The Italian Billionaire's Secretary Mistress
The Italian Billionaire's Secretary Mistress
“It is Christmas day. Go on—have some more!’ Angie’s smile didn’t slip as she obediently speared a sprout and began chewing it even though she felt as if the effort might choke her. But then it had been like that ever since she’d woken up that morning and eyed the few presents under the tree with a dutiful rather than enthusiastic eye. If the truth were known, she’d rather have put her head back under the duvet and stayed in bed all day than have to go through the charade of celebrating!
Yet her Christmas probably looked picture-perfect from the outside—with snow tumbling prettily down over the houses in the village where her mother lived and every shiny front door decked with a bright wreath of holly. You could have painted the scene and stuck it on the front of a Christmas card and people would have cooed over it.
There had been a traditional service in the tiny church, chatting to people she’d known since she’d been a little girl and then trudging back through the silent white lanes... to open their presents.MoreLess
Yet her Christmas probably looked picture-perfect from the outside—with snow tumbling prettily down over the houses in the village where her mother lived and every shiny front door decked with a bright wreath of holly. You could have painted the scene and stuck it on the front of a Christmas card and people would have cooed over it.
There had been a traditional service in the tiny church, chatting to people she’d known since she’d been a little girl and then trudging back through the silent white lanes... to open their presents.MoreLess
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