On the fourth day of Smutmas, Santa brought to me . . . Festive Feuds, Decades-old Crushes, and a Lederhosen-clad shirtless MMC - a review of Meghan Quinn’s How My Neighbor Stole Christmas

Oh, Meghan Quinn. Oh, Meghan Quinn. How I love your MMCs stuck in a state of arrested development. (It sounds better in my head. As do most things). 

I do though. I love Meghan Quinn’s goofball grumps. As Dorothy said to the Scarecrow, I think I love you most of all. Or something like that. You get my drift. 

As with many of my other favorite rom-commers, I know what I’m getting when I crack open the metaphorical page (since I read exclusively on my phone, as my ophthalmologist can testify to) of one of her new releases. Stupidly attractive male leads? Check. Light breaking-and-entering that leads to burgeoning romances and sexy good times? Check. (No really, check me on this. I’m pretty sure she’s got a thing for B&E. And I’m here for it.) Feisty heroines who are (duh) hot, but not so hot that you don’t imagine yourself in her (often too sensible) shoes. Check. And, best of all, gorgeous, grumpy (but with heart-rending backstories to justify their baggage), dominating-not-domineering heroes who’ve got a healthy touch of the ridiculous to make you wonder if there’s something you just don’t get about ficuses. (Fici?) Check. 

Side note: My favorites in her more recent(ish) offerings are Posey, the human tripod with a fondness for bondage, bologna, and interior design (more ficuses!) in her Vancouver Agitator series and Brody, the sexy shlemiel (and also schlimazel?) who just can’t catch a break in the Bridesmaid for Hire books. (Fingers crossed he shows up in her upcoming Bridesmaid by Chance since he stole the show in Bridesmaid Undercover).

Cole Black isn’t quite as (charmingly) bumbling as these other fictional foxes but he definitely captures my (coal black) heart with his determination to take down his former long distance holiday crush turned nemesis in the idyllic mountain town of the same name’s annual Christmas Kringle competition, which has brought Storee back to the scene of her childhood Christmasses to compete in place of her great aunt. 

In particular, any scene that features Cole and his human bestie (the man’s a reindeer caretaker so it’s hard not to draw Kristoff / Sven comparisons and wonder just how much he loves those ungulates), Max (real name: Atlas. I mean, come on. Adorable) is one I want to reread. If I had a paperback, I’d dog-ear the hell out of those pages. They’re the bickering couple you kinda sorta want to end up together (don’t worry about Max, he’s going to be just fine with Dwight. Right, Meghan?) but are totally OK with their lifelong platonic love since the story is really about Storee, the red-head who’s also sort of stuck in a state of arrested development since adulting is, well, hard.

Speaking of hard, after a tumultuous first half of the novel that features (thank you, Dame Meghan) the trope of tropes - enemies to lovers - which has Cole and Storee (I’m forgiving that name because there are so many other things I like about the book, including the delightful Seussian narration) at each other’s throats in a series of ridiculous rivalries that feature candy cane pulling (the innuendos write themselves) and an egregious use of pineapple in a fruitcake-off, these two finally get it on. 

After Storee, a Cali girl, finds herself stranded in a snowstorm, Cole puts aside his decades-long hurt to white knight her and, in so doing, begins to chip away at the trauma of his past that has held his fragile Grinchy heart captive for the whole of his adult life. (As traumas go, it’s a pretty good one. Tears.) This, of course, leads to, in Storee’s words, the requisite copulation, which is what we’re really here for.

Once this couple does that thing that so many characters (and, you know, readers) find hard to do - talk to one another - their latent attraction that bloomed in their youth quickly bubbles to the surface. Enemies to lovers meets fake dating turned real dating that still necessitates the guise of fake dating (since Storee’s beloved aunt Cindy Lou(is) and sister Taran can’t know she’s not only sleeping with the enemy but falling hard and fast) makes for a lot of twists, turns, and sexts that made even this now seasoned romance reader blush. The characters are so genuine in their feelings for one another - you’re rooting for them - that when the dark moment occurs in the penultimate chapters you want to skip past what’s yet another misunderstanding because you want these two kids to just be together already.

And, yeah, that’s the thing about romance. We all know they’re going to make it through that moment - the kids are going to be alright, as it were - and the HEA and even happier everer afterer epilogue awaits us in mere pages, but damn if I didn’t want to save Cole from more hurt than he’s already had to face. Storee too, but, I mean, I’m here for him (and Max and, to a lesser degree, Bob Kringle, who you know is a closet freak with Christmas kinks from here to the North Pole).

Side note: the almost-sex in front of the Miss Piggy poster made me snort some of my Trader Joe’s gluhwein out of my nose (my indignant cat, who got caught in the crossfire, can attest to this) and is an Instax mini photo of why I will read anything that Meghan Quinn sends our way. Others (e.g. my husband) may wave How My Neighbor Stole Christmas away as seasonal smut, which it is, but I love it because it transcends trope and gives me all the feels. The unfortunate side-effect that I might now get turned on while watching How the Grinch Stole Christmas is worth the price of admission. Besides, I’ve already had some NSFW fantasies about the green guy already (the Benedict Cumberbatch version, not the live-action Jim Carey one. A girl’s gotta have some standards.)

Rating: 5 / 5 Barely Buttoned Lumberjack Flannels