Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
He slows in front of a Tudor-style building draped in white lights. Its wavy glass windows glow warmly on the otherwise darkened street, and a massive wreath hangs beneath a sign that reads “The Crown and Thistle” in a gorgeous gold font. It looks like a place where Christmas miracles happen all the time.
I feel my spirits lift. Surely, this is where bad travel days go to die and beautiful new beginnings are practically guaranteed! I swear, as I pay the driver and step out into the winter chill, I can feel my luck turning around.
My reflection in the darkened dress shop window next door assures me I still look like an electrocuted hedgehog in a wrinkled suit, but it’s late, and I just got off a long flight. Belinda will understand.
Heck, we might even share a laugh over it.
Already imagining how we’ll commiserate over a cup of tea as we plot floral domination, I wave the cabbie off with a smile and drag my roller bag toward the entrance. Still grinning, I push on the center of the door, right in the middle of the world’s prettiest wreath.
A jolt of discomfort hits almost instantly as the heavy wood refuses to budge. I push harder, then try pulling—then pushing and pulling again—feeling increasingly silly.
And increasingly frustrated…
“This has to be it,” I mutter, glancing up at the sign.
Yep, The Crown and Thistle. This is definitely the place. And I can hear muffled music—” Silent Night” in high, childlike voices—coming from inside.
I check my phone: 8:28. I’m over half an hour early for my meeting and, according to the small plaque by the pub door, it’s still several hours until closing time.
I yank on the door again, putting my full weight into it.
Still nothing.
The snow is coming down harder now, already coating my hair and sneaking into the collar of my coat.
Maybe I’m at the wrong entrance?
Dragging my wheelie bag through what’s becoming a proper snowdrift, I circle the side of the building, cold and damp seeping into my sensible heels. By the time I reach another door under a softly glowing lamp, my pantyhose are soaked.
This door doesn’t have a sign and looks much less like a main entrance than the other, but it gives slightly when I push. Beginning to suspect both doors are swollen from the weather or something, I lean my full weight against it, shoving hard.
One more good push, and I should—
The door flies open, and I tumble inside, quickly realizing that, as I suspected, this is not the main entrance. I actually appear to be on a small stage at the back of the pub, where a nativity play is currently underway.
A play I am ruining with my terrible timing…
I try to stop myself, dropping my roller bag and digging my heels into the floor, but it’s too late to halt my forward momentum. I barrel into the center of the manger scene, summoning shouts of surprise from the crowd below. My shouldered purse takes down a shepherd and clips Joseph before I trip over a stuffed animal, and my feet leave the floor. I hear one of the kids cry out in surprise seconds before I crash land in the middle of a baby Jesus made entirely of gorgeous white blooms.
I only catch a quick glimpse of the petalled Messiah as I fly through the air, but it’s enough to assure me he’s truly a work of art.
Or he was, before I crushed him.
Petals and wire explode all around me as I land flat on my back at the foot of the stage, confirming this night will go down as one of the worst nights of my life.
Bar none.
“Bloody hell! That scared me!” a little girl in a blue veil shrieks above me, before dissolving into hysterical laughter.
A female voice from the audience shouts, “Carina, don’t swear,” just as one of the shepherds I didn’t knock to the ground bursts into tears. Joseph, who can’t be more than seven or eight, clamps a hand over his mouth and runs off stage, muttering something about being sick.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell the girl before glancing toward an audience of what seems to be London’s poshest parents. They’re all holding mugs or martinis and wearing the kind of richly textured “casual” sweaters that cost more than the contents of my suitcase.
Most look stunned, a few seem to be vaguely amused, but the woman with pink-streaked hair storming toward the stage does not look happy.
Not happy at all.
“How could you?” she seethes, her eyes shining as she mounts the steps to the stage.
“I’m sorry, Mummy,” the little girl in blue says. “I didn’t mean to say a bad word.”
“No, not you, darling. Her,” Pink Hair says, thrusting a hand my way. “You! You destroyed it. The entire sculpture. Twenty-seven hours of labor, and we didn’t even get a proper shot of it all before you barreled in and ruined everything.”