As a personal assistant, Carrie Moore is used to fulfilling the whims of the rich and famous, even if it means driving through a blizzard to pick up a fresh Kosher turkey for Christmas dinner. No ordinary Butterball for her employer Rosemary Stephens, an eccentric English mystery writer who’s spending the winter on a remote Maine island. When the last ferry is cancelled, leaving Carrie with a turkey that’s bound to get frozen, all the roads closed and no room at the local inn, what’s a resourceful girl to do?
Why, break in and enter, of course, along with Mrs. Stephens’s titled English nephew who is stranded too. Lord Griffin Archer is an actual viscount, but there will be no roast goose and figgy pudding for him, just the random contents of Carrie’s grocery bags. He’s come to America to improve the family fortune, but keeping company with Carrie might result in a prison sentence or deportation. And with a broken engagement behind him, the last thing he wants to do is lose his heart again.
As they snuggle up in a vintage Jaguar inside the inn’s carriage house, bells ring. Alarm or Christmas? Only time will tell.
“You tell him,” Edna said impatiently. “I don’t think he understands English.”
“I beg your pardon, madam. I am English,” the man said, taking the glasses off his face and blowing on them. That wouldn’t help at all. Carrie reached into her pocket for a lens cleaner packet and handed it to him. He stared down at it. “A condom? I hardly know either of you.”
“It’s f-for your glasses,” Carrie said quickly, dying inside only a little.
There was no question who this man was. She’d seen his picture all over Mrs. Stephens’s house. Griffin in short pants and an unfortunate bowl haircut. Griffin playing rugby at Rugby. Griffin in those silly university robes riding a bicycle through Cambridge. Griffin with his gorgeous blonde fiancée, Lady Alice Something-or-other.
Which was only fitting, since Griffin was Lord Griffin Archer. A frigging viscount. Like in a Regency romance, except that he worked for a commercial real estate development firm in Boston and did not, as far as Carrie knew, ride to the hounds or race curricles or compromise debutantes behind a potted palm during a masquerade ball.