When Christmas is Cancelled
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About this ebook
When Rosie does a good deed on Christmas Day, she’s not expecting to come face to face with her very own ghost of Christmas past.
Rosie Kilbride’s festive plans are derailed when her mother calls on Christmas Eve to postpone their family get together due to illness. Left with a surplus of food and no one to eat it with, Rosie contacts Ingrid, a local café owner, to find out if she still needs volunteers for the charity Christmas meal she’s organising. Ingrid jumps at the chance, and on Christmas morning Rosie heads out, anticipating a busy but pleasant day doing something nice for others, followed by a meal of leftovers with her fellow volunteers.
Unfortunately, on being introduced to the café’s kitchen staff, she discovers the head chef is none other than Luke Adams, the man who broke her heart into a million tiny pieces ten years ago. And she’s got to work with him. Despite her inner turmoil, there’s no way she’ll let Ingrid and the diners down, so she’s determined to grin and bear it. It’s just a few hours, after all.
When the day is almost done, tiredness and hunger kick in, and emotions start to run high. Can Rosie get away unscathed, or will she be forced to deal with Luke and all the feelings his presence has dredged up?
When Christmas is Cancelled is a standalone M/F steamy contemporary romance with second chance, age gap and BDSM themes.
Lucy Felthouse
Lucy Felthouse is the award-winning author of erotic romance novels Stately Pleasures (named in the top 5 of Cliterati.co.uk’s 100 Modern Erotic Classics That You’ve Never Heard Of), Eyes Wide Open (winner of the Love Romances Café’s Best Ménage Book 2015 award), The Persecution of the Wolves, Hiding in Plain Sight, and The Heiress’s Harem and The Dreadnoughts series. Including novels, short stories and novellas, she has over 170 publications to her name. Find out more about her and her writing at http://lucyfelthouse.co.uk/linktree
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When Christmas is Cancelled - Lucy Felthouse
When Christmas is Cancelled
By Lucy Felthouse
Text Copyright 2024 © Lucy Felthouse.
All Rights Reserved.
Smashwords edition.
With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the aforementioned author. This book was created without the use of AI. Scanning by AI for training purposes or derivative works is strictly prohibited.
Warning: The unauthorised reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the author’s written permission.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
About the Author
If You Enjoyed When Christmas is Cancelled
Prologue
Christmas Eve morning
Rosie Kilbride had just put her chocolate roulade into the oven when her mobile phone rang. She frowned. Who on Earth would be calling her this early? She fished the device from her rear jeans pocket and peered at the screen. Her frown deepened as she saw the name on the display, and she pressed the button to answer.
Mum? What are you doing up at this time of the morning on a day off work? Is everything all right?
Hello, love.
Victoria Kilbride’s voice didn’t sound quite right. It was croaky, almost strangled. "No, I’m afraid everything’s not all right. Not at all. Your father and I have been up half the night with sore throats, runny noses, raging temperatures, coughing and spluttering. It’s not a pretty sight. We’re bloody miserable."
Rosie’s heart sunk. It was obvious where this conversation was going. Oh, Mum. I’m sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do? Anything I can bring? I can go to the shop, or the chemist, if you need me to.
Thank you, sweetheart, but given the time of year, the cupboards are packed to the gills with the usual remedies. And tissues. Thank God. At least my red nose is timely—I only hope I don’t get called upon to head up the big man’s sleigh tonight. I haven’t got it in me.
Rosie couldn’t help the smile that crept over her face. As well as her top-notch sense of humour—the presence of which showed there was nothing seriously wrong—her mother always did have a well-stocked medicine cabinet. There was no catching her out. Okay, but what about food? I can whip up a few bits and pieces and bring them over to you to reheat. Save you cooking while you feel crap.
Aww, that’s a lovely offer, but I don’t want to put you to any trouble.
Don’t be daft—it’s no trouble. I’m already in the kitchen. I just put the roulade in the oven, ready for tomorrow. I’m guessing our plans have changed now, though.
There was a pause as her mother exploded into a coughing fit, by the sounds of it having moved the phone away from her face as she did so. After a moment, an even croakier-sounding Victoria came back on the line. S…sorry, love. Bl…oody cough. It’s awful.
She cleared her throat, then drew in a sharp breath of discomfort. And I feel like I’ve swallowed a packet of razor blades. Your dad’s worse. His voice has all but disappeared.
"Well, you did say you wanted a quiet Christmas," Rosie quipped, hoping her silly joke might lift her mother’s mood.
The response was a breathy laugh. You’re right, I did. But this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind. I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy, much less your dad. Or you, sweetheart. Maybe we can have a belated Christmas Day once the pair of us have cleared whatever this bug is? I’m so sorry. We were really looking forward to spending the day with you.
She groaned. Oh, and all that lovely food you’ve bought! Can any of it be salvaged, frozen or whatever?
Pushing her disappointment down in the hopes it wouldn’t come through in her voice, since she didn’t want her mother to feel any guiltier than she clearly already did, Rosie replied, Don’t be silly, Mum, you’ve got nothing to apologise for. You didn’t ask to get ill. I’ll sort the food. Nothing will go to waste, I promise. How about I drop your presents off in the morning, along with a nice casserole? Something nice and tender, easy to eat, given your sore throats. And maybe some homemade soup.
Just at the doorstep, love. We really don’t want to pass this nasty virus or whatever it is on to you.
She sighed. I’m so pissed off and disappointed. Not only can we not spend the day with you, and enjoy your delicious cooking, you’re now stuck spending the day on your own. I bet it’s too late to make other arrangements, isn’t it?
Oh, don’t worry about that, Mum. A day by myself isn’t going to kill me. I’ll take advantage of the peace and quiet, after a mad few weeks at work. Have a rest.
"But it’s Christmas."
As if she could forget, given her kitchen worktops and the fridge were packed full of festive accoutrements. Purely to appease her mother, with no actual intention of doing so, she crossed her fingers to negate the lie and said, I’ll send a few WhatsApps out, see if anyone’s got room for a little one. You never know, someone might take pity on me. Especially if I offer to bring food.
Yes, yes, good idea,
Victoria replied, sounding brighter. I’m sure someone can squeeze you in.
I’m sure they can.
Rosie rolled her eyes at the fibs tripping effortlessly off her tongue. They were only white lies, though, told to spare her mother’s feelings, rather than being due to any malice. Right, well, I’d better let you go. Put your feet up, Mum. Dad, too. I’ll crack on with making a couple of meals for you and drop them round in the morning with your presents, okay?
J—
Just at the doorstep, Mum, I know. I won’t come in, I promise. I’ll ring the bell, put the stuff down and step away from the plague-infested house, okay?
She was teasing, of course, but if she was honest, she didn’t want to pick up whatever bug her parents were suffering with. It sounded awful—and she was due back to work on Boxing Day. The shop she owned and ran would be closed, but she planned to use the time to prepare the post-Christmas sale and return the shop to its pre-Christmas state. She couldn’t afford any time off.
Okay, sweetheart. Thank you. See you tomorrow.
Bye. Love you. Feel better.
Love you too. And sorry again. We’re so disappointed.
Don’t give it another thought, Mum. I’m gutted, too, but these things happen.
I know, but the timing couldn’t be worse.
"Go and rest, Mum!"
I’m going. Bye, love.
Bye.
Rosie hung up before her mother could continue lamenting their rotten luck, and stuffed her phone into her pocket. It was awful, and she was gutted, but spending ages on the phone grumbling about it wasn’t going to change anything. Plus, despite her casual, placating words, most of the food she’d bought really needed to be cooked and eaten within a couple of days. And, since she had no intention of inserting herself, particularly so last minute, into any of her friends’ festive plans, she needed an alternative. Her brother, James, was probably already enjoying his first Christmas in Australia with his wife and children, which was the reason hers and their parents’ Christmas was going to be a quiet one. Before the move, they’d had several years of chaotic, child-centric festive periods. Thanks to their absence, this year was already going to be weird, without illness being thrown into the mix.
As she went to the fridge, wondering what else she could make for her parents, the much-needed alternative sprang to mind. She retrieved her phone once more, found the number she needed and tapped the button to dial.
Hey, Ingrid. It’s me. Do you still need volunteers for tomorrow?
Chapter One
Christmas Day morning
Rosie forced a smile so wide at her parents through her car window she thought her face was going to crack. With a final wave, she pulled away from their house, where they stood huddled by the front door in their pyjamas, slippers and dressing gowns, feeling sorry for themselves, and headed for Ingrid’s café. She felt terrible leaving them when they were so poorly—and on Christmas Day, too—but they’d insisted they’d be just fine, particularly thanks to the meals she’d brought with her, and had promised the three of them would have a re-do when they were feeling better. They had their presents to open, too, which would hopefully cheer them up a bit. Her own from them, now stashed safely in the boot of her car, would have to wait until she got home from the café later on that day. At least it gave her something to look forward to.
Satisfied she’d done everything she could to help her parents, she turned her attention to what lay in her immediate future. Rather than throwing herself on someone’s mercy and blagging an invite to their place, or spending the day by herself, she was doing something way better.
Local café owner Ingrid, whom Rosie had got to know well and become very friendly with after attending the café both for the usual reason—food and drink—and some of the craft workshops hosted there, was a truly good egg. She’d been running a scheme for the past few years where she’d hosted a free Christmas meal for those who found themselves alone on the big day, or were unable to cook a Christmas dinner for themselves, whether for physical or financial reasons. It was funded by local donations, run by Ingrid herself, and staffed by fellow good eggs.
While Rosie had happily donated money to the cause before—and had even had a collection box in her own shop to help raise funds for it—she’d never been in a position to physically help out, since she’d always spent Christmas with her family. But, thanks to her cancelled plans, now she could. What a great way to make the best of a bad situation. Not only did she get to be useful, she wasn’t spending the day by herself, and none of the food she’d bought would go to waste—she was bringing what she hadn’t made into food parcels for her parents with her. Including what remained of the chocolate roulade—having left a generous portion each for her mum and dad, along with some mince pies and jam tarts. They certainly wouldn’t starve.
She’d managed to bury her disappointment after speaking to her mother the previous morning by continuing to cook up a storm in her kitchen—both before and after work. As well as the roulade and the meals for her parents, she’d made more than enough mince pies and jam tarts for the patrons of the charity meal to eat one at lunch and take one home to have with their supper. She’d never wanted to do it on a professional basis, but baking had always been her go-to activity for stress relief and relaxation. The fact she’d see people enjoying the fruits of her labours—hopefully—was the icing on the cake.
As was usual for their part of middle England, there was no white Christmas. Just a sky full of gloomy grey clouds, which were letting loose a weak, persistent drizzle. Preferable to pissing it down, I suppose. She made her way into town, her mood lifting at the sight of the festive lights strung on the homes and businesses, the cheery decorations and Santa Stop Here signs stuck into people’s front lawns and flowerbeds. Excitement would no doubt be reigning in those homes, as young children pounced on their piles of presents and began an unwrapping frenzy, while exhausted, bemused parents clutched mugs of strong coffee and watched on from the sidelines.
Of course, not everyone was so fortunate, which was why Ingrid’s scheme was such a good one. A desperately needed one, in some cases. People ended up by themselves on Christmas Day for a multitude of reasons—she was a testament to that fact. Some might even prefer it. But for those who didn’t, those who would cherish—possibly even be desperate for—the company as much as the food, today’s event might well be the highlight of their festive season. The only bright spot in an otherwise dull, lonely few days.
She smiled. Her own Christmas plans might have gone tits up, but being even a tiny cog in a machine that would make a collection of deserving people happy was something to feel good about. She’d also been able to answer her mother’s anxious question about where she was going truthfully: To Ingrid’s. She’s already got a big group in, so one more wasn’t a problem. Should be a damn good spread.
She’d scurried off then, hoping if her mother’s virus-addled brain allowed her to actually remember what Ingrid had been doing on Christmas Day for the last few years—and she definitely knew, as she’d donated money each time—it’d be too late to pass comment.
Granted, she’d be helping to serve forty people their meals before getting so much as a crumb of a roast potato herself, but that was a small price to pay.
Conscious she was already a little behind schedule, thanks to her mother’s wittering, she put her right foot down a smidgen harder. Soon, she pulled up outside the front door of the café. The town, unsurprisingly, was completely deserted, so she didn’t worry about anyone complaining about her parking. It was only temporary, while she unloaded all her goodies. She gave a couple of light bips on her car horn before killing the engine, taking off her seatbelt and getting out of the vehicle. She closed the door, then zipped her coat and pulled up the hood against the cold and wet. By the time she was around at the boot, opening it to reveal tinfoil-covered trays and plastic containers galore, Ingrid appeared beside her, looking every inch the festive host, in her sparkling boots, glittery leggings, snowman-festooned knitted jumper, reindeer earrings, and headband with a sprig of mistletoe hanging off it.
Morning,
Ingrid said with a warm smile, before wrapping her in a hug. Merry Christmas. I’m really sorry about your mum and dad not being well, but I’m definitely not sorry you’re here. We were already stretched, and now one of my waitresses has phoned, saying she’s poorly and can’t come. So your extra pair of hands is very much needed—and appreciated.
She returned her friend’s embrace, then let go and stepped back. Merry Christmas, Ingrid. I’m glad to be here. Sorry I’m a bit late. I’ve just dropped some food parcels off at Mum and Dad’s, along with their presents, so they’re all set for a couple of days. Poor things are still feeling rough as anything. Food wise, whatever was left that I couldn’t safely freeze, or was way too much for me to eat alone over the next few days, I brought. So there’s a lovely joint of beef, potatoes, vegetables, a chocolate roulade, and a bunch of mince pies and jam tarts. The last three are homemade—not shop bought.
Ingrid narrowed her eyes. "You made chocolate roulade, mince pies and jam tarts? You surely didn’t need all that just for the three of you? I know folks like to stuff their faces at Christmas, but