Praise for Fiona Harper
âThe author never strikes a false note,
tempering poignancy perfectly with humour.â âRT Book Reviews
âClassic Fionaâfunny with fantastic characters.
I was charmed from the first page.â âwww.goodreads.com on Invitation to the Bossâs Ball
âItâs the subtle shadings of characterisation
that make the story work, as well as the sensitive handling of key plot points.â âRT Book Reviews
âFiona Harperâs Christmas Wishes, Mistletoe Kisses pairs a simple plot with complex characters, to marvellous effect. Itâs both moving and amusing.â âRT Book Reviews
About Fiona Harper
As a child, FIONA HARPER was constantly teased for either having her nose in a book, or living in a dream world. Things havenât changed much since then, but at least in writing sheâs found a use for her runaway imagination. After studying dance at university, Fiona worked as a dancer, teacher and choreographer, before trading in that career for video-editing and production. When she became a mother she cut back on her working hours to spend time with her children, and when her littlest one started pre-school she found a few spare moments to rediscover an old but not forgotten loveâwriting.
Fiona lives in London, but her other favourite places to be are the Highlands of Scotland, and the Kent countryside on a summerâs afternoon. She loves cooking good food and anything cinnamon-flavoured. Of course she still canât keep away from a good book, or a good movieâespecially romancesâbut only if sheâs stocked up with tissues, because she knows she will need them by the end, be it happy or sad. Her favourite things in the world are her wonderful husband, who has learned to decipher her incoherent ramblings, and her two daughters.
Also by Fiona Harper
Three Weddings and a Baby
Christmas Wishes, Mistletoe Kisses Blind-Date Baby Invitation to the Bossâs Ball Housekeeperâs Happy-Ever-After The Bridesmaidâs Secret
Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
For Gillian Constance Johnson (1941â2010),
a cool chick and a loving mum.
The Girl Canât Help It â¦
Coreenâs Confessions
No.1âIn my opinion, a pinkie finger isnât properly dressed unless itâs got a man comfortably wrapped around itâand I always make sure Iâm impeccably dressed.
I GLARED at the man whoâd rushed through the coffee shop door. Not only had he almost spilled my caramel mochaccino down my best polka-dot dress as heâd barged past, but he hadnât even bothered to hold the door open for me.
Not that I was about to admit I was losing my mojo. He probably just hadnât seen me in his rush to escape from the unseasonable weather.
Left with no alternative, I balanced the two steaming paper cups of coffee I was holding and tried to open the door with my elbow. No good. There was only one thing for it. I sighed, turned one-eighty degrees, and shoved it open with my rear end.
I glanced upwards as I stepped outside onto Greenwich High Street. The sky wasnât just promising rain but threatening with menaces. What should have been a balmy summer evening was as heavy and gloomy as a December afternoon. Thankfully, I only had a two-minute walk ahead of me, and would be safe and dry inside before the heavens opened.
Rude Man had something else to answer for too. No one would be standing with his hand on the open door, transfixed, as a steady stream of customers flowed past him. No one would be admiring my rear view as I walked away, my head high and my hips swaying like Marilynâs in Some Like It Hot. Iâd watched that movie at least fifty times before Iâd got the walk down pat, and the least I deserved was a little appreciation for my efforts.
I squared my shoulders and lifted my chin. Well, I was going to make the journey back to the shop countârude man or no rude man. There was plenty of traffic passing by to serve as an audience. I placed one red patent stiletto in front of the other and began to walk.
I nipped round the corner into Church Street and then across the busy junction into Nelson Street. However, not even the sight its neat row of cream Georgian buildings lifted my mood this evening. Normally when I passed each shop or boutique Iâd smile and wave at the owner as I counted down the door numbers with growing excitement.
On the corner was the all-organic coffee shopâclosed now, but mid-morning packed with Yummy Mummies who cluttered the floor space with their high-tech pushchairs and the air with discussions on the merits of the local private nurseries. Next was the secondhand bookshop that did a roaring trade in textbooks for the students at the nearby university campus. After that was Susieâsâa bakery that specialised entirely in cupcakes. The window was full of frosted and glittering towers of different flavoured cakes, delicious-looking enough to cause even the most dedicated dieter to stop and lick her lips. Then there was a Thai restaurant, a newsagentâs, and a shop called Petal that sold just about anything as long as it was pink.