The story is palatable enough if you’re into that sort of thing. I found the writing no more than serviceable, and the characters predictable and deadly dull. There’s more than a whiff of ennui emanating from the mistletoe-bedecked manor in Hertfordshire – okay, fine, I’m projecting that ennui, but man I couldn’t get into it. Yay, aristocratic second son cares about workers! Yay, heroine’s an American mill owner!  They clash on their perspectives, but wait! They resolve their differences!! And, oh my god oh my god OH MY GOD! They love each other!!! Squeeeeeeeee!

Sigh. I really couldn’t be bothered. For sixty pages the story is just predictable and cliched and ordinary, which, yes, in my current state of mind is a worse crime than being bad. So I suppose it’s a good bad thing that the story took a turn for the worse in the last bit when Stephen and Amanda get trapped in a burning mill and instead of trying to find a way out, or like, conserving oxygen, they decide to have a stairwell shag. Cause, like, yeah, when I’m waiting to die of smoke and I’ve sent a mill kid off to get help, YES, my only thought is of slits in drawers and well oiled pistoning and every other goddamn cliche under the sun. (Although do you see what she did there? Cause the heroine’s a mill owner, right?? And deals with machines, so like Stephen’s hips are like pistons when he’s thrusting? Right?)

Bah. There have been many other stories like this; there will continue to be many others. I will leave this one to those who can find some merit and comfort in it, and seek my well oiled pistoning elsewhere.

Note: This novella originally appeared in the 2015 anthology What Happens Under the Mistletoe.