Showing results by author "Alina Jacobs" in All Categories

Momma’s gonna have herself a very merry Christmas revenge. Swapping the salt and sugar so his Christmas cookies are ruined? Be still, my shriveled little heart. Spying on him so I can gather recon to ruin his holidate? Damn, I forgot how ripped his chest was. Sneaking down his chimney to steal all the presents under his tree? Amateur hour. Until I get caught....

My butt pads are sliding under my shape wear, I had to starve to fit in this dress, and the last place on earth I want to be is on a date with Walker Svensson.

I have no alternatives—I have to throw myself to Carl Svensson’s mercy like a wretched Victorian romance heroine in order to save my dog. I wish all I had to do was lounge around a haunted mansion in a pretty dress. Instead, Carl is forcing me to run outside in the morning, clean my apartment, and finally do something about my credit card debt. Yes, I am side-eyeing all of this. Carl’s in for a shock of his own, though. I’m a free-spirited, art-loving girl with tattoos, multicolored hair, and piercings. An uptight, suit-wearing investment banker is not going to change me.

The Thanksgiving turkey is still warm, and I’m already up to my eyeballs in debt from my failed business. To make matters worse, my knight in flannel never appeared—you know, the guy, the one who was tall, dark, and plaid, who had a friendly yellow lab and a truck and sold firewood, the one who showed the big-city heroine the true meaning of love and Christmas. Yeah, he did not come rescue me.

The Maxine Hotel was supposed to be mine. I invested my meager savings into the upkeep. I slept in a freezing-cold attic like Cinderella, but with way more wine. Then Mike Svensson swaggers in with his billions and his bad attitude, steals the hotel from me, and starts bossing me around like he owns the place. My boss is going down. But he’s harder to get rid of than I thought. Snack-addicted raccoons, angry squatters, and ghosts - nothing seems to faze him. It’s time to bring out the big guns - I have two of them strapped to my chest!

Five years ago, I royally screwed up, lied, and broke the heart of the woman I love. A sane man would buy her a nice present and grovel. Guess I must be crazy. I love Meg more than anything. So why am I running against her for mayor of Harrogate?

Rules are meant to be broken. Except for one: Women can't get enough peonies. Even the girl in front of me in line is admiring the peonies in my hand. While I need these particular flowers for my latest plot, I'll still give Meghan the biggest, thickest bouquet I can find. It's flattering how much she wants my peonies. And I don't mind personally delivering.

Chris Winchester is a billionaire with serious trust issues, and I am a photographer trying to survive in the world of high-end weddings. And the billionaire’s penthouse is about to be marriage and a murder if he doesn’t stop hitting his snooze button a thousand bazillion times in the morning, while I’m trying to work and get my life back on track.

In my defense, I never claimed to be professional.... At least that’s my excuse for why I mistook a billionaire for a waiter, made off-color comments, and accidentally dumped a plate of food all over him. Embarrassing myself is a daily occurrence, just like my unpaid bill notices. But being in a wedding instead of planning one is not. I shall live vicariously through this high-end wedding and forget about the rent payments I’ve missed, the fact that my tiny apartment has no hot water, and that I’m about to be evicted anyway so it doesn’t even matter, anyway! Yay!

What was the worst day of my life ever? Today. My wedding day. Not because I married a man I’d never met but because my husband, Wolf Van de Berg, hates my freaking guts—and the feeling is mutual. It’s worth it because I get 30 percent of his company if I can survive this marriage. But that’s a big, giant if. And no, before you ask if we had a passionate night of hate and lust on our wedding night, think again. Wolf is doing everything in his power to make me call it quits on our marriage. The only way I’m surviving is with cake. And wine. And did I mention cake?

When Greg Svensson crossed my path four years ago, I should have just let him keep on walking...right into the street to get hit by a bus. But I was weak. Not to mention that when you’re a six-foot-tall woman and meet a guy out in the wild who is both taller than you and attracted to you, you make certain allowances. You ignore certain red flags.

Crash-land on an alien barbarian planet and told there’s no way home? Anyone else might have a nervous breakdown, but I was abducted with my besties! Between us, we have fifteen PhDs. We will be getting off this planet. Trust. Two liquid hydrogen rockets and a smidge of deep-space travel later, and we’re back home on Earth. Except that our spaceship had stowaways. Now there’s a seven-foot-tall alien named Cassius in my Los Angeles condo. He’s calmly explaining that, according to the ancestors, we are to be eternally mated and have a litter of children.

Vidanric reminds me daily that he despises Earth and wants to go home. He’s miserable, and so am I—even though I can’t help but admire the view when he’s standing shirtless in my kitchen making a smoothie. Loudly. At three in the morning. My horoscope didn’t prepare me for any of this. He chewed up and ate one of the inspirational notes I gave him. He cooks squirrels in my cast-iron skillet. He complains nonstop about my annoying Earth-girl habits. This alien’s not grumpy—he’s downright hostile.

When the townspeople of Harrogate almost riot over the Christmas décor thievery committed by the chair of the Elf on the Shelf Committee, I know I’m not going to survive the holiday season unless drastic action is taken. Biddy Jefferson turning up dead in my Christmas market stall is not exactly the type of drastic measure I had in mind. With no alibi and a town obsessed with pinning the murder on me, I have to clear my name. This is on top of planning the upcoming holiday ball, dealing with quirky stall owners in the Christmas market, and corralling confused tourists.