Poppy Minnix's Blog - Posts Tagged "romcom"

Today is the day! Holiday Hotel is now available at all major retailers!

https://books2read.com/Simona1UBL

I hope you all enjoy my twinkle-light, rum-punch, steamy-sweet Christmas romcom as much as I enjoyed creating it in the cold dark months after the holiday.

Cozette is a bundle of Christmas cheer and when she meets Nico, they light up all of Simona.

Huge thanks to ARC reviewers for leaving such fantastic descriptions for readers; it is so appreciated!



Preorder Links

❤️ Christmas romcom novel
❄️ An escape from a breakup
🤨 A secretive billionaire
🏝️ Tropical island adventures
🥴 Corset mishaps
🎄 Christmas shenanigans
🔥 Sugar and spice is delightfully nice.

CHAPTER ONE—PACK YOUR BAGS, MRS. CLAUS

Whoever invented corset boning is definitely on the naughty list.

This red velvet monstrosity makes breathing problematic, and there’s marabou stuck in my lip gloss. But it will all be worth it when James walks down the hall and finds me stretched out on the living room rug.

It’s been one month, three weeks, and five days since he’s touched me or kissed me or even tried to catch a glimpse of me in the shower. I can’t remember the last time we laughed ourselves into a vigorous ab workout or the last time I earned one of his you’re-a-goof-but-you’re-my-goof grins.
That changes now.

Blowing aside the poofy ball that keeps bombarding my cheek from my Santa hat, I shift in my corset to see which angle is best. On my stomach in a pin-up pose with my ankles in the air and crossed, I think. Good cleavage angle with that one.

The clock I put on the wall yesterday says seven fifty-three, and James will be heading for the front door at eight to run. In this sexy Mrs. Claus getup, with a playful pose with my candy cane rod, I’m going to get us out of this stagnant stage in our relationship. He will love it. I wince and reconsider my hopes. He will pay attention and hopefully remember that he likes my company for more than movies on the couch.

The tight ball in my stomach could be from the steel boning tucked in crimson velvet, but my sweaty palms tell me it’s beyond that. I need more fun times and I’m going for it. Besides, Christmas is the ultimate time for antics. It’s also a time for decorations, but I’m missing those. With our recent move, that would be too much stress, according to James. That’s valid, as I take holiday decor to a ridiculous degree, but I still have antics—my wheelhouse—and it’s been a while since I allowed myself to fly free.

We need a push. We’ve been working nonstop—him at his new location and me on a particularly demanding client—all while unboxing. And we were drifting before the move, existing side by side yet alone. Maybe while making the best of this untypical holiday, I’ll start a new tradition. The Mrs. Claus surprise—pre-coffee Cozette laid out on a fuzzy white rug to set the alluring scene, ready for a fun-filled day of sexiness.

Footsteps. He’s awake and moving from the bedroom. My heart smashes against the corset’s marabou trim. I’m shocked he didn’t notice how excited I’ve been over the last few days. Was this the best idea? I shake that thought away. I think I’m sexy, and so will he. It will be fine. One deep breath and I prop the end of the thick candy cane stick in my mouth, mindful of my bright red lipstick, and throw my shoulders back, displaying my heaving bosom, which I don’t need to fake because I’m panic-panting.

“Cozette?” James asks from the hallway. “Why do you have Christmas music playing so loud?” He steps into the living room and keeps going toward the door, eyes on his phone, probably routing his morning run.

“Ahem,” I mumble around peppermint.

When he drags his eyes up, they pop in surprise for a split second, then sink into an expression he aims at me when I’ve done something out-of-bounds—a blank hazel-eyed stare, plus the slightest nose scrunch.

But no heat.

No interest.

No sexy.

“What are you wearing?” he asks.

My eyes widen. Heat burns my cheeks at this asinine idea. I’m onstage and the one person in the audience, the man who is supposed to love and support me, just discarded his complimentary tickets to this performance.

“You know what? Fa la la you and your little dog too!” I leap up and bite back a hundred angry, hurt words that would only give him more ammunition to judge me. Sorry for trying to have a sexy Saturday before the holidays.

“I-I don’t have a dog.” He tugs at his winter running shirt and eyes the door to freedom.

I chirp a crazed note of sarcasm. “Well, get one to keep you company, because I’m gone.”

Hey, now that follow-up turned out better than expected. One micro-win for me. With a pivot on my shiny red stilettos, I catwalk down the hall. My fast strides send a chill over my bare backside, as the sexy Mrs. Claus skirt I’m wearing isn’t exactly full coverage. At least the Santa hat is keeping my head warm.

James used to have fun, used to smile at my shenanigans. He’s never been the kind to tackle me, though I’d appreciate that treatment when my lady parts are busting out of a scrap of red velvet and I’m sucking on a candy cane as if it’s the best lover I’ve ever had. Hell, it’s the best lover I’ve had in months.

I’m getting nothin’ for Christmas except a Cozette-is-weird face and a What are you wearing?

I tug my teal suitcase from the closet shelf and pitch in my clothes from the oak dresser. Everything in our bedroom is beige or wood except for two bright, patterned throw pillows I bought while James was at work. He shoves them in the closet each night, and I toss them on the bed each morning.

“What are you doing?” he asks from the doorway.

“I told you, I’m out, done, finito. It’s the motherfrolicking end scene, James.”

“Cozette.” His tone as he groans my name is an exasperated complaint about my overwhelming nature. Or that’s what it sounds like to me. “You need to tone it down. You’re upset.”

My cheeks heat again. Yes, I am upset. I’ve let this man “tone me down.” My style, my language. I’ve altered everything about me because feelings and bright things make James squirmy.

“How could I let this happen?” I whisper to myself.

“What?”

I move to the closet, jerking everything that’s not black or gray off hangers and cramming it all in the suitcase. “We’ve been together for two years, and I’ve pushed myself aside to be what you want because I love you.”

I’m not feeling the love at the moment, and my heart is racing for freedom instead of embracing my this-relationship-is-over panic. That can’t be good.

“Cozette,” James grumbles, rubbing his forehead. I wait for him to continue into a reprimand as he always does. Three…two…

“That’s not—”

There it is.

“No.” I slam my suitcase shut, but it won’t close all the way. I jab the cascades of unruly fabric inside with my finger. “It is the truth. Somewhere along the line, I forgot about me in this relationship. Today I let myself out, and you don’t want me. You want tame and easy and boring. I’m not that person, James. I’m sexy Mrs. Claus, and you’re not my Santa.”

“This is about sex?” He displays his palms at me, lanky fingers splayed. They haven’t been in my vicinity for too long. So long, I’m not sure I want them on me anymore. “I guess it has been a couple of weeks,” he says. “Sorry. I’ll try to—”

“Hold it right there, Jack Frost.” I jerk my bag off the bed, tuck an accent pillow under my arm, and brush by him to head toward the bathroom. “That’s the problem. You shouldn’t have to try. When it’s been over a month, and you walk in the living room to me fellatioing a candy cane while wearing this getup, the obvious path is to replace the peppermint stick with your dick. Your mind didn’t even go there.”

If our sex life had been a passionate romp long ago, I’d worry about stress from his job or the move, but that’s not it. We don’t match. Never have, and I’m not sure why I thought a relocation would somehow make things better between us.

“It’s fellating. And it’s not always about sex, Cozette.”

I shove toiletries and makeup into a shoulder bag. “No, it’s not. It’s about talking, laughing, going out, and making up words like ‘fellatioing’ because it’s more fun to say. We act like we’re settled down with kids, but we don’t even have pets tethering us to this tiny prison. Is it too difficult to leave the house on a Friday night? Maybe go to a brunch and meet other people our age? You don’t want me to explore without you, but you won’t leave the apartment. There’s a massive city out there, and I’ve gotten only as far as the coffee shop.”

“We’ve gone farther than that.” James tugs at the waistband of his running shorts. “I’d rather stay in. I enjoy our quiet time.” His monotone voice grates on the one nerve I have left.

“It’s all quiet time!” Except for now, because I’m yelling. “Not to mention, you haven’t even attempted to stop me from packing. We’re done.”

I zip the bag closed, exit the bathroom, and drag the suitcase, my laptop bag, purse, and throw pillow down the hallway, bumping into the wall twice. The stilettos aren’t helping my graceful exit.

“What do you want me to do, unpack your stuff?”

“I want you to care,” I toss over my shoulder.
At the front door, I eye my corset and gratuitous cleavage. “Ugh.” I drop everything to the floor and shuck my shoes.

James steps aside as I pass him on my way back to the bedroom. How can he not get this? Did the hundred times I’ve asked to go out not give him a clue to my state of mind? I should have gone alone, met some friends or taken on some smaller local projects, but he’d pout if I went exploring without him, and when he went in search of running routes, I had no hope of keeping up with his speedy strides.

I pause in the bedroom and take a cleansing breath. “I want you to show an ounce of emotion that the woman you claim to love is leaving you.”

The black sweatpants I left in the drawer are good enough for now. While I think it’d be poetic to walk away dressed as a holiday temptress, it’s December in New York. I’ve had frostbite-free legs for twenty-five years, and I’d like to continue that streak.

“Hey, don’t go. We can work this out. The Christmas party is tomorrow.”

I stop dead in my tracks. “Oh, is my presence requested at your holiday party? Your boss will not like this breakup one bit, and you know why? Because I’m the only one who talks. I’m entertaining.” Regathering my pile of stuff, I head to the door. “At least someone appreciates that.”

Stomping my bare feet into my boots, I shove my stilettos into my winter coat pockets, loop my laptop bag and purse over my head, and walk out the door. “I’ll pick up the rest of my stuff later.”

“Cozette,” he says from our apartment door.
The elevator dings. He’s not even going to follow? Fully dressed, with no obligations but his self-imposed running time, he stands in the hallway, one foot from the safety of home, watching me walk away.

The stupid part of me that thought he’d simply try when our relationship boiled down to this inevitable moment withers away as the elevator doors shut. Sure, he takes longer to vocalize. Unlike me, he thinks everything through before he speaks, but still. He won’t even attempt to convince me to stay?

Leaning against the wall, I wipe away a dumb, hot tear.

Two years of sweet moments had dissolved into bitter boringness.

It’s over.

James further dashes my teeny hope of a passionate reunion when I get to the empty lobby. He and I have watched enough romance movies to know that when one person leaves, the other sprints the stairs, or races through the airport, or borrows a flippin’ bicycle to cut off their true love’s escape.

They do anything to win them back.
But James doesn’t burst through the stairwell door, chest heaving and stammering about what a fool he’s been. I’m absolutely certain he’s already gone back into our apartment.
Oh, he’ll consider coming after me, pace the hallway while biting his thumbnail, antsy because he’s missing his typical running time. Then, he’ll call his twin and they’ll chat about how irrational and reckless I am. How my exit is one of my tantrums and I’ll return home forthwith. Except they’d never use “forthwith.” Too uncommon.

My luggage wheels rattle across beige tile as I roll my suitcase to the door. Outside the glass doors, people pass, bundled up in scarves and hats. The city is a wall of gray stone that blocks out the sky.

I have nowhere to go. We moved three months ago for James’s programming career. Since then, I’ve been working my virtual event planner job from the couch or coffee shop. The closest friends I have are the three baristas on rotation, and only one of them remembers my name. But I do exemplary work when caffeinated and free from beige everything, so that will be my think-this-through spot.

The ding of the elevator makes me jerk to attention. Maybe? Possibly? Could it be?
The doors slide open and a couple hobbles out, bundled up in near-matching gray wool coats. Snowflake-white hair peeks out from under her beret and from his fedora. He leans on a cane, and she leans on him like they’re posing for a greeting card geared toward couple goals.
How many times have they broken apart and patched themselves back together? He mumbles something laced with the rasp of decades, and her lips quirk, revealing aged beauty carved from a million laughs.
Past them, the elevator clanks shut. The glowing yellow floor number stays halted on L.
James will expect me to come back. It’s my M.O. Freak out, cool down, slink home. I’m reliable like that.

Not today.

I swing open the door and slam into an arctic wall of cold. A squeak crosses my lips, promptly freezes, plummets, and shatters on the concrete. Why did I ever agree to move to this popsicle hell?

The hundreds of holiday-decorated windows a few blocks away help thaw me out a little. And it’s rumored that I can find any obscure material item in city stores. Oh, the pizza and bagels are so delicious that nowhere else in the world could hope to replicate the taste and texture, but whatever—it’s cold.

As I shiver my way to the coffee shop, cars travel the potholed grid like Pac-Man chasing dots while ghosts follow, weaving between each other and popping out of adjoining streets. All I can smell is frozen concrete and exhaust. The dancing neon mug in the window just beyond a wall of steam billowing from a sidewalk grate is a beacon in this gray, frantic world. I take the seat closest to the back to keep away from the frigid whoosh each time someone enters, but it’s still freezing. The woman next to me scowls at my haul of bags, and I refrain from flipping her off as I place my throw pillow on the seat to mark it as mine. At the counter, I’m greeted by one of the baristas who doesn’t know my name.

Marco is an aspiring actor from Venezuela. He lives in a flat with four other theater friends—one of whom steals all his rice pudding and he is not pleased. He spells my name C-O-S-E-T.
The cup of chocolate ganache peppermint espresso with cream and whip warms my hands. After one sweet sip that heats a path to my soul, I declare it the ultimate beverage for a 9:00 a.m. breakup. I fish my phone out of my overstuffed purse. No calls. Fine, then. It looks like I’m headed home for Christmas after all.
I’d told my parents we were staying in New York because of James’s new job and the holiday party, but that’s not an issue anymore. North Carolina, here I come.

Dad answers on the second ring. “I was about to call you. Hello, daughter of mine from the great big city of New York!” He sings “New York” so loud I have to pull the phone away from my ear and the scowling woman levels up her bitch-face.

When his long note tapers to silence, I tuck the phone back against my ear. “Hello, father of mine, who now gets to spend the holidays with his loving daughter.”

“What? Did James get off work for Christmas Eve?”

“No, but we broke up, and now I get to come home for Christmas.” I take a deep breath to calm the tightness in my throat. “Yay.”

The woman stops scowling and stares into her coffee cup.

“Oh, Cozette. Sorry, sweet pea. Can you work it out? You two have been together a while, and you just moved. It’s probably stress.”

It’s boredom, actually. A nonstop need to bolt to the door and be loud, reckless, and alive has been biting at my toes for a while, and that doesn’t match James’s need for the safety of dead quiet.

“Coming here with him wasn’t smart,” I say. “I thought since New York has so much to do, we’d explore and reconnect, but nothing has changed.” Except me, as I’ve tried to make myself what James needs. “I can get a ticket and fly out this afternoon.”

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out. Maybe you need time apart. And about Christmas…we’re in Quebec, remember?”

What are my parents doing in Canada? It’s colder there than in New York.

“Nope, I don’t recall Quebec.”

“Mom didn’t mention it? Huh.” There’s shuffling and mumbling. “Oh. Mom says she didn’t want to bug you with details during your busy season. We figured since you and James couldn’t make Christmas, we’d head up north. She’s always wanted to see the nativity tour, so we’re staying in Old Quebec, and they’ve decorated everything—I mean everything. We’ve walked into a Dickens Christmas village.”

“That sounds nice. Chilly, but nice.” I don’t want to go to Canada. It doesn’t have my carousel or smell like cinnamon pinecones.

“It is. I’d tell you to come here, but we could only book because someone canceled two minutes before we called. Hang on, and I’ll go see if there’s another room available.”

“I don’t want to interrupt. Can I go to the house?”

Dad hisses through his teeth. Ooh, that’s going to be a no.

“Oh, well, you know that Airbnb thing?” he asks, and I visualize him scrunching his face and biting his lips until his mouth disappears into his dark, gray-speckled beard. “A family rented the house for the week.”

“You let someone rent the house?” I take a long gulp from my cup, washing down the last vestiges of hope for a normal holiday.

“Yeah. They’re pleasant folks. Just a family wanting to visit the lake during the winter vacation.”

“What if they steal everything?” Someone is sleeping in my bed right now or staring at the old photos on my pin-board. I don’t live there anymore, but it’s the house I grew up in, and my parents didn’t change my space.

“We locked up the important stuff.”

“What if they have six dogs that eat all the furniture? Oh! Or they make a porno on the couch?”

“Cozette,” he chides. “Like that couch hasn’t seen its fair share of—”

“Dad!”

He laughs in rolling melodic waves. “Sweet pea, it’s fine. I’ll check on an additional room and call you right back.”

We hang up and I pull out my laptop, opening emails. There’s one request for location research on the East Coast. Easy peasy. Another requests a forty-person full workshop design in Portland. Fun.

Too bad I didn’t have any clients over Christmas; otherwise, I could pop into one of the events I plan. Some of my clients beg me to show up in person to the conferences I set up while sitting on the couch in my yoga pants. Not having to wear a suit and heels is a massive bonus after years of doing so.

I accept the two and get to work creating new client spreadsheets. I may not know where I’ll sleep tonight, but these electronic folders are perfect: ordered, to the point, and exactly like the others—on the path to success with little fuss.

I’ve planned gatherings my entire life, starting with my fourth birthday party. When Dad told me that taking my ten best preschool buds to Disney World’s princess castle wasn’t within the budget, I sat on his lap and instructed him to look for something similar. We found a princess and unicorn duo that would come to the house for pony rides and pictures. The decorations and details were easy once the entertainment fell into place.

After that, it was friends’ parties and school functions, then city festivals. By the time I graduated high school, I’d built a résumé that some people twice my age with full college degrees didn’t have yet. A huge, international conference company hired me two weeks out of high school, and each year I received a higher title and more demands of my time.

I just get it, and I love it—the budgets, the people, coordinating a hundred things at once and having parts go wrong. There’s a thrill in having to turn on a dime and work a secret miracle to keep things appearing like they’re not falling to pieces. Everything about it is what I want in a career, except for the hours. There was no life outside of conferences. I faced hundred-hour workweeks and so many flights, I’ll have frequent flyer miles for a decade.

I made so much money in exchange for my early twenties.

My phone beeps.

It’s James. Hey, where did you go? Come back home so we can talk.

Nope.

The phone chimes again, and this time it’s Dad calling.

“Hi,” I answer and brace myself for a very wintery holiday.

“Bad news, there’s nothing available. The nearest vacancy is miles away, and the innkeeper said she wouldn’t put anyone she loved there.”

I’m sad but relieved. Alone for the holidays, but not destined for the arctic. “That’s okay. I’ll think of something.”

“Need us to come back? We could go to a B&B.”
I love my parents so much. “No. You two kids have fun. I’ll let you know what I’m doing in a few.”

That puts me on the clock. If I don’t have a solid location in the next hour, the dad timer will detonate, and my parents will be on a plane and not living out their Dickens fantasy Christmas.
We hang up, and I jump feetfirst into an internet search. The potential Christmas getaways are endless. Disney? Booked. Christmas spa excursion at Hershey? Booked. A wine country Christmas in Cali? Not this holiday.

Tropical locations keep popping up in my search. Hanging out with Santa by a palm tree while I drink yuletide cheer out of a coconut? Yes, please.

The options are daunting. Hundreds of self-proclaimed paradises vying for my attention with deals that may or may not be a dream come true, and in locations I’ve never heard of.
Helena. I need Helena.

I scroll through my emails to find the best travel agent ever’s contact info. She’s assisted with many of my out-of-country event bookings and cuts the best deals.

However, booking three days before Christmas? Maybe she can work a miracle.

“Cozette,” she says, in a tone that wraps me in a winter hug. “Happy holiday season.”

“You, too. I have a request, and it needs to be speedy quick.”

I explain my predicament in less than a minute without taking a breath.

“Oh my. Give me your budget, what you’re looking for, and I’ll see what I can do. You have to leave today?”

I’d get a hotel room, but that’s not plan A. As pissed as I am, if James starts his super sad lament highlighting the good times we’ve had and poses a convincing argument about how we’ll work it out, I’ll cave. It’s best if I surrender thousands of miles away so I have time to come to my senses and realize this has gone on too long.

“I’d prefer it, yes.”

“Woman, that’s a tough order. Most flights for the tropics leave JFK in the morning, but...maybe today we’ll get lucky.” Her sweet voice whips to schoolteacher-fierce. “Give me your needs.”

She’s in business mode, and I love that about her. Someone is on my team.

“Five grand, max,” I say. “But I’d prefer under three, a week stay, tropical weather, alcohol, all-inclusive because bikinis don’t have pockets, Christmassy, and fun. Oh, but not a family resort. That’s entertainment I’m not ready for. Peaceful ocean sounds, sans screaming.”
Clicking and scribbling sound through the line. “Mmkay, I have four places in mind and your credit card on file. Do you trust me?”

“I do,” I say with a nod.

“Gonna burn up this card. I’ll call you with details.”

She hangs up without another word, and I smile into my now-chilled beverage. Still chocolaty.

The scowling woman stands and taps her fingers on my table. “Good for you, hon.”

“Thank you.” It is good for me. I’m bailing out of this coldbox and away from Mr. Boringpants. I’ll sing drunken carols with surfer Saint Nick and stick my toes in the sand on Christmas morning instead of snow.

I roll up my puffy sleeves and get cracking on venue research to keep busy. The temptation to browse the net for the tropical places Helena could send me is strong, but then I’ll fall in love with an unavailable resort, and anywhere else she finds won’t hold a candle to my long-lost paradise.

A half hour later I’m tapping my empty cup, boots propped on my luggage. The phone rings, nearly sending me into the air. I fumble it, then answer.

“Get thee to JFK,” Helena announces. “Your flight leaves in one hour and twenty-three minutes for Simona Island.”