{"product_id":"holly-and-nick-hate-christmas-isbn-9780593602560","title":"Holly and Nick Hate Christmas","description":"\u003cb\u003eWhen a Christmas-hating woman’s brother sets her up with a fellow Grinch and it backfires, she decides to out-Christmas her date by kicking off a festive battle of wills in this “irresistible” (\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e) enemies-to-lovers holiday romcom.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHolly Sinclair has hated Christmas for as long as she can remember. Who names their Christmas baby Holly in the first place? She was teased mercilessly growing up. \u003ci\u003eHolly Berry, Holli-days, Holly Jolly \u003c\/i\u003e. . . not to mention the fact that her birthday is often totally overlooked amidst the season.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo make matters worse, instead of getting the promotion she was expecting, Holly’s been downsized—which is just fancy holiday talk for \u003ci\u003efired\u003c\/i\u003e. Now Holly has to go home single, unemployed, turning thirty, and only a tinsel strand of faith. Bah, humbug.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHolly’s big brother, Ryan, has dragged his best friend, known holiday-hater Nick Kinsley, home with him. But when Holly discovers that Nick’s here to be her pity date, she decides the best revenge is to play along . . . and Christmas like she’s never Christmas’d before. Commence Operation: Naughty List. The fact that she’s attracted to Nick is totally not the point. She’ll teach him a lesson, one \u003ci\u003eho ho ho\u003c\/i\u003e at a time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe holiday grows more complicated when Holly and Ryan find out their parents asked all the siblings to come home for Christmas this year, but refuse to say why. The rest of the Sinclair siblings descend, each with their own sleigh full of secrets. Rumors spread as everyone tries to guess the reason for their parents’ demand—and Nick turns out to have a secret of his own. Will this be a Christmas to forget? Or will Holly and Nick discover there is so much more?“Betsy St. Amant is a master at creating characters who feel like cherished friends, and I’m delighted (but not surprised) to say she’s done it again. Holly and Nick navigate the traditions and trappings of Christmas in hilarious fashion, but ultimately this is a faith-filled tale that keeps the focus on the true reason for the season. Readers who love spending the holidays with books by Courtney Walsh and Jenny Colgan may find another favorite in Betsy St. Amant. \u003ci\u003eHolly and Nick Hate Christmas\u003c\/i\u003e is a charming, romantic, feel-good delight!”\u003cb\u003e—Bethany Turner, award-winning author of \u003ci\u003eBrynn and Sebastian Hate Each Other\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eHolly and Nick Hate Christmas \u003c\/i\u003eincludes everything a reader could want for Christmas. Humor, family fun, the spirit of Christmas, and Christmas shenanigans. Both Holly and Nick have been hurt by Christmas, but St. Amant takes the characters on a journey to healing, with love and pop culture sprinkled along the way. Fans of Melissa Ferguson and Bethany Turner will love this heartwarming, joyous read for the holiday season and years to come!”\u003cb\u003e—Toni Shiloh, Christy Award–winning author \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Holly and Nick Hate Christmas \u003c\/i\u003eoverflows with festive chaos. If you enjoy holiday stories featuring huge families, secrets, and witty banter, then you’ll fall in love with this rom-com. Even if Christmas romance isn’t your cup of cocoa, Holly and Nick are sure to charm the most stubborn grinch.”\u003cb\u003e—Angela Ruth Strong, author of\u003ci\u003e Husband Auditions\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This is irresistible.”\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Publishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eBetsy St. Amant Haddox \u003c\/b\u003eis the author of more than twenty-five romance novels and novellas. She resides in north Louisiana with her hubby, two teenagers, and one furry schnauzer-toddler. Betsy has a bachelor of arts in communication and loves teaching and speaking on the craft of writing. She writes frequently for iBelieve, a devotional site for women, and offers author coaching and editing services through Storyside LLC.\u003cb\u003eTwo Weeks Before Christmas\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eChristmas was so overrated.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNonetheless, I found myself standing in line for a coveted red cup of coffee, determined to drown my sorrows in white mocha syrup and ignore the fact that I probably shouldn’t be paying six dollars for a drink when I’d just lost my job.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eExcuse me—­was \u003ci\u003edownsized.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe aroma of slightly bitter beans wafted toward my spot several people back in line. One of the baristas had tiny bells on her sleeve cuffs that jingled every time she worked the register. The man in front of me wore a Santa hat, and it took more self-­control than I’d like to admit not to bat it off his head like a cat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Everyone knows ‘downsized’ is just fancy holiday talk for fired.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI turned my woes away from Santa and toward my favorite co-­worker—­make that \u003ci\u003eformer\u003c\/i\u003e co-worker—­Piper Schaulis, who’d joined me in my quest for coffee-­induced endorphins. She was just on her lunch break, though. I was on a permanent one.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWho gets fired two weeks before Christmas?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Holly.” Piper faced me as we shuffled another step in the endless line pouring out of the popular coffee haunt in downtown Detroit. Her long dark hair poured like silk over the shoulders of her ugly Christmas sweater. As always, she somehow managed to look fashionable. And as always, I’d chosen not to participate in the ridiculous workplace tradition. “Look, I—­”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Wait.” I held up my gloved hand. “You’re using your ‘I know you don’t want to hear this’ voice.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I know you don’t want to hear this—­”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Aha!” I pointed at her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“But you didn’t even like your job.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“That’s not true.” I rolled in my lips as we inched up in line. Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas Is You” was now stuck in my head because of the social media reel I’d created earlier that morning from my suffocating cubicle. The reel I’d made through gritted teeth. The reel I’d had to remake \u003ci\u003efive times\u003c\/i\u003e because the client wanted more red and green instead of the gold and silver I’d defiantly used.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePiper squinted at me. “You threw away the candy canes someone left on your desk.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI bristled. “That’s not work-­related. That’s \u003ci\u003eChristmas\u003c\/i\u003e-­related.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This time of year, Christmas \u003ci\u003eis\u003c\/i\u003e your job.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eWas\u003c\/i\u003e my job,” I retorted.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Maybe that’s part of why you got let go.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt least she wasn’t pitying me with the “downsized” lie. “What do you mean?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Because you hate Christmas.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I don’t \u003ci\u003ehate\u003c\/i\u003e—­”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePiper crossed her arms and arched her dark brows.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow it was Santa’s turn in line. He ordered a peppermint latte with extra sprinkles, which irritated me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOkay, maybe Piper had a point.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Fine, maybe Christmas is my least favorite time of year.” I grabbed a handful of my wavy red hair and shook it at her. “But how would you feel if you were a Christmas baby—­a \u003ci\u003eredheaded\u003c\/i\u003e Christmas baby—­named Holly?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe shrugged one slim shoulder. “Grateful I had extra gifts at Christmas?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Ha. More like \u003ci\u003eno\u003c\/i\u003e birthday gifts, because everyone forgets. Well, except my brother, Ryan . . . but not even my three sisters or parents remember.” Ryan and I had always been close, more so than with our older sister, who was thirty-­five, and our two younger sisters.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe never forgot.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Okay, that one I’ll give you.” Piper dipped into a half squat to peer into the display case of holiday cookies and scones. “Birthdays should be remembered. Isn’t this a milestone year for you?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Don’t remind me.” I bit back a groan. “Turning thirty wouldn’t be quite so bad if it wasn’t the same month I also find myself unemployed. And single.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You know, those things aren’t so bad individually. You’re just stringing them together with a lot of specific inflection and making them sound worse than they are.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRight again. But—­ “I want sympathy, Piper. Not a logical lecture.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe held up both hands. “Sorry, that’s just how my brain works.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSanta left. I lifted my eyes from the annoyingly cheerful row of holiday gifts cards to the green-aproned barista, who wore a smile and jingle-­bell earrings the size of golf balls.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What can I get you?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A new job.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePiper’s sharp elbow made contact with my rib cage.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I mean, a white mocha, please. Grande. Hot.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe barista picked up a cup. “Peppermint shavings?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Heck, no.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePiper rolled her eyes skyward. “Throw in a shot of holiday spirit while you’re at it.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was my turn to elbow Piper.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe barista pressed her lips together, but her smile still escaped. “Name?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Holly.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer eyes, laden with glittery green eye shadow, darted to mine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I know.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe scribbled with her black Sharpie. “Six twenty-­nine.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs I pulled my coin purse free of my bag, I mentally calculated how many more mochas I could afford before I crossed the line from charmingly irresponsible to stupid.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Don’t worry about it. Coffee’s on me,” Piper said, pressing my coin purse back into the depths of my canvas tote.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI hesitated, the numbers I’d been crunching fading. “You don’t have to do that.” I hated pity—­but I also really loved coffee.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It’s fine.” She shot me a wink as she pulled out her debit card. “\u003ci\u003eMerry Christmas.\u003c\/i\u003e”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Funny. Also, thank you.” My cellphone rang, saving me from the explosion of Christmas cheer around me. “Oh, it’s Ryan. Let me grab this.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe didn’t call often. Usually, we kept a running text message going, most of which consisted of slightly inappropriate memes and family gossip.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI left the line and maneuvered through the crowd toward the holiday-­decaled window. Apparently real snow wasn’t holiday-­ish enough anymore. Now we had to default to stick-­on snowflakes. “Hey.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThrough the phone I could hear a keyboard clacking. Always multitasking, that Ryan. He worked for Brand Blizzard in Cleveland, several hours from our family home in Point Bluff. “Have you heard?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI leaned one hip against the stir stick and napkin station. “That I got fired? I did hear, actually.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What?” Disbelief coated his tone. “\u003ci\u003eYou,\u003c\/i\u003e fired from a job you hated?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNot disbelief. Sarcasm. “Cute. I’ve been there for almost three years. And if you don’t recall, it’s two weeks until Christmas.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Oh, I recall, \u003ci\u003eHolly Berry.\u003c\/i\u003e”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI stiffened. “That’s not funny.” Neither was \u003ci\u003eHolli-­days\u003c\/i\u003e or \u003ci\u003eHolly Jolly\u003c\/i\u003e or the myriad horrid nicknames I was labeled with growing up. Kids could be cruel—­even at Christmas.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You’re right. It’s not.” Now his tone held genuine apology. “But this could be a good thing for you. Let me guess, they used the word \u003ci\u003elayoff\u003c\/i\u003e?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Downsized.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“That was my next guess.” More clacking, followed by a few mouse clicks. “Sorry, I’m trying to finish this holiday jewelry ad before I leave for lunch.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Let \u003ci\u003eme\u003c\/i\u003e guess. Something about five golden rings?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“All right, Scrooge, what’s really going on?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Just a bad day.” I scuffed my knockoff UGG boot against the tiled floor. I was having a pity party for one, a party I didn’t even want to attend. But it was hard to un-­RSVP. I kept picturing my boss’s face as she leaned across the desk, eyes sympathetic but firm. \u003ci\u003eDownsized.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSort of like my plans for the new year. So much for shopping for a new apartment. I was now gifted with figuring out how to pay rent on the one I had.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You’re really bummed about this job thing, aren’t you?” Annoying Big Brother had turned into Protective Big Brother.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I just . . .” I briefly closed my eyes. This was so embarrassing, but it was Ryan. “I thought I was going to get promoted.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Ouch.” \u003ci\u003eClack, clack.\u003c\/i\u003e “That’s awkward.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“To put it mildly.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA little girl wearing a faded pink jacket, at least one size too small, skipped past the window, her unmittened hand clutched by a woman wearing thin leggings and no coat at all. It had to be thirty-­something degrees outside. 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