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    Baby, Its Cold Outside
    Baby, Its Cold Outside
    Baby, Its Cold Outside
    Ebook98 pages2 hours

    Baby, Its Cold Outside

    By Shyla Colt

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Delta Elliot is returning home. The place she fled after her heart was broken, and she fell into a deep depression. After a childhood being moved around in the foster system, abandonment issues and codependent relationship left her accepting less than she deserved. Space and therapy have her ready to live life on her own terms. When she meets a stranger at an airport with a number of the same qualities as the ex who broke her, she must decipher coincidence with rebounding.

     

    Burned by someone who was supposed to love him, Sam Solaris has given up finding his happily-every-after. Afraid no one will truly understand the quirks and unique symptoms that come with his Asperger's, he focuses on his special interests and work. A severe winter storm grounds his plane on Christmas Eve and introduces him to a woman who doesn't make his anxiety spike. Unable to resist the draw to her, he finds himself dangerously close to falling in love. But can he trust his judgment after the disaster of his last relationship?

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherInspired Ink
    Release dateDec 15, 2020
    ISBN9798223405757
    Baby, Its Cold Outside
    Author

    Shyla Colt

    Shyla Colt grew up in Cincinnati, Ohio, but has lived a variety of different places thanks to her wanderlust, interesting careers, and marriage to a United States Marine. She's always loved books and wrote her very first novel at the age of fifteen. She keeps a copy of her first submission letter on her desk for inspiration.  After a lifetime of traveling, she settled down and knew her time had come to write. Diving into her new career like she does everything else, with enthusiasm, research and a lot of prayers, she had her first book published in June of 2011. As a full-time writer, stay at home mother, and wife, there's never a dull moment in her household.  She weaves her tales in spare moments and the evenings with a cup of coffee or tea at her side and the characters in her head for company. A self-professed rebel with a pen. Her goal is to diversify romance as she continues to genre hop, and offer up strong female characters. You can interact with Shyla Colt online via her website www.shylacolt.com on,  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/authorshyla.colt and  Twitter: @shylacolt

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      Book preview

      Baby, Its Cold Outside - Shyla Colt

      Play List

      She’s an Eagle: Dolly Parton

      The Champion: Carrie Underwood featuring Ludacris

      Love Wins: Carrie Underwood

      Put Your Records On: Corinne Bailey Rae

      Tell me you love me: Demi Lovato

      Dedication 

      To everyone who’s felt like they didn’t fit in.

      Baby, It’s Cold Outside

      Shyla Colt

      Chapter One

      Delta

      I hate Santa Claus. Four words I never thought I’d feel to the depths of my soul. But there’s something about this artistic rendering that always rubbed me the wrong way. The red-cheeked menace with a long white beard and narrowed blue eyes, which appear to watch you no matter what direction you drive on the street, sways back and forth in the windy, snow-speckled weather. My stomach clenches as the statue breaks free from its mooring and crashes down onto the street below.

      Tires squeal as smoke rises up from the asphalt. Cars swerve and spin out as the tires catch the patches of ice and slush the salt trucks have yet to get to. A chorus of horns erupt. A split second later, the bone-jarring sound of metal against metal rocks through my body as the accident happens and traffic comes to a halt.

      Heart launching from my chest to my throat, I press my face against the glass of the Uber. I hope everyone is okay. The snow continues to come down with no signs of stopping, and I slump down in my seat. Suddenly, the check-in window for my flight out tonight is shrinking like an ice cube left out in the Nevada sun. There’s no time for me to miss this plane. I know everything leaving tonight is full. I held off flying in until Christmas Eve to work up the nerve to return home. Saginaw, Michigan has been my residence for nearly two years, but Philadelphia will always be my home. Born and raised in the historical City of Brotherly Love, I could never get it out of my blood.

      The people I’ve claimed as my family still live there. After a little space and therapy, I’m ready to return. It’s insane how quickly you can pack up your life and relocate. As a social worker, jobs are plentiful. The pay won’t ever make me rich, but it fulfills a part of my damaged soul. It’s incredible how much you can care about people you’ve never met once you walk in their shoes. Helping others heals the part of me that counseling doesn’t always reach.

      Glancing down at my watch, I swear. We’re going to be cutting it close. The Uber driver, Carl, peers at me from his black-framed, square spectacles. A fringe of reddish-brown hair peeks out from his heather gray beanie.

      What time is your flight again?

      Three-thirty.

      He lets out a low whistle. We’re going to be cutting it close by the time this is cleared up.

      Merry Christmas to me, I mumble, slumping down in the back seat. If this is how the trip is starting, I’m afraid to think about what might lie ahead. I sure as hell hope this isn’t an omen. The shriek of sirens is accompanied by the flash of red and blue lights as police pull up and begin to direct traffic. The unmistakable sound of a fire red engine coming up beside us a few minutes later ignites the wicked headache centered at the top of my skull. Shrugging out of my black backpack, I dig into the second pocket to find my emergency stash of ibuprofen. I pop two of the white miracle workers, swallow them dry, and rest my head against the cool window.

      Forcing myself not to look at my watch as we inch forward at a snail’s pace, I focus on the decorations that litter the car. Gingerbread gel clings dance on the windows. Red tinsel is wrapped around the handles and in the back of the window. The outside of the car itself looked like a giant ugly sweater—a crocheted, green Christmas tree, multi-colored gifts, and ornaments stand out against the car’s dark red.

      Carl pays attention to details. He’ll get a higher review for the mini bottles of waters and mints in the slots of the net he’s hung up on the backs of both seats. As my headache wanes, I pop in my earbuds and cue up Eagle When She Flies. From the first time I salvaged one of her old tapes in a Walkman I found in a thrift store for three dollars, Dolly Parton has gotten me through the worst times in my life. A little tinkering and new double A batteries got the outdated tech running again. The cassette allowed me to block out everything else going on in that particular foster home after the sunset.

      It takes three officers to get Santa’s leg from boot to thigh, and three more to heft his head. The dismembered enforcer of jolliness won’t be put together again. It’s the only good thing to come out of this freak show. I snap a few pictures with my phone and post them to Insta with the phrase Massacre on 34th Street. Snickering at my friend’s colorful responses, I feel my spirits lift. Letting go of the things I can’t control will always be a challenge, but I’m heaps better than I used to be.

      It’s 2:45 when we pull up, and I’m a hundred dollars lighter. Tightening the shoulder straps on my book bag, I grab my carry-on and jump out of the car.

      Thanks, Carl. I wave at him before plunging into the crowd. Thanking the airline gods for early check-in, I power walk past the people lined up outside of kiosks. The line inside stretches out like a cash register on Black Friday. Moving from a walk to a jog, I skid to a stop in front of security. The hands on my Sailor Moon watch seem to move faster than usual as the line moves slow. The piles of gifts have slowed the conveyor belt to a crawl.

      Shifting my weight from one side to the other, I try not to breathe down the man’s neck standing in front of me. I kick off the knee-high boots and plop them in the gray basket along with my book bag and the regulation-size toothpaste, mouthwash, and contact solution. The silver

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