Spotlight & Giveaway: Oh, Christmas Night by Jane Porter

Today, HJ is pleased to share with you Jane Porter’s new release: Oh, Christmas Night

Brilliant, but overworked California accountant, Rachel Mills, inherits an old bookstore in Marietta, Montana, just as she’s been passed over for a huge promotion. The smart thing to do would be to buckle down and keep on working. But for the first time in her life, she goes with impulsive and books a flight to Montana to inspect the bookstore, and hopefully have her first white Christmas ever.
 
Texan lawyer and entrepreneur, Atticus Bowen, has found the perfect location for his next restaurant—the two-story, turn-of-the-century brick building on Marietta’s Main Street. All he has to do is convince the new owner to sell Paradise Books to him. After all, used bookstores aren’t practical or viable businesses, and he’s making Rachel Mills a very generous offer. But instead of jumping on his offer, Rachel decides she’s going to open the bookstore doors for December and ‘explore her options.’
 
The last thing Rachel expected was to fall in love with the old bookstore, or charming Marietta. She never expected sparks to fly with handsome, arrogant Atticus Bowen, either. Smart, practical Rachel realizes she just might be falling in love with the sexy, opinionated Texan lawyer — something that could prove to be neither smart, nor practical….or the best decision of her life.

Enjoy an exclusive excerpt from Oh, Christmas Night 

The diner was wonderfully warm after the chilly night, and relatively empty giving them their pick of booths. Atticus suggested a table along the front windows, their dark red booth just beneath a pair of painted angels singing “Hark the Herald” on the glass.
Rachel sat down and peeled off the mittens she always kept stashed in her coat pockets. “It feels good in here. I can’t get over the cold. It’s winter.”
“Most of the country has a real winter. We’re the exception,” he answered, placing his coat on the bench next to him.
“Do you like Houston?” she asked.
“Yes,” he answered, pointing out the pies and cakes of the day, written on the chalkboard. “See what I mean about options?”
She read the listings—so many delicious desserts—but they had her favorite, an old-fashioned chocolate layer cake with chocolate frosting, and Rachel didn’t need to look anymore. “What do you like about Houston?” she asked, determined to get him to talk since he seemed to ask a lot of questions rather than share much about himself.
“It’s home.”
She arched a brow. “That’s it?”
“There is a lot to like. The culture, the art, food. It’s pretty diverse, and it’s an interesting place to do what I do since there is no formal zoning code. It’s why the urban sprawl can appear so confusing to the outsider.”
“I’ve never been,” she confessed. “And I’ve heard it’s a big city, where you drive and drive, and drive.”
“It’s smaller than Los Angeles.”
That wasn’t saying much, she thought. “Where’s your office?”
“Downtown Houston.”
“Is it your own business?”
“Yes.”
“You give very short answers.”
He cracked a smile. “I’m a former trial attorney. I hate revealing anything.”
“In case it gets used against you?”
“Absolutely.”
“You’re not a trial attorney anymore?” she asked.
“I switched to real estate law.”
“Why?”
“Is this a deposition?”
“You really hate answering questions.”
Creases fanned from his eyes. “You picked up on that, did you?”
She shook her head. “You’re impossible.”
“That’s not the first time I’ve heard that.”
They paused to place their order and then when the waitress walked away, Rachel said, “It must be nice having control of your own schedule.”
“It’s one of the better perks about my work now.”
“Do you miss anything about being a litigator?”
He hesitated so long she wasn’t sure he would answer. “I felt like I was doing something good,” he said at length. “I felt like I had a purpose.”
“You don’t anymore?”
“It’s a different kind of good, and a different kind of purpose. Maybe because the stakes are different.”
She wanted to reply to this, but the waitress returned with their cups of coffee—regular for Atticus, and decaf for her—and after the waitress left, it somehow didn’t seem right to pursue the subject. Or maybe Atticus’s hard, shuttered expression made her reluctant to push.
Rachel added milk to her coffee and gave it a slow, thoughtful stir. “Work is a strange thing,” she said after a moment. “It’s certainly consuming. This is my first real break in years. I’ve taken a day here and there, but never two full weeks off at one time.”
“Your company discourages staff from taking vacation time?”
“No. I just always feel like I have too much to do to take time off. I have weeks and weeks coming to me—and I was going to lose three of those at the end of this year if I didn’t take them—which is partly why I’m here now rather than January or February.”
“I’m glad it wasn’t hard for you to take two weeks at one time.”
She grimaced. “Oh, they didn’t like it. In fact, at first I was told it couldn’t happen, that it wasn’t convenient, but when I threatened to quit they backed down. So here I am.”
“Will you face a backlash when you return?”
She thought of work and wasn’t sure if she should laugh or cry. It had been such a roller coaster the past few years, and she still felt so deflated after being passed over for the last promotion. “I would have worried two months ago. I’m not as concerned anymore.”
He gave her a penetrating look. “Did something happen?”
“It’s just an annoying thing. Not worth talking about.” She sipped her coffee, enjoying its warmth. “I will say, though, that I miss my work routine. I’m struggling a bit without it. This afternoon seemed to last forever. I would have given almost anything to be at my desk, in my office, pouring over real numbers instead of deciding whether or not a hundred-year-old book is worth keeping.”
“I would think the monetary value would be the indication.”
“So would I, but it’s not quite so cut and dried. Some of the books have exquisite illustrations. Others have lovely gilt edges and delicate pages—” She broke off and gave her head a shake. “Accounting is black and white. The book business isn’t.”
“Can you make it more black and white?”
“I’m trying. It’d be easier if it was.”
“Aren’t there online bookstore that will tell you whether or not your book is important?”
“Yes, there are, and I’m using those, but sometimes the books have secrets that don’t increase the value.”
“What do you mean by secrets?”
“Maybe there’s a better word, but as I’ve been going through the boxes of books I’ve found books with sweet inscriptions, books with slips of paper inside, where someone saved a dance card, or a ticket stub, or a shopping list. In one book I even found a republican ticket with a list of candidates from 1881.”
“That must be fascinating.”
“It is, but it complicates the book business. What do you do with the dance card, and the ticket stub, and the republican ticket?”
“Leave it inside the book?”
“That’s what I’ve done, but some of those books aren’t valuable, so theoretically they shouldn’t be kept.”
“But if you see value in them, can’t you keep them?”
“I would if there was a place to put them. Lesley’s store shelves are crammed full. I can’t see keeping a storage room filled with boxes.”
The waitress returned with her cake and his slice of banana cream pie.
“Why not reach out to Lesley and ask her?”
Rachel slowly lowered her fork. “Ask her what?”
“Ask her whatever you don’t know. Ask whatever you want to know. Ask to see her profit and loss statement going back five years—”
“I couldn’t do that.”
“Why not? You look at everyone else’s financials.”
“That’s different. I’m their accountant.”
“But wouldn’t it be nice to see her operating numbers?”
Absolutely, Rachel thought. It would make a huge difference, but she also understood why Lesley might not want her to see them—if Lesley was operating in the red, she might be afraid the debt would scare Rachel away. “I’ve seen some of her taxes from three years ago. There wasn’t a lot of income.”
“What about monthly? Which months were her best months? Which months were the leanest?”
“Atticus, I’ve only met her a couple times in my life, the last time at my mother’s funeral. If she walked in here now, I don’t think I’d even recognize her.”
“I think you would. I’ve never met her but what I’ve heard she’s short with curly gray hair and a big smile. Think Angela Lansbury.”
“Except that Angela Lansbury is five eight, not five one.”
“How do you know Angela Lansbury’s height?”
“My grandmother Gerber—that was my mom’s maiden name—was a huge fan of Murder She Wrote and whenever I’d stay over at her house, we’d watch it, so in fifth grade I ended up doing a book report on her character, Jessica Fletcher, and the fictional town of Cabot Cove, and I read that Angela was five eight.”
“You’ve remembered that detail all these years?”
“I have a gift for numbers.”
“Yes, you do.”
They fell silent for several minutes as they ate, and then Atticus said, “You do know it’s okay to ask for help, don’t you? No one expects anyone to be able to do everything perfectly.”
Rachel’s cheeks heated. She felt vaguely nauseous and suddenly didn’t feel much like eating anymore. “Where did that little gem come from?”
“I’m not criticizing you,” he said almost gently.
She drank her coffee because she didn’t know what to say or do. She wasn’t good at asking for help, and it didn’t help that she was a perfectionist. She expected herself to execute things flawlessly. For that matter, learning new things wasn’t one of her strengths, and it had been a struggle the past few days trying to figure out the store. “I am doing my best, but I am truly out of my element. I specialize in numbers and am awash in words and I honestly don’t know why Lesley gave me, of all people, the store. I’m the last person who should be in charge of something like this.”
“Why don’t you ask her that?”
“Because it would feel like defeat, and I’m not a defeatest.”
“But you’re also not a machine. You have questions, you have feelings—”
“Ugh. Please don’t say that ever again.”
He threw his head back and laughed. “You don’t like feelings?”
“I avoid them whenever possible.”
“You make me smile,” he said.
“I’m not trying to.”
His smile just widened and the smile was so gorgeous and sexy it made her heart do a silly flip. “If I can help you sometime, will you let me?” he asked.
“You’ve already helped me a lot. You took me for that lovely drive. You made sure there was nothing scary lurking in my building. You even showed me what good window displays looked like.”
“You’re not mad about that?”
“No, I appreciate it. I value the truth.”
“So do I,” he said quietly, his blue gaze meeting hers and holding, the expression in his eyes so warm it put fresh butterflies in her middle.
After a moment, she dropped her gaze and fidgeted in her seat. “Here’s a truth,” she said lowly, “if I called Lesley, I wouldn’t ask about the store.”
“No?”
“No.” She kept her gaze locked on her plate. “I’d ask about my mom.”
She waited for him to say something but he didn’t, and she hated all the yawning silence, a silence that made her feel too much and God help her, she wasn’t good with emotions. Feelings. Love, loss, pain. There had been so much loss and pain when her mother was sick, and even more loss and pain after she was gone.
“I would hope Lesley could tell me things I’ve forgotten,” she added, digging the prongs of her fork into the thick icing and peeling it from the layers.
“I don’t remember enough about my mom,” she said after another beat. “When I’m at the office, buried in work, I can block out everything but the work. But here, I’ve so much time on my hands and I find myself thinking about things the way they were before Mom died, and I just come up… blank. My entire past has become something of a blur.”
“What happened to your mom?”
“Cancer. She was diagnosed at the end of my freshman year, and was gone by October of my senior year. High school is fuzzy. My senior year is fuzzy—I literally remember nothing after the funeral. Even before she was sick is now foggy. Why can’t I remember more?”
“You were young and something devastating happened. Sounds like your brain tried to protect you.”
“I don’t blame my brain. I blame me. After she died, I didn’t want to think about her. Hospice sucked. I didn’t want to remember her the way she was at the end. It was awful. She was so skinny—all bones and bruises—and it was hard to look at her. I didn’t even want to hug her because I was afraid it’d hurt her, and maybe she’d break—” She exhaled hard, and fought to keep her voice even. “I wished I hugged her so much more. I regret being afraid—”
“You were a teenager, Rachel.”
“Doesn’t matter,” she retorted fiercely. “Once people are gone, they don’t come back.” She reached up and brushed fingertips beneath her eyes, not about to let tears form or fall. “I worked so hard to block out the bad memories that now I can’t remember anything.”
“Other than grandparents, I’ve never lost anyone close to me,” Atticus said after a moment. “So I can’t even imagine what you’ve been through. I’m just sorry you had to experience so much loss so young.”
Rachel grimaced. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you this. I never talk about this.”
“Maybe I’m a good listener?”
“Or maybe you want that bookstore really badly.”
“What does that mean?” he demanded, sitting taller, his deep voice sharpening.
She was feeling prickly and out of sorts and she shrugged impatiently. “You’re ‘befriending’ me,” she answered bluntly, doing air quotes around the word befriending, “to increase your odds for ending up with the store.”
He now looked as annoyed as she felt. “I don’t need to befriend you to get the store. I’m hanging out with you because I like you.” He must have seen her expression because he added, “Is that really so shocking?”
Her prickly defensiveness just increased. “I’m on the nerdy side, and I know it.”
“Nerds can be cool.”
“You think so?”
“Of course. I’ve been a nerd my whole life, and I love my life. It’s interesting and I’m myself and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Nobody is going to meet you and think you’re a nerd.”
“Nobody is going to meet you and think you’re a nerd, either. You’re beautiful—”
“Oh, come on.”
“Don’t you look in the mirror?”
“I try to avoid it.”
“Why?”
“I just don’t—” She broke off, shoulders twisting. “Find my appearance all that interesting. There are other things I’d rather focus on.”
“Like numbers?”
She smiled ruefully. “Well, yes.”
“Men are attracted to you, Rachel. You must know that.”
“I don’t really pay attention.”
“Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe you should pay more attention to the world around you.”
“Ugh. Now you sound like my dad. He’s begun talking about trying to set me up with one of his former grad students.” She shuddered. “I can’t think of anything worse.”
“Why?”
Rachel flashed back to Eric and the demise of their relationship. He wanted so much more from her, and he couldn’t understand why—at her age—she wasn’t ready to settle down. “My last relationship ended in May when I chose to focus on my career and not on ‘us.’” She stabbed the cake, cutting a big bite. “He was a nice guy, and probably a really good catch. My father certainly liked him—they’d talk economics for hours—but I wasn’t ready to get engaged, and settle down.”
“So he broke it off?”
“No, I did. I didn’t think it was fair to string him along.”
“Don’t feel guilty. He wasn’t the right guy.”
“How do you know?” she asked, before popping the big bite into her mouth. Soft, moist cake with thick creamy, not too sweet, icing. For a second she felt almost human again.
“Because you wouldn’t let the right guy go,” Atticus added. “You’d fight for him.”
She lifted a brow, challenging him. Atticus was impossibly confident but she secretly found it quite appealing.
Atticus shrugged. “You fight for everything else, why wouldn’t you fight for your true love?”
She sipped coffee to wash the cake down. “Maybe because I don’t believe in true love. I think there is compatibility and respect and all of that, but I think the whole falling in love, can’t live without you stuff is a lot of commercial nonsense.”
Atticus just grinned and polished off his pie.
She leaned forward, and nearly pulled his plate away from him. “Why are you looking smug?”
“Because when you fall, sweet girl, you’re going to fall so hard.”
“Not going to happen.”
He just gave her another knowing smile. “We’ll see.”

He’d wanted to kiss her at the diner, and he wanted to hold her hand as they crossed the street, heading back to the bookstore, but he couldn’t do either.
He liked her a lot, and she was already conflicted about the store, and him, and he didn’t want to add more pressure. There was a lot going on in her life right now and she needed someone to make things easier for her, not harder.
They reached her corner and they stood now before Paradise Books’s front door. “Do you want me to see you up to the apartment?” he asked. “Make sure it’s all good?”
“You did that earlier. I’m sure the mouse or rat or whatever it was has gone to sleep. Besides, if you walked me up, I’d still have to come down to lock the door behind you, so I’m better off just saying goodbye here.”
“I don’t think you have anything to be afraid of.”
“I refuse to be afraid.”
If she was his, he’d kiss her now. If she was his, he’d kiss her all the time. “Smart girl.”
She gave him a crooked smile before unlocking the door and stepping inside. “Thank you for the company, and the advice, and the investigative work earlier.”
He smiled wryly. “My pleasure.”
“Good night, Atticus.”
“Good night, Rachel.”
He waited for the dead bolt to lock, and the lights to come on and then turn off, as she moved through the various floors. He waited until he saw light shine from the window at the very top before returning to his car.
Tonight he’d met a prospective client out on the client’s property in Paradise Valley before driving into town to meet Cormac Sheenan at Gray’s Saloon to discuss a new project Cormac had in mind. It didn’t take very long to drive the three blocks to the Graff, passing the Depot and crossing the railroad tracks. He was just entering the hotel when he spotted Troy Sheenan on his way out.
“Are you just now wrapping up that meeting with Cormac?” Troy asked.
“No, that ended a couple hours ago. I’ve been with Rachel. Showed her around and then grabbed a bite at the diner.”
“You’re spending a lot of time with her.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Just curious about your motives.”
Atticus stiffened, not liking the implication. “She’s an outsider here. She doesn’t know many people. We’re both outsiders—”
“Who both just happen to be interested in the same thing.”
“Exactly.” Atticus was silent a moment as he regarded his long-time friend and business associate. “You’re not worried my restaurant is going to cut into your business at the Graff, are you? Right now you’re the top dog here for fine dining.”
Troy shrugged dismissively. “Marietta can handle the competition, and a Galveston Steak House could even help fill the Graff’s rooms, but there are a lot of other locations in Marietta that would work for your restaurant. It doesn’t have to be the bookstore.”
“But the bookstore is exactly what I want. It has the ideal location on Main Street, positioned on the corner. The brick interior and exterior are in excellent shape. The two stories are perfect for the dining room, and then it has that deep back mechanical room which would make an ideal kitchen, as well as a basement which would give us space for an elevator, and proper bathrooms, allowing us to bring the building to code in terms of accessibility.”
“You could probably fight that one, based on the building’s age and historical value.”
“I wouldn’t, though. I might be cutthroat with my deals, but once a building is mine, I take care of it, and you know I’m an advocate for accessibility. Fortunately, my architect and design team have tackled that issue in other buildings I’ve acquired so I’m not worried about it.”
“But the building in question is not available.”
“It will be.”
Troy arched a brow.
“Rachel is a realist, not a romantic. She’s aware that bookstores, particularly stores that rely on used books, don’t generate enough revenue to pay for the overhead. She’s lucky that there isn’t a mortgage, but she will still have to pay utilities and taxes, and there isn’t going to be a lot left over. Just keeping that place warm in winter will drain her finances. She’s going to sell to me, one way or another. It’s just a question of when.”
“Unless she’s willing to do something different with the bookstore.” Troy smiled faintly. “Maybe she’ll open her own restaurant.”
“I don’t see that happening.”
“Why not?”
“She’s already out of her element.”
“And what if she sold to someone?”
“Someone like Taylor?” Atticus retorted, remembering the rather tense conversation following dinner at the Sheenans earlier in the week.
“Taylor is committed to Marietta’s library. She’s not looking to take on the bookstore, but she believes in the store and she’d hate to think you’re undermining Rachel in any way.”
Atticus suppressed his frustration. “I care about Rachel—”
“You don’t have to sell me.”
“Troy, I like her, and I’m not going to do anything that would hurt her.” He nodded to Troy and said good night and as he rode the elevator to the suite on the fourth floor, his words echoed in his head.
He really did care for her, and the last thing he wanted to do was hurt her, or keep her from succeeding with the bookstore. While he still wanted the building, he also wanted her happiness. Was there a way they could both get what they wanted?
Atticus was no longer so sure.

It was a magnificent sunrise, the sky behind the mountains turning pink and then glowing persimmon and gold.
She’d had good dreams, dreams that had left her waking up smiling. If only she remembered them. But at least she’d slept well, and there had been no more bumps in the night, and now she sat on the foot of her bed gazing out the oval window, with its view of majestic Copper Mountain, covered in white.
The little apartment this morning was chilly, but the view more than made up for the cold. She drew the quilt draped over her shoulders closer, huddling into the warmth with her mug of coffee clutched between her hands and as she sat there watching the sun slowly rise up behind the mountains, she felt a bubble of lightness within her, and the bubble seemed to get bigger, much like the sun appearing in the sky.
The lightness felt almost like excitement, or maybe happiness. She didn’t know what would happen today but she had a feeling it would be interesting, if she could let new things be interesting instead of frustrating or intimidating.
Atticus was right. She did put a lot of pressure on herself. Sometimes it was too much pressure. Maybe just for now she could give herself permission to enjoy change, and a break from the familiar, and not have to be perfect. Maybe she could enjoy a break from her routine, and not feel insecure because she was learning something new.
If she was this rigid and inflexible at thirty, imagine being fifty? Seventy? My goodness, the future looked bleak at the rate she was going. So, now, while she was on her vacation, she needed to relax, and embrace Marietta and Montana.
She thought of her walk around Marietta last night with Atticus looking at window displays, and then dessert at the diner after, and she felt a pang just remembering how he’d made her feel…
She’d dated Eric for a year and he’d never made her feel tingly or breathless. She’d never felt a tender pang, or gotten butterflies when he looked at her.
Atticus made her feel all that… and more.
She was entering uncharted territory. Dangerous territory.
It crossed her mind that she was beginning to care for him a little too much, and she ought to know better. She needed to guard her heart better, protect her emotions, be realistic, be proactive. In short, be smart, because that was what had gotten her this far in life.
Ready to get her day going, Rachel headed to the bathroom for a quick shower before dressing in jeans, a T-shirt, and a thick sweater for warmth. Feet in sturdy boots, she slipped her phone into her back pocket, and went to the kitchen to make oatmeal. With her bowl of oatmeal, Rachel headed downstairs, and opened the shutters one by one, and turned on the lights.
Pale gold sunlight flooded the bookstore. Long rays of golden light streaked the hardwood floor. Air caught in her throat, and for a moment she felt an almost intolerable ache. She’d become so good at not feeling, that when she did, emotion made her miserable. But the bookstore was beautiful and the blue sky was beautiful, as were the snowcapped mountains just outside of town. It was as if Marietta had become magical and she didn’t know what to do with all the sensations and emotions.
Work, maybe. Finish her oatmeal and concentrate.
Rachel ended up behind the counter at the cash register, and sighed as she looked at the enormous vintage register. She pressed a few buttons, drew the lever on the side, and the bottom drawer came out. How on earth did Lesley use this for her business? The brass register was beautiful but not at all practical.
To be fair, everything about this store fell into that category.
Computer open, she tackled another box of books from the storage room. She opened the top book, The Flying Boys to the Rescue, and paused on the inscription.
1921
A Merry Christmas
To Victor
From Grandpa
and Aunt Cecilia
Rachel dutifully typed the info about the novel into the search engine. The book was listed at ten dollars on several sites. It wasn’t a valuable book, but it was part of a set. She looked through the box. There were no more books in the set in the box.
She couldn’t really afford to keep the book. Where would she put it? There were other copies available online. Swallowing hard, Rachel set The Flying Boys to the Rescue in the discard pile, an uncomfortable lump in her throat, as her eyes burned, dry and gritty.
She shouldn’t feel sad that she couldn’t keep the book. It wasn’t feasible to keep every book from the back room, but it felt as if she’d inherited not a store, but a collection of lives and loves, of memories and dreams. She felt responsible for a past that only lived on in these old books with their faded fabric cloth, and tattered paper covers.
She’d spent the past several days trying to determine a book’s value by looking up the age and condition in online databases, but the database didn’t truly convey a book’s value.
The database didn’t take into account the love behind the gift of a book. The database didn’t care.
Somehow she did, though, and the emotions baffled her.
She didn’t focus on emotion, and she certainly didn’t want to care for these books. There were so many, and they were just sitting here, collecting dust. No one wanted them anymore. No one seemed to need them.
Determined to be ruthless, she grabbed a pale green book from the bottom of the box. Altemus’ Young People’s History of the United States, and flipped open the cover.
To Geo A Potter
September 08, 1905
From Pop
Happy Birthday
No.
No.
She wasn’t going to do this anymore. She wasn’t going to care. The books could go. The books could all go. She was too sensible to become caught up in this impossible task. There was no reason to fall apart over a collection of old books.
The books only mattered if someone was willing to pay for them. They would only be saved if they had measurable financial value. That was it. There was no room for sentimental decisions. No room for wistful feelings. The past was the past, and the only way to survive was to be realistic about the future.
The bell on the front door tinkled as the door swung open. Zane walked in carrying a large cardboard box. He placed the books on the counter where Rachel had been working. She lifted an eyebrow. “More books?”
“Lesley’s personal Christmas collection. They’re from her house. I used to bring them over for her every year to display, and figured you might want to use them in your windows, too.”
He didn’t like her windows, either. “I’m not done with my windows,” she said. “I have a plan.”
“Well, maybe these will help. They’re mostly children’s books. Classics as well as contemporaries. She’d display in the windows, and read from them during story hour.”
Rachel’s spirits sank. She couldn’t even imagine reading out loud to a bunch of restless children. “Let’s see this collection,” she said, forcing a cheerful note into her voice.
He opened the box and lifted out stacks of books, and yes, they were nearly all children’s books, mostly picture books along with some illustrated classics, ranging from ’Twas the Night Before Christmas, to books from her childhood like A Charlie Brown Christmas, Santa Mouse, and Frosty the Snowman, and then there were newer books she’d never heard of, including A Christmas Card for Mr. McFizz and Mouse’s Christmas Gift that had her leafing through the pages right away.
“These will be really fun to display,” Rachel said.
“Lesley has more at her house for other holidays. I should ask her if she wants to hang on to them,” Zane said, lifting a picture book called Mortimer’s Christmas Manager and opening the cover. “My kids love this one. I should get them a copy.”
“Why do they like it?” she asked, curious.
“They love the stories with mice and animals,” he said, flipping through the pages quickly, “and this one has exceptional illustrations. See?” He turned the book around for her to see. “The illustrations are big and bright, which appeals to children, plus it has a Christmas message. My wife’s a speech therapist and she likes to find things for the kids that are entertaining, but also educational.”
“Thus, the popularity of children’s books,” Rachel said.
“Parents will spend money on their kids that they won’t spend on themselves.”
“I should be carrying a lot more children’s books,” Rachel said thoughtfully. “Lesley used to have a huge children’s business, but over time she stopped ordering in as much stock, which is a shame because at one point she was going to move the children’s section from upstairs where it’s tucked behind the adult fiction into a dedicated children’s room down here in that big back room.”
“That would actually be a good place for it. There’s a lot of space.”
“And it’s close to the only bathroom.”
Rachel reached for Mouse’s Christmas Gift and studied the cover which featured a mouse dressed in a green vest lighting a candle in a frost-covered window. “Why didn’t she?”
“That’s a good question.” Zane restacked all the picture books except for the one in front of her. “But if this was my store, I’d create that dedicated children’s room and fill it with children’s books, have regular story time, and let everyone know.” He tipped the brim of his cowboy hat. “If you need anything, let me know.”
“Thank you,” she said. “You’ve been a big help.” And he had, she thought, as the door closed behind him because Mouse’s Christmas Gift had just given her an idea.
What if she frosted part of her windows? Why not hire someone to come and paint sparkly snowflakes on the corners of her two big windows, filling some of the vast space, creating a scene in the middle? She could then use that middle space to highlight Lesley’s children’s books. She needed a tower, or some big boxes, something to give height, but it was certainly doable.
She paged through Mouse’s Christmas Gift, reading the short, simple story and found herself blinking back tears as she reached the end. It was not a complicated story but it was beautiful, and moving. Maybe she could display the book next to a Nativity set as the Nativity figured prominently in the story.
Where could she find an inexpensive one? Would that store on Main Street specializing in shabby chic items carry something like that? She’d have to find out first chance she got.

Excerpt. ©Jane Porter. Posted by arrangement with the publisher. All rights reserved.
 
 

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Meet the Author:

New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of forty-nine romances and women’s fiction titles, Jane Porter has been a finalist for the prestigious RITA award five times and won in 2014 for Best Novella with her story, Take Me, Cowboy, from Tule Publishing. Today, Jane has over 12 million copies in print, including her wildly successful, Flirting With Forty, picked by Redbook as its Red Hot Summer Read, and reprinted six times in seven weeks before being made into a Lifetime movie starring Heather Locklear. A mother of three sons, Jane holds an MA in Writing from the University of San Francisco and makes her home in sunny San Clemente, CA with her surfer husband and two dogs.
 
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