter emails you for advice again, please don’t respond.”

“Who is your daughter?” I demanded.

The impish grin he flashed didn’t quite leave me feeling fuzzy. “I’m sure one of those Master’s in literature you have can help you figure it out.”

He walked out the door, and because my heart was loyal to everyone but me, it sank as I watched him hop in his minivan and speed off the parking lot.

“Alright, crisis diverted. Your crowd awaits, friend.” Marcelle wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “You know, it’s a good thing you don’t write romance.”

My head whipped around. “And why is that?”

“Because while your alter ego Harmony is the queen of her class, you are the queen of the meet-ugly.”

“I’d call you a liar, but then you’d remind me about the last Mr. Wrong I found on the Lovesick app.” I nearly threw up in my mouth, thinking about him and his … I couldn’t bring myself to say it. “Do you know he actually called me for a second date?”

“I wouldn’t know about the woes of swiping right anymore, hon.” Marcelle waved her hand, flashing the two-carat stunner on her ring ringer. “Those are single girl problems.”

“Yeah, single girls.”

Marcelle’s eyes lingered on her hand a second longer before she lowered it. “Come on, champ. You’ve got some signing to do. Then, tonight, we party. You are wearing that emerald number, aren’t you? That’s not a request.”

“Why?”

“Your curves, in that dress, along with your smoldering gaze and that flirty mole perched on the bridge of your nose—need I say more?” Marcelle took me by the hand and we started walking back to the main room. “My Dominic has every eligible bachelor in Hope Springs coming tonight, and you’re a rose waiting to break through the concrete. All you need is the right man to chip away at the cement. You never know, Santa Baby may just have a mister under the tree for you tonight.”

“Why didn’t you lead with that when we got here? Let’s go!”

We reached the door, and Marcelle stopped short. “By the way, even though he’s totally your type, I need you to fight those feelings.”

“What? Who?”

“Horrendous Sweater Dad.”

“Seriously, Marcelle? And what type is that?”

“Handsome with a touch of mean, hard-headed, and emotionally bankrupt. The kind of man who will break your heart if you don’t stop thinking about him right this second.”

“I’m not thinking—” Who am I kidding? I paused for a breath. “In my recent past, I’d admit that you’re right. But since I’ve become a reformed self-saboteur, I emphatically disagree. And you’re big wrong about one thing.”

“Wrong about what?”

“A man that emotional about his daughter is far from bankrupt.”

When we darted back inside, the holiday tunes were blasting, and the guests were dancing to pass the time. The only thing louder than the music was the applause when I reclaimed my seat behind the table.

Shoving the ugly scene from earlier in my rearview, I signed my name and took pictures like nothing happened. But Ugly Sweater Dad and his daughter were paying rent in the back of my mind the entire time. And because I was attracted to punishment over pleasure, I actually wanted to see the jerk again. It was obvious he didn’t play about his daughter.

I wanted a man who’d go that hard for me.

Excerpt. ©Candice Y. Johnson. Posted by arrangement with the publisher. All rights reserved.
 
 

Giveaway: Winner will receive one ebook copy of DESTINATION CHRISTMAS plus one additional ebook of the winner’s choice from Tule Publishing.

To enter Giveaway: Please complete the form and post a comment to this Q: What did you think of the excerpt spotlighted here? Leave a comment with your thoughts on the book…

Meet the Author:

When she’s not on the hunt for the perfect taco, award-winning author, choreographer, and screenwriter Candice Y. Johnson, loves spending time dancing across the keyboard, penning heartwarming, swoon-worthy, emotional stories that inspire compassion, provoke thought, and of course…always bet on love. Out of the many accolades she’s earned (including serving as choreographer for a four-time Emmy award-winning television special), one of the Texas resident’s proudest accomplishments? Writing about her favorite food – TACOS, of course!

Just as unpredictable as the Texas weather, Candice loves writing in multiple genres (romance, women’s fiction, inspirational, holiday, non-fiction, children’s books), and spending time with her creative husband – whom she’s convinced the world to call “Hershey,” as they collaborate on stage plays, films, and concerts…or munching on tacos, with a side of cupcakes.

https://tulepublishing.com/books/destination-christmas/