Carter is an insurance adjuster whose longing for creative expression spills over sometimes into his accident reports. Abby works for her adoptive father, Uncle Mannie, in the family bookstore, the ReadMore Café. Carter barely tolerates Christmas; Abby loves it. She can't wait past October to build her favorite display, the annual Christmas book tree stack, which Carter despises. When an automobile accident throws Carter and Abby together, Uncle Mannie, who is harboring secrets of his own, sees a chance for lasting happiness for his little girl. But there are so many hurdles, and not much time left. Will this Christmas deliver the miracle everyone is hoping for? Where love and Christmas are concerned, there are no accidents. "Christmas by Accident is the perfect read to get in the holiday spirit! Fast-paced and often end in cliffhangers, which make the novel nearly impossible to put down. The romantic relationship between Abby and Carter is sweet and affectionate. Wright is a descriptive writer, including lots of vivid detail and figurative language. Many pop culture references are included, with sly humor used to lighten the heavier parts of the plot. A satisfying ending makes Christmas by Accident not only entertaining, but an inspiring and festive read. Pick up this holiday tale today!"-- "Compass Book Ratings" Camron Wright earned a master's degree in writing and public relations. He says he began writing to get out of attending MBA school, and it proved the better decision. He is the bestselling author of  The Rent Collector,  The Orphan Keeper,  and  Letters for Emily . Chapter 1 The squeaking of cheap leather shoes scuffing across the room’s cut-pile carpet should have forewarned Carter. The footsteps carried the sound of breathing, but Carter didn’t move, didn’t glance up, didn’t twist around. Instead, he pushed his body against the rubbery rim of his laminate desk and let his restless fingers resume their full frontal attack on his waiting keyboard. The breathing behind him deepened. Carter’s eyes narrowed, his chin lifted, his gaze leapt word to word as his sentences crawled up the flickering monitor. His story was like Frankenstein rising from the table, and as Carter mouthed each syllable, the paragraph drew a breath. His office chair squeaked. A distant copy machine gurgled awake. He ran anxious hands through tousled hair as he read: Asphalt streaked below Ashton Blake and his motorcycle like a swollen spring river rushing beneath a bridge. The lane’s painted center lines pulsed past so hypnotically that the man began to count—two, three, four, five. The curved road reminded him of a woman draped in Chinese silk, and he couldn’t help but lean his bike close, so close he could have kissed pavement. WHAM—a watermelon-sized boulder suddenly slammed onto the road and clipped the front tire of his Triumph Tiger 800, sending it into a horrific skid. A nearby clock ticked with apparent glee and appreciation. It was the most exciting thing written in the wearisome office in weeks. Carter’s jaw tightened. He studied his last sentence. Should he use the em dash or a comma? The breathing behind him burst into a scold. “You’re embellishing again, aren’t you? Even after Harold warned you, no more embellishing! ” It was an assault that cracked the silence, punctured the pleasure, let the lingering contentment that had pooled around Carter spill to the floor and drain away. He despised these moments, the first glimmers of recognition after being yanked back to reality. It was dreaming of tanning on a tropical beach, surrounded by bikini-clad beauties, only to be awakened by honking on the street outside his cold apartment—and to roll over to remember that, at age twenty-eight, he was still alone. It was believing that a college education would make an honest difference in the workplace, only to receive a single offer of employment at Business Alliance Deposit Insurance, an establishment so drab and boring it was all that Carter could do to not bludgeon himself to death every morning with his company-issued desktop stapler. “Well?” the voice behind him pressed. “Why do you embellish?” The question rolled around in Carter’s head, searched for a rational explanation. When Carter didn’t answer—didn’t move—Lenny, his shorter, balding coworker pressed harder. “We’re insurance adjusters, Carter. Our job is to describe accidents as succinctly as possible.” His voice was high, almost scratchy. “We don’t embellish! If Harold finds out you’ve embellished again, he’ll . . .” Lenny’s words trailed off, as if the punishment would be too horrendous for any human to bear. Carter’s shoulders dropped. His cheeks twitched. He released a long, laden breath before he spun around to face Lenny directly. He wouldn’t offer him the satisfaction of anger. “It’s not embellishing, Lenny. It’s called creativity.” His tone was almost transparent. “It’s describing the accident with words that make the situat