White Hot Christmas: A Heart of Fame Christmas Story Read Online Free PDF

‘nother go-mobile fancier than that one that actually works you can get around in until I get ‘er back to you.”
    “You drove me home?” Nick asked, even as a rational part of his sleep-fogged mind told him it was a ridiculous question. “All the way?”
    Mike shrugged. The fat white pom-pom of his Santa hat jiggled on his shoulder. “Couldn’t very well leave you on the side of the M1, could I? And I wasn’t much a fan of your wife drivin’ all the way to get you, not with the crazies on the road at this time of year. ‘Sides, I’ve done everything I needed to do before Christmas.”
    Nick blinked.
    Mike flashed him a smile. “Don’t think I’m not going to charge you for this though. Me hourly rate sits around twenty bucks for celebrity chauffeurin’ work.”
    A grunt-slash-laugh burst from Nick. He grinned at Mike. And then frowned. “How did you know…”
    “Who you are?”
    Nick nodded. Outside, the familiar facades of Murriundah’s shops began to give way to just as familiar fronts of the houses of the main drag. Houses that would soon give way to open stretches of bush before a nondescript side road would appear.
    Home. He was almost home.
    He was almost—
    “I gotta daughter who listened to you non-stop when she was a teenager,” Mike said, changing back a gear as they approached the main street’s only pedestrian crossing. Ambling across it, Nick noticed, was Rhys McDowell’s mum and dad, both carrying bags from the Murriundah Fresh Produce store.
    They looked towards the tow truck, both smiling in that utterly friendly way country folk do no matter who they are interacting with—be it stranger or life-long friend.
    “And a granddaughter who does the same with your son’s band.”
    Nick raised his hand and waved at the McDowells—who waved back, smiles widening—before turning to Mike.
    “You drove me home,” he repeated, although this time it wasn’t stunned disbelief and confusion in his voice, but a gratitude he had no hope of ever describing.
    Mike chortled. “I did. Now, tell me where this turn off for your house is. Your missus says it can be easy to miss if you don’t know what you’re lookin’ for.”
    “I mentioned before how much I love you, right?” Nick asked.
    Mike threw back his head and laughed, a big-belly guffaw that filled the cabin of the truck with a joy Nick found infectious.
    “You did,” Mike confirmed. “And I mentioned you weren’t my type. Is this it?”
    The dirt road hiding between two massive peppercorn trees was, indeed, it . With a skill Nick associated with Formula 1 drivers, Mike navigated his truck—with the dead Range Rover attached behind—into a tight right turn and up the narrow road.
    Ten minutes later, they drew to a halt out in front of Nick and Lauren’s sprawling sanctuary from the public eye: AKA, home.
    Nick stared at it. For a second he wondered if he was actually dreaming. Was he still stuck on the side of the M1, waiting for a mechanic to arrive?
    And then the front door opened and Lauren stepped out onto the sweeping front porch and he knew damn well he wasn’t.
    There wasn’t a hope in hell any dream could ever be as perfect and beautiful as the woman smiling at him from the top step.
    Not a hope in hell.
    Home.
    He was home.

Unwrapping the Present
    Blackthorne Homestead, Australia
     
    “Merry Christmas, Nick.”
    Nick jerked his grinning stare from Lauren to Mike.
    The old man smiled at him. “Have a good one.”
    “Come in for a coffee?” Nick offered, even as a part of him—that very male part that had been aching for his wife since the moment he flew out of Australia a week ago—rebelled against the invitation.
    Mike laughed again. “Nah, mate. Got me own missus to get back to. ‘Sides, you don’t want an old codger muscl’n in on your reunion. I’ll see you in a few days with your go-mobile though, so you can caffeinate me up then, okay?”
    Before Nick could stop himself, he flicked Lauren a look. She