*The Ho-Ho Hook-Up is a 35k spicy Christmas novella that ends in a Happily For Now scenario - but rest assured, Cole and Rory are getting a full length novel to see them all the way to their epic HEA in 2026*
īŋŊīŋŊīŋŊīŋŊđŽ đĄđđđ đđ¨ đ đ¨đĨđ§đđđđ¨đđđđŠ.
Relationships? đ''''đīŋŊīŋŊīŋŊđĩđĻīŋŊīŋŊīŋŊīŋŊ.
Fun? đđŗđ¤đŠđĒđˇđĻđĨ.
Risk? đđĻđŗđŽđĸđ¯đĻđ¯đĩđđē đŖ''''đ°đ¤đŦđĻīŋŊīŋŊ.
Four years since my ex-wife walked out on me and our daughter, and I've perfected the art of not feeling anything.
Thirty-one. Single Dad.
Believes efficiency is a way of life.
đ đĻđĸđŠ, đ'đĨ đ´''''đĒđąđĻ đđĻīŋŊīŋŊđĩ, đĩđ°đ°. đđ§ đ đŖđ°đĩđŠđĻđŗđĻđĨ đĨđĸđĩđĒđ¯đ¨.
Then đŧđĒđ§đ¤đ§īŋŊīŋŊīŋŊ đđđĄđĄđđđĸđ¨ happens.
Blonde. American. Unapologetically reading smutty books in public.
Laughing with her whole body, looking at me like I'm not a grumpy, emotionally constipated CFO with more baggage than Heathrow Airport.
I should walk away.
I definitely shouldn't use the world's worst chat-up line.
And I absolutely should NOT accept when she slides her hotel keycard into my hand with a devastating smile.
đđīŋŊīŋŊ đ ''''đŧ đļđ đŽđģđđīŋŊīŋŊđ. đđšđš đŧđŗ đļđ.
And then I realise I could see myself falling for a girl like her—which would upend my carefully efficient life.
So I slip out before she wakes up, because there's '''đ¤ đŦđđŽ I'm ever taking that risk.
Problem is, đ đ¤đĸđ¯'đĩ đ´đĩđ°đą đĩđŠđĒīŋŊīŋŊīŋŊīŋŊđŦđĒ''''đ¨ đĸđŖđ°đļđĩ đŠđĻīŋŊīŋŊīŋŊīŋŊ.
So when fate crashes us together on a busy London street, đ đđđŠ''''đ đđđđđđđđŖđđŽ đđ¤đ§ đ§đđđ đĄđđ¨đ¨đŖđđ¨īŋŊīŋŊīŋŊ.
Because Rory is making me question every wall I've built, every rule I live by, and every risk I've sworn never to repeat.
Spontaneous isn't my style.
Messy is off-limits.
And falling for beautiful women who read smut in public, worship ugly Christmas jumpers, and believe in holiday miracles?
đđŖđ´đ°đđļđĩđĻđđē đŖđ¤đŠ đŠīŋŊīŋŊđąđąđĻđ¯''đ¯đ¨.
đđđ đŽđŊđŊđŽīŋŊīŋŊīŋŊīŋŊđ˛đģđđšđ, đđĩđ˛ đąđļđąīŋŊīŋŊīŋŊ'đ đ´đ˛đ đ''''đ˛ đēđ˛đēđŧ.
īŋŊīŋŊīŋŊīŋŊđŽ đĄđđđ đđ¨ đ đ¨đĨđ§đđđđ¨đđđđŠ.
Relationships? đ''''đīŋŊīŋŊīŋŊđĩđĻīŋŊīŋŊīŋŊīŋŊ.
Fun? đđŗđ¤đŠđĒđˇđĻđĨ.
Risk? đđĻđŗđŽđĸđ¯đĻđ¯đĩđđē đŖ''''đ°đ¤đŦđĻīŋŊīŋŊ.
Four years since my ex-wife walked out on me and our daughter, and I've perfected the art of not feeling anything.
Thirty-one. Single Dad.
Believes efficiency is a way of life.
đ đĻđĸđŠ, đ'đĨ đ´''''đĒđąđĻ đđĻīŋŊīŋŊđĩ, đĩđ°đ°. đđ§ đ đŖđ°đĩđŠđĻđŗđĻđĨ đĨđĸđĩđĒđ¯đ¨.
Then đŧđĒđ§đ¤đ§īŋŊīŋŊīŋŊ đđđĄđĄđđđĸđ¨ happens.
Blonde. American. Unapologetically reading smutty books in public.
Laughing with her whole body, looking at me like I'm not a grumpy, emotionally constipated CFO with more baggage than Heathrow Airport.
I should walk away.
I definitely shouldn't use the world's worst chat-up line.
And I absolutely should NOT accept when she slides her hotel keycard into my hand with a devastating smile.
đđīŋŊīŋŊ đ ''''đŧ đļđ đŽđģđđīŋŊīŋŊđ. đđšđš đŧđŗ đļđ.
And then I realise I could see myself falling for a girl like her—which would upend my carefully efficient life.
So I slip out before she wakes up, because there's '''đ¤ đŦđđŽ I'm ever taking that risk.
Problem is, đ đ¤đĸđ¯'đĩ đ´đĩđ°đą đĩđŠđĒīŋŊīŋŊīŋŊīŋŊđŦđĒ''''đ¨ đĸđŖđ°đļđĩ đŠđĻīŋŊīŋŊīŋŊīŋŊ.
So when fate crashes us together on a busy London street, đ đđđŠ''''đ đđđđđđđđŖđđŽ đđ¤đ§ đ§đđđ đĄđđ¨đ¨đŖđđ¨īŋŊīŋŊīŋŊ.
Because Rory is making me question every wall I've built, every rule I live by, and every risk I've sworn never to repeat.
Spontaneous isn't my style.
Messy is off-limits.
And falling for beautiful women who read smut in public, worship ugly Christmas jumpers, and believe in holiday miracles?
đđŖđ´đ°đđļđĩđĻđđē đŖđ¤đŠ đŠīŋŊīŋŊđąđąđĻđ¯''đ¯đ¨.
đđđ đŽđŊđŊđŽīŋŊīŋŊīŋŊīŋŊđ˛đģđđšđ, đđĩđ˛ đąđļđąīŋŊīŋŊīŋŊ'đ đ´đ˛đ đ''''đ˛ đēđ˛đēđŧ.
Used availability for Pamela O'Rourke's The Ho-Ho Hook-Up