Dirty Christmas
She rubbed her fingers together, trying to get blood moving again.
“Lord, give me strength. Just one more hour.”
Someone laughed behind her. A deep, warm, masculine voice that didn’t sound like it belonged in a small snowy town.
“Talking to yourself already?”
Mitchelle stiffened. She knew that voice. She had heard it on interviews, sports updates, and the radio commentary her brother forced her to listen to every weekend.
Jonathan Harrison.
The Jonathan Harrison. Premier League superstar. Captain of the London Titans. Football royalty. International darling. Sinfully handsome man with a body sculpted by God and a jawline carved from stone.