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Harvey Novak loves living in Christmas Falls. He loves his job running the Festival Museum too, except when it means he has to deal with his ex, who’s putting together the town’s newest tourist brochures. There are a lot of things Harvey is willing to do for Christmas Falls, but playing nice with the guy who cheated on him isn’t one of them. When a real-life Christmas mystery falls into Harvey’s lap, it offers the perfect distraction. And the guy with the mystery is pretty distracting too.
Sterling van Ruyven has come to Christmas Falls to look for his long-lost uncle, and enlists Harvey’s help to track him down. It’s all business—if there’s an extra van Ruyven heir out there somewhere, Sterling needs to know about it. He isn’t expecting to actually enjoy spending time in this ridiculous Christmas-themed town with the cute guy from the museum. Their fun flirtation turns into a holiday fling, but that’s all it can ever be. Harvey’s heart belongs in Christmas Falls, and Sterling hasn’t found his yet. But maybe Christmas is the time for miracles after all. Christmas Falls is a multi-author M/M romance series set in a small town that thrives on enough holiday charm to rival any Hallmark movie. |
"This is quintessential J.A. Rock and Lisa Henry. Humor and heart galore... Highly recommended for a good time, some laughs and a sweet and well deserved happily ever after."
- Love Bytes Reviews
- Love Bytes Reviews
An excerpt from No Business Like Snow Business:
The Festival Museum was on the corner of Comet Street and Candy Cane Lane. It shared a building with Festival Hall, the entrances separated by a wide hallway with creaking wooden floorboards. The museum might not have attracted the crowds, but Festival Hall had a lot going on at this time of year. There was the Arts and Crafts Fair currently, and one of my favorite events of the season would begin as soon as that wound up—the Christmas Tree Festival, where all the businesses in town decorated a tree in Festival Hall, and people could buy tokens to use to vote for whichever tree they thought was best. All the money raised went to The Holiday Hope Foundation, a local charity.
I hummed a Christmas carol as I reached the entrance. It was impossible to live in Christmas Falls and not have all your earworms be about jingling bells, Santa Claus coming to town, or decking the halls. You could try to fight it and lose, or you could just go with it. It was much easier to just go with it. I pushed the door open, and the carol died in my throat.
There was a guy standing in the wide corridor, and he gave the impression he’d been standing there a long time. When the squeal of the door alerted him to my presence, he looked at me and said, “Do you work at the museum?”
“Um, yes,” I quickened my footsteps to close the space between us.
Holy sparkly Christmas balls. He was hot. He was tall, and broad across the shoulders but narrow across the hips, and he had dark blond hair, blue eyes, and cheekbones. Like, everyone with a face had cheekbones, but this guy’s were sharp enough to cut diamonds. He looked as though he’d been created to stride unsmilingly down a catwalk, probably in that same expensive wool coat he was currently wearing, looking haughty and superior. Except, as I drew closer, he smiled. Just the small, polite type of smile that strangers shared, but it transformed his entire expression.
The door to the hall was open, the light spilling from it bright and inviting. I could hear the low murmur of voices from inside, and the occasional peal of laughter from the Arts and Crafts Fair. The guy’s brows tugged together as though he thought the laughter might be mocking him.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “Have you been waiting long? I was just out for lunch.” We both looked at my Season’s Readings bags. “Um, there should be someone here though.”
The guy raised his eyebrows as though he didn’t believe me. I guess I hadn’t sold him well enough on the lunch lie to make him believe that Martha should have been inside.
I reached the door and saw the note taped on it. The words were in Martha’s spindly handwriting: Back in 5 minutes.
“Oh,” I said. “She must have popped out for five.”
The guy hummed. “I’ve been standing here for twenty.”
“Huh.” I drew a breath and dug my keys out of my pocket. “Sorry, again. Come in, please.”
I opened the door and let us both in.
The Festival Museum was a series of five interconnected rooms full of photographs, old floats, and antique decorations that frankly looked more suited to Halloween than Christmas—in addition to the terrifying mechanical Santa of 1993, there was an evil-eyed elf in one room that I was afraid to turn my back on.
I set my shopping bags on the floor and my hot chocolate on the desk, then tugged my gloves off. “Um, so this is the museum, and I’m Harvey. Take a look around, and if you have any questions, feel free to ask.”
“Sterling,” the guy said. We shook hands, and then Sterling glanced around the room, looking fairly disinterested in the display cases and photographs.
“There’s not really that much to see,” I said. I was terrible at hyping up the museum. In my defense, most people found it pretty dull. I didn’t. I loved digging around the place, looking at all the tiny details of other people’s lives from a couple decades ago, but I wasn’t most people. Steven had told me more than once that I was boring. That stung more than it should have. I forced a smile. “Unless you’re really into old parade floats, and you don’t seem like the type.”
This time, Sterling’s smile was a little more genuine. “How do you know I’m not the type?”
“Well, without generalizing,” I said, even though I totally was, “you’re under sixty, and you’re not wearing a fanny pack.”
The Festival Museum was on the corner of Comet Street and Candy Cane Lane. It shared a building with Festival Hall, the entrances separated by a wide hallway with creaking wooden floorboards. The museum might not have attracted the crowds, but Festival Hall had a lot going on at this time of year. There was the Arts and Crafts Fair currently, and one of my favorite events of the season would begin as soon as that wound up—the Christmas Tree Festival, where all the businesses in town decorated a tree in Festival Hall, and people could buy tokens to use to vote for whichever tree they thought was best. All the money raised went to The Holiday Hope Foundation, a local charity.
I hummed a Christmas carol as I reached the entrance. It was impossible to live in Christmas Falls and not have all your earworms be about jingling bells, Santa Claus coming to town, or decking the halls. You could try to fight it and lose, or you could just go with it. It was much easier to just go with it. I pushed the door open, and the carol died in my throat.
There was a guy standing in the wide corridor, and he gave the impression he’d been standing there a long time. When the squeal of the door alerted him to my presence, he looked at me and said, “Do you work at the museum?”
“Um, yes,” I quickened my footsteps to close the space between us.
Holy sparkly Christmas balls. He was hot. He was tall, and broad across the shoulders but narrow across the hips, and he had dark blond hair, blue eyes, and cheekbones. Like, everyone with a face had cheekbones, but this guy’s were sharp enough to cut diamonds. He looked as though he’d been created to stride unsmilingly down a catwalk, probably in that same expensive wool coat he was currently wearing, looking haughty and superior. Except, as I drew closer, he smiled. Just the small, polite type of smile that strangers shared, but it transformed his entire expression.
The door to the hall was open, the light spilling from it bright and inviting. I could hear the low murmur of voices from inside, and the occasional peal of laughter from the Arts and Crafts Fair. The guy’s brows tugged together as though he thought the laughter might be mocking him.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “Have you been waiting long? I was just out for lunch.” We both looked at my Season’s Readings bags. “Um, there should be someone here though.”
The guy raised his eyebrows as though he didn’t believe me. I guess I hadn’t sold him well enough on the lunch lie to make him believe that Martha should have been inside.
I reached the door and saw the note taped on it. The words were in Martha’s spindly handwriting: Back in 5 minutes.
“Oh,” I said. “She must have popped out for five.”
The guy hummed. “I’ve been standing here for twenty.”
“Huh.” I drew a breath and dug my keys out of my pocket. “Sorry, again. Come in, please.”
I opened the door and let us both in.
The Festival Museum was a series of five interconnected rooms full of photographs, old floats, and antique decorations that frankly looked more suited to Halloween than Christmas—in addition to the terrifying mechanical Santa of 1993, there was an evil-eyed elf in one room that I was afraid to turn my back on.
I set my shopping bags on the floor and my hot chocolate on the desk, then tugged my gloves off. “Um, so this is the museum, and I’m Harvey. Take a look around, and if you have any questions, feel free to ask.”
“Sterling,” the guy said. We shook hands, and then Sterling glanced around the room, looking fairly disinterested in the display cases and photographs.
“There’s not really that much to see,” I said. I was terrible at hyping up the museum. In my defense, most people found it pretty dull. I didn’t. I loved digging around the place, looking at all the tiny details of other people’s lives from a couple decades ago, but I wasn’t most people. Steven had told me more than once that I was boring. That stung more than it should have. I forced a smile. “Unless you’re really into old parade floats, and you don’t seem like the type.”
This time, Sterling’s smile was a little more genuine. “How do you know I’m not the type?”
“Well, without generalizing,” I said, even though I totally was, “you’re under sixty, and you’re not wearing a fanny pack.”