Happy Holidays! And here is the traditional fluffy Christmas modern AU! Beware of the dawww induced cavities! :)

So far, planned as a small T rated piece, but if I happen to overdose on the broken pieces of a gingerbread house, anything can happen! :P

All the warmest wishes to you, my bestest readers in the world!

Love,

Katya Kolmakov


1.

"Leary, can I have a word?" John Thorington has just stuck his head into her office, and Wren freezes, a biscuit between her teeth. She quickly stuffs the sweet in her mouth and hums, nodding enthusiastically.

My oh my, he so can have a word! And anything else for that matter. Like maybe her on this very table. Repeatedly. Alrighty, Leary, pull yourself together.

She blames it on the season. Wren loves Christmas. She loves it with all her heart! Exactly the Christmas everyone likes to criticise, and pretend they aren't enjoying, at least in their hipster, gluten free eating, recycling, Etsy shopping company. The Christmas that is all green and red, Elves and the jolly white bearded fellow, and sappy BBC videos, and excessive eating, consumerism, and sugar rush, and gift lists, and corny wrapping paper, snowmen and penguins, and tinsel, and tacky overly decorated trees in every shopping mall - that's Wren's beloved Christmas.

And this is the first Christmas she'll be celebrating alone with her daughter. The divorce papers were signed six months ago, her Nana is on a cruise, and as for her ex husband's family... well, maybe she just isn't ready for it. So it'll be just her and Mira. And it is... wonderful!

This year she can savour every little thing! They decorated the tree, hung the stockings - three actually: for her, for Mira, and for Mr. Thornton, their black and white cat. They've been baking like mad women for weeks: measuring, stirring, rolling out, cutting, waiting, decorating, and of course eating the broken ones. And they even went clothes shopping last weekend, and planned their outfits, and even bought matching hair pins with little tartan bows.

Wren thinks it just might be the best Christmas of her life!

And she feels happy, and emotional, and that's exactly why she loves Christmas. Because that is the time of the year when she allows herself to be this Wren: careless, optimistic, hopeful, biscuits eating, Let It Snow humming, dancing in the kitchen, wearing the funny red hat with a white pompom, tearing up over Arthur Christmas, cuddling with her daughter and the cat on the sofa, believing in Christmas miracle Wren. The one who through the rest of the year has to be strong, and independent, and in charge, and a single mom, and having it all under control; and she does, and she manages, and even succeeds... but on Christmas she'll just let herself make merry!

And this Wren sees everything through a cloud of sparkling mist, and a gentle jingling in her head, and this Wren might be just a wee bit in love with a certain colleague of hers.

And now John Thorington wants a word with her.

And see above: John Thorington with his six five of height, massive wide body, black beard, and long hair, silky looking and orgasmically wavy - John Thorington from the IT department in their audit firm can have anything he wants.

They work together quite often, and he is just... ooph! So lush! Wren likes everything about him. The low velvet voice, the calm confidence, large masculine hands, with long fingers and elegant wrists, the habit of rolling up his sleeves - and the black hair covering his forearms is giving her the most indecent dreams - and his blue eyes, so bright, and the crow's feet in the corners of his smiling eyes when she makes a Doctor Who related joke. And he's a genuinely nice bloke! Good at his job, helpful, not judgmental, patient when her OS gives her barney again. And maybe other chicks in the firm think he's a bit of a grouch, but Wren thinks he might just be a wee bit... perfect.

She beckons him inside, wondering if it looks like she's having a seizure, with her flailing arms and boggled eyes, but her mouth is full of the biscuit and she's a bit tongue-tied around him most of the time anyway. That is until her Leary-Tourette strikes, and she starts blathering uncontrollably.

He steps in and closes the door behind him. In the name of Santa Claus, the man's massive! And the shoulder hip ratio is just phenomenal!

He opens his mouth to ask whatever he's here for - it must be job related, there's a crinkle between his thick black eyebrows. Though, to think of it, it's virtually always there. Well, at least as much as Wren has seen of him. But then he stops in his tracks and stares at the tin on her table.

"Are those Dalek shaped ginger snaps?" he asks, and Wren swallows and pushes the tin towards him.

"Yep. My daughter and I baked them." She might be boasting a bit. After all, she's quite proud of the eyestalks. "Have some!"

He picks up one biscuit, and Wren discreetly ogles the hands. In the name of Rudolph the Bullied but Later Appreciated Reindeer, she'd love to know what they feel like. On her skin, preferably. He's not biting in, though, and twirls the Dalek in his fingers.

"I'm asking you out, Leary," he pronounces and then looks at her. The voice is low and rich like Wren's favourite treacle hermits, and his gaze is direct and earnest, and the next Dalek she picked up from the tin snaps in her fingers.

"Pardon?" she squeaks. The glacial blue eyes are studying her face. Is he trying to guess her answer? She's too shocked to even remember how to breathe, to say nothing of sussing out an answer. If she could choose, she'd fancy to sound savvy, and sexy, and confident, but instead she's staring at him like a child in front of a pretzel tent at the Lincoln's Christmas market.

"It's the Christmas party tomorrow. Everyone gets arsed up and hooks up. You've been divorced for six months. I've waited, not wanting to pressure you, but I can't risk it tomorrow." He pronounces all... this... with a completely serious face, and the Dalek's dome limply falls out of Wren's fingers and plops on the table. "So, I was hoping you'd give me an answer before the end of tomorrow. The party is at eight, everyone goes home to change before it."

He still looks grumpy, by the way. He's making a proposition, his tone even and calm, and then he nods, apparently satisfied with it and bites his Dalek's 'plunger' off. He's crunching, Wren's panting.

Somehow out of all possible next lines, this is what she rasps out.

"I am alcohol intolerant. I don't get arsed up." He gives her a very decorous nod, slightly tilting his head on one side, as if ticking a box. She reckons he's just filed this piece of information away in his very organised noggin.

All those conversations they've had before - where he'd ask something in a nonchalant tone, while clicking on something in her comp, and she'd blather after that, tangling in her own words, because she'd caught the fragrance of his cologne, or he'd be sitting too close - and he seems to radiate heat - or she'd just noticed a small curl near his ear - all those chats they've had now look quite different. He's been waiting this whole time! Studying her! It's a twap!

He seems so chill! Just standing there! Chewing her Dalek! Is this how his mind works?! He put it all in front of her, declared his intentions, so to say, and now what?! Is there a form to sign?!

"I wasn't looking for anything... I have a daughter. I'm not exactly... hooking up material," she mumbles weakly.

"I don't doubt that. But I thought I'd just make it clear that I'm interested. In you. Not hooking up." In the name of Yule log and candy canes, would you just look at him!

He finishes the biscuit, brushes crumbs off his dark navy jumper - and that is a glorious chest! - and pushes the door open.

"See you tomorrow, Wren." His low voice envelops her name like the caramel sauce on figgy pudding, and Wren swoons. "And happy holidays!"

"Merry Christmas..." she whimpers, and he closes the door behind him.


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modern romance/erotica humour story, initially written here}

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CONVINCE ME THE WINTER IS OVER

{my first novel

inspired by the story initially written here}

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Summary:

Renee Miller is a reclusive web designer who, after several hours of delirium from flu, wakes up to find a stranger in boxer briefs standing in her bathroom.

John is an archaeologist who finds himself stuck in a stranger's flat in a snowstorm.

Frozen in her neat and clean world of highly functional anxieties and her history of childhood trauma, Renee is perhaps the worst possible host for her flatmate's boyfriend's colleague. Yet, while the fervent gush of life that is John Greaves disrupts her carefully guarded existence, Renee finds herself gradually yearning for more.

Is John the first breath of Spring in her frigid world?