The christmas that chang.., p.1
The Christmas That Changed Everything, page 1
Being The Emporium’s manager suited Naomi more than a serious relationship.
Bossiness, a critical eye and ambition were expected of her here. Any of the dislike she was subject to wasn’t personal because the employees couldn’t judge the real her. Chances were they were driven away by differences in workplace status, and not Naomi herself.
Undeterred by the knowledge that they were standing reasonably near each other, Naomi ignored Will’s entire existence.
Kwame fixed his camera to its tripod, then gestured for them to appear as a unit. “Will, put your arm around Naomi.”
Naomi chanced a look at Will, only to find he was already assessing her coolly. After what felt like an eternity, he repositioned an arm so that his hand was hovering hesitantly by her waist. Naomi wasn’t sure if it was his body heat permeating through the material of her costume or her own temperature elevating at rocket speed.
“May I?” Will requested in a strained and lowered tone.
“Uh-huh,” Naomi murmured, liking how his palm fit snugly over the curve of her hip.
Dear Reader,
Let me start off by confessing that I have never worked in retail. But I have watched the movie Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium, which is set in a magical toy store. The film undeniably inspired the toy shop that Naomi manages in The Christmas That Changed Everything.
Workplace romance stories allow us to witness characters’ personal relationships play out alongside their professional ones. They’re a reminder that emotional work is just as—if not more—important than physical tasks. As bell hooks states in All About Love: New Visions, “True love is all about work.” In Naomi and Will’s story, I aimed to present them as two flawed beings who choose to work toward a fulfilling love rather than falling together passively. They aren’t always in sync and there are awkward moments, but the journey is exciting too.
While writing this book, I was awarded the UK equivalent of Harlequin’s Romance Includes You mentorship. For my debut novel, I couldn’t have been paired with a better editor than Hannah Rossiter. I’m forever thankful to Mills & Boon and Amber Rose Gill for giving me this opportunity.
I had fun writing, and I hope you all enjoy reading!
Faye
The Christmas That Changed Everything
Faye Acheampong
Faye Acheampong’s journey as a romance author began in 2015 when she shared her creative writing online out of boredom. She has also experimented with playwriting, screenwriting and written role-play and is always searching for ways to expand her love of storytelling. In 2022, she was announced as the winner of Mills & Boon’s Love to Write Competition, hosted in partnership with Amber Rose Gill. Faye lives in London but regularly daydreams about moving elsewhere. Visit fayeacheampong.com to find out more. You can also follow Faye on Instagram @fayeacheampong and Twitter @fayeursoquiet.
The Christmas That Changed Everything is Faye Acheampong’s debut title for Harlequin.
Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com.
For Ajoa, Simran, Aqsa and Elvia, who were there from the very beginning. From passing my notebook between you during lunchtime breaks and GCSE physics classes to publication.
To Kyla, Mookie, Clerie, B, Chloe and Lucky Flores—for helping me to fall back in love with my writing whenever I lost faith.
And, to Gaby Leadbeater. Thank you for encouraging me to submit my work anywhere. Your namesake in this book is a pure coincidence, or maybe, proof of manifestation.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
EXCERPT FROM MISTLETOE MAGIC IN TAHITI BY KANDY SHEPHERD
CHAPTER ONE
NOT ALL HEROES wore capes. Sometimes they worked in retail.
Their money-hungry nemesis, capitalism, reared its ugly head and morphed into many monstrous forms throughout the fiscal and calendar year. But Christmas time was when the ghastly entity of The Demanding Customer experienced an exponential surge in strength and entitlement.
‘I want to speak to the manager. Now,’ it demanded, this time wearing the face of a Caucasian woman, nearing her fifties, her mouth thinned into a harsh line and her symmetrical bob melded to her head like a helmet.
Naomi suppressed the urge to kiss her teeth. ‘I am the manager,’ she replied politely, playing her super trump card. Yep, that’s right. She, Naomi Beckford, was the manager of The Entertainment Emporium. There were few powers greater than that.
Naomi: one, ‘Karen’: nil.
‘Then why can’t you give me the Gamemaster 3000?’ The woman hoisted her leather handbag farther up her shoulder and crossed her arms stubbornly. ‘When I checked your website last night, it said you had several in stock.’
‘As my colleague has previously explained—’ about five hundred times already ‘—we’ve sold out really quickly,’ Naomi explained, with the patience of a teacher explaining algebra to a student, conscious that she shouldn’t blur the lines leading to condescension. ‘We’ll restock during the next couple of days, so—’
The commands continued. ‘Well, reserve one for me right now, then.’
‘Unfortunately, you won’t be able to make any reservations until the product has arrived in stock.’
The window of opportunity was closing rapidly. Naomi lodged her fingers into the tiny gap, seized the metaphorical ledge and forced it back open. Meeting the monthly sales target was too low an aspiration. She wanted—no, needed to exceed it.
Maintaining her flawless customer service front, she smoothly segued into another sales pitch. ‘Perhaps we can interest you in another games console with similar functions to the Gamemaster?’
‘No.’ Karen wouldn’t budge. ‘I came here to buy the Gamemaster 3000.’
A few metres behind, the next customer waiting to make their purchase—a young mother with a pram—let out a noticeable huff of agitation. She rolled the four-wheeled carriage back and forth, attempting to soothe the wailing baby thrashing around inside, but to no avail. In a similar fashion, the other members of the long line that occupied the maze of barriers and stretched back into the main aisle running through the shop floor hopped impatiently from foot to foot, repeatedly checked their watches or glaring at the row of cashiers, willing them to work faster.
Queuing customers was another type of ticking time bomb. Leave them unattended for too long and they’d walk away without buying anything, which was basically the equivalent of catching a prize salmon and having it wriggle and worm its way out of your hands and dive back into the sea moments later.
‘Can you sell me a Gamemaster or not? It’s a simple question. Yes or no?’ ‘Karen’ snapped. ‘For Pete’s sake, I’m tired of all this drivel.’
Beside Naomi, Gabby flared her nostrils in irritation and a bump formed on the surface of her cheek—her tongue, prodding the inside wall of her mouth, eager to unleash a string of well-deserved curse words. The stresses of the festive season were beginning to take their toll on the overworked sales assistant. Poor thing... Despite having told this customer five minutes ago that the bestselling game console was out of stock, the situation had escalated into threats of unemployment and a request to speak with her superior. Some people just couldn’t compute ‘no’ as an answer, no matter how courteously it was delivered.
‘I’m sorry, but we—’
‘Nana!’ A ruddy-faced toddler with chocolate smeared around his mouth waddled over to ‘Karen’ and tugged urgently on her coat sleeve. ‘I need the toilet,’ he whined.
By miraculous virtue, the woman’s iron will melted as she bent slightly at the hip to address her grandson and gently pat his tiny shoulder. ‘I’m coming, poppet.’
But only for a fraction of a second. Her scowl returned when she stood up straight again.
‘Absolutely appalling service.’ She jabbed an accusatory finger in the direction of both Naomi and the retail assistant as she ushered the young boy towards the shop’s exit. ‘You should be ashamed of yourselves. Absolutely ashamed.’
The tension disappeared from Gabby’s rigid shoulders once the difficult customer had left, as if it were taking a brief break before returning and re-arming itself for another round of disrespect.
She slammed her hand down on the call button, triggering a chipper and feminine automated voice to announce, ‘Next customer, please!’
The mum rolled her way over to Gabby’s till with her pram, wearing a disgruntled expression. Her infant’s cries soared in volume and neared a pitch that Naomi was certain only dogs could hear.
‘Are you going to be okay?’ Naomi muttered to Gabby.
‘Yeah. I’m fine.’ Gabby shrugged, lifting her chin. The bluish bags shelved under her wide, glassy and bloodshot eyes told a different story.
Perfect. As messed-up as it sounded, the intricate eco-system of the sales floor depended on all the employees carrying out their assigned roles. Sending someone home mid-shift and arranging for another person to cover their d
The mother of the inconsolable baby arrived at the area across from Gabby’s till and dumped her toy-filled basket on the counter with a bit too much force.
The last thing Naomi heard before strutting away was Gabby’s flat-cadenced, ‘Sorry about the wait,’ followed by a speedy sequence of beeps, which indicated barcodes being scanned.
Naomi’s brisk and authoritative steps took her along the linoleum pathway that parted the ground floor as though it was the Red Sea. There was no other way to describe the mid-morning influx of customers other than civilised chaos.
To her right, a quartet of siblings, who collectively appeared to be no older than seven, thumped their fists against the surfaces of the empty shelves, transforming them into a makeshift drum set. Meanwhile, their guardian frantically shouted his complaints into the mobile phone pressed to his ear.
Two little girls were engaged in a vicious game of tug and war over the last bubble-gum-pink box that housed a Dani DoRight doll.
A gaggle of boys, screaming at the top of their lungs, whizzed past Naomi and into the electronics aisle to her left.
Model helicopters circulated overhead, near the high ceiling, and surveyed the rush of bodies below, their miniature propellers manned by the emporium’s hired demonstrators. Involuntarily, Naomi scrunched up her nose upon inhaling the invisible fumes of faeces that poisoned the air surrounding the bargain bins. Somebody’s nappy desperately needed changing...
The chunky soles of her Mary Janes sped up for the remainder of her journey to the staff room as she expertly wove and sidestepped around the never-ending throng of holiday shoppers. Quickly, she entered the four-digit code that granted her access to the exclusive space. While the door clicked shut behind her and blocked out the noise, she located her locker amid the sea of identical storage cupboards that lined one of the walls.
Santa’s Grotto—or, as The Entertainment Emporium advertised it, Santa’s Spectacular Grotto of Greetings—was scheduled to have its grand opening in just under an hour, but the actor Naomi had hired to play Father Christmas had yet to show up.
The sour taste of a bile born from simultaneous dread and excitement gathered at the back of Naomi’s throat. Where was he? She needed him to be here. Now, in fact.
Having been promoted to the position of shop manager four months ago, she was determined to beat the achievements of those who had come before her. At twenty-seven years of age, Naomi was the youngest person in the toy shop’s history to hold the title. And Santa’s Spectacular Grotto of Greetings was part of her master plan to attract both new and regular customers to the emporium, resulting in record-breaking sales.
She craved this win. Especially after her break-up with Joseph.
‘You’re too bossy and so uptight!’ he’d yelled at her during the finale of the series of shouting matches that had spanned the length of their relationship.
Those constant clashes had been an obvious sign that they weren’t compatible, but she was too young and dumb to perceive the massive red flag waving in her face. That, and she’d been eager to please her parents, who’d worshiped the ground Joseph walked on.
‘Nothing’s ever good enough for you! Keep doing this and you’ll end up alone.’
If the decade-long, on-again-off-again tragedy with her ex had taught Naomi anything, it was that she was better off being alone. What she’d viewed as pure-hearted but difficult constructive criticism, Joseph had christened as nit-picking and driving an unnecessary wedge between them. In the end, her voicing of any displeasure had ended up being a certified method of driving Joseph away.
She’d simply wanted him to grow and improve as a person, but he’d ultimately felt insufficient. Her guilt over chipping away at Joseph’s happiness had been eating her up inside since they’d parted ways during the summer. That internal decay served as a functional reminder that she wasn’t good at romance. She genuinely hadn’t meant to make Joseph feel as if he was less than her. She couldn’t let herself be the unintentional cause of someone’s belittlement again.
She had no issue with ending up ‘alone’. The love of her family and friends was more than enough to sustain her. Life without a boyfriend didn’t scare her in the slightest.
However, the five-word text message from Dave, her Santa Claus and star of the show, sent an unsettling chill through Naomi’s bloodstream.
I can’t make it today.
What?
No.
No. No. No.
Hastily, she tapped on the phone icon adjacent to his contact information so that she could call him. The ringing of his mobile acted as a second heartbeat pulsing through her ear canal as she started pacing throughout the staff room.
‘Hello?’
Dave answered shortly after the fifth ring in a hoarse tone that was the polar opposite of his usual bellowing Cockney accented voice.
‘I just read your text message,’ Naomi told him between controlled breaths. She skipped the pleasantries and went straight to the problem of his absence. It was a matter of her personal success and failure, which was akin to life and death. ‘What do you mean you can’t make it today?’
‘I’ve got the flu,’ he explained. At least he had the decency to sound apologetic.
‘I would have appreciated it if you’d contacted me about this earlier.’
Naomi pinched the bridge of her nose. Dave had come with a glowing recommendation from his agency. He was a dead ringer for Santa, down to his jolly smile, cloudlike beard and portly belly. Thus, Naomi had been certain that she’d struck gold when she’d managed to book him, despite his overwhelming popularity during the festive season.
‘Sorry, love. I woz fine last night, and even this morning, but—’ Dave was interrupted by a rattling string of phlegmy coughs that erupted from his lungs.
The sickly sound made Naomi’s teeth grit together. Yikes.
Dave’s hacking fit reached an eventual end and he resumed talking. ‘I woz fine last night. This morning too. Me symptoms flared up about an hour ago. Me missus won’t let me outta bed. Took my phone and everything.’
‘Thanks for getting in touch anyway. Better late than never, I guess.’ They exchanged goodbyes before hanging up.
Naomi slumped in disappointment, and she sank down until her behind connected with the sofa. Another catch had slipped out of her hands. Anxiously, she glanced around, hoping that no one would walk in to witness her humiliating defeat.
The door of the owner’s office was shut and a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign was tacked to the wood. The blinds were drawn to conceal the sole window that might provide outsiders with any view inside. Harpreet, the owner of The Entertainment Emporium, was in a meeting with the business accountant. The accountant who tracked the store’s financial records—which would no doubt soon look mediocre if Santa’s Spectacular Grotto of Greetings was cancelled.
Massaging her temples, Naomi scolded herself for succumbing to her negative thoughts.
Don’t panic. Just think.
Think. Think. Think.
She could call the agency that represented Dave and request that they send a replacement.
At such late notice? Impossible, her inner pessimist countered immediately. That’s the most favoured agency in London. Be realistic.
Fine. Back to the drawing board.
She needed a plan, and fast.
* * *
Will Latimer was fluent in two languages. The first being mathematics and the second, to a slightly weaker extent, was English.
To be quite honest, he preferred the safety and simplicity of numbers. Regardless of the equation, there was one and only one answer that would be universally acknowledged as correct. There was no sneaky loophole of subjectivity that would twine around his ankle and trip him up. Numbers were structured and reliable. So reliable that he was fortunate enough to have constructed a solid career for himself in accountancy.
He thoroughly scanned through the wall of figures on the spreadsheet he’d printed out for his meeting with one of his firm’s many clients, Harpreet Bakshi of The Entertainment Emporium, a nauseatingly cheerful shop that specialised in children’s toys.
