Книга - Marry-Me Christmas

Marry-Me Christmas
Shirley Jump


Rich man’s proposal; snow-white bride Samantha Barnett would describe herself as an ordinary girl. Flynn McGranger would call her beautiful. If he weren’t about to destroy her career. A rich, successful journalist, Flynn aims to write a scathing review of Samantha’s little bakery. He never mixes business with pleasure. But the secrets she’s clearly keeping intrigue him, and her innocence has caught him off guard…What’s happened to him? He’s being ridiculous! The Christmas-coated town has gone to his head. Either that, or this small-town girl has unlocked the city-slicker’s heart…A Bride for All Seasons ’Tis the season to fall in love…







Praise for Shirley Jump…

About NYT bestselling anthology Sugar and Spice: ‘Jump’s office romance gives the collection a kick, with fiery writing.’ —PublishersWeekly.com

‘Shirley Jump always succeeds in getting the plot,

the characters, the settings and the emotions right.’

—CataRomance.com

‘Shirley Jump begins The Wedding Planners with SWEETHEART LOST AND FOUND. It’s smart, funny, and quite moving at times, and the characters have a lot of depth.’ —Romantic Times BOOKreviews


His blue gaze met hers, direct and powerful. “How long has it been?”

“Has it been for what?”

“Since you’ve been out on a date?”

Sam took such a deep sip of water she nearly drowned. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“My answer’s easy. A week.”

“Oh.” She put the glass down. “I thought you said you didn’t have that much free time.”

“I was exaggerating. I’m a writer.” That grin again. “Given to hyperbole and all that.”

Was he…flirting with her? Was that why everything within her seemed touched with fever? Why her stomach couldn’t stop flip-flopping? Why she alternately wanted to run—and to stay?

It was simply because he was right. She hadn’t been out on a date in forever. She wasn’t used to this kind of head-on attention from a man. Especially a man as good at the head-on thing as he was.

“So which would you rather?” Flynn asked. “A date? Or an interview?”

The interview, her mind urged. Say interview. The business. The bakery needed the increase in revenue. Her personal life could wait, just as it always had. The business came first.

“A date.”


New York Times bestselling author Shirley Jump didn’t have the will-power to diet, nor the talent to master under-eye concealer, so she bowed out of a career in television and opted instead for a career where she could be paid to eat at her desk—writing. At first, seeking revenge on her children for their grocery store tantrums, she sold embarrassing essays about them to anthologies. However, it wasn’t enough to feed her growing addiction to writing funny. So she turned to the world of romance novels, where messes are (usually) cleaned up before The End. In the worlds Shirley gets to create and control, the children listen to their parents, the husbands always remember holidays, and the housework is magically done by elves. Though she’s thrilled to see her books in stores around the world, Shirley mostly writes because it gives her an excuse to avoid cleaning the toilets and helps feed her shoe habit. To learn more, visit her website at www.shirleyjump.com



Dear Reader

Christmas. Is there a more magical time of year? To me, it’s the season of miracles. Of possibilities. In the Midwest, where I live, the first snowfall of the year is as eagerly awaited as Santa’s arrival. Though I’m more than done with the cold weather by the middle of January, the entire month of December seems like something almost otherworldly when those first flakes start to drift to the ground.

A major part of the holiday for me is the food. I love to cook (which is why my blog at www.shirleyjump.blogspot.com is all about food!), and through the holiday season I’m cooking pretty much non-stop. Cookies, breads, stews—you name it, I’m making it. I get the kids involved, and not only serve the food to my family, but share a lot of it with my friends, too (and, hey, that keeps me from gaining all that weight!).

So it seemed appropriate to write a book that featured holiday food, and I wrapped that story with the magical theme of Christmas and the possibility of love. I hope you enjoy Sam and Flynn’s story, and if you have a moment between the gift-wrapping and mugs of hot cocoa, drop me an e-mail at shirley@shirleyjump.com and share your favourite moment from the story!

Wishing you all the best this holiday season

Shirley




MARRY-ME CHRISTMAS


BY

SHIRLEY JUMP




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


CHAPTER ONE

FLYNN MACGREGOR hated Riverbend, Indiana, from the second his Lexus stalled at the single stop light in the quaint town center, right beneath the gaily decorated Christmas swags of pine needles and red bows. The entire snow-dusted town seemed like something out of a movie.

There were people walking to and fro with wrapped gifts, stores bedecked with holiday decorations, and even snowflakes, falling at a slow and steady pace, as if some set decorator was standing in the clouds with a giant shaker.

Okay, so hated might be a strong word. Detested, perhaps. Loathed. Either way, he didn’t want to be here, especially when he’d been forced into the decision.

His editor at Food Lovers magazine had assigned him this story in Riverbend, knowing Flynn, of everyone on staff, could get the job done. Write an incisive, unique piece on the little bakery—a bakery rumored to have cookies that inspired people to fall in love, his editor had said. So here he was, spending the Christmas holiday holed up in the middle of nowhere penning one more of the stories that had made him famous.

Flynn scowled. He couldn’t complain. Those stories had been his bread and butter forever, a very lucrative butter at that. And after that little fiasco in June, he needed to get his edge back, reestablish his position at the top of the writer pack. To do that, he’d do what he always did—suck it up, feign great joy at the festive spirit surrounding him and get to work.

Then he could get back to Boston, back to Mimi, and back to civilization. This town, with its Norman Rockwell looks, had to be as far from civilization as Mars was from Earth. Not that he had anything against quaint, but he lived in a world of iPods, e-mail and high-speed Internet connections. Riverbend looked like the kind of place that thought Bluetooth was a dental disease.

So, here he was, at the Joyful Creations Bakery.

Oh, joy.

He pushed his car to the side of the road, then grabbed his notebook and headed across the street. The crowd in front of the Joyful Creations Bakery blocked most of the plateglass window, but Flynn could see that storefront, too, had not been spared by the town’s festive elves. A trio of lighted wreaths hung in the window, one of them even forming the O in the business’s name.

“Nauseatingly cute,” Flynn muttered under his breath.

He circumvented the line that stretched out the door, around the bakery and all the way to the corner of Larch Street. Ignoring the snow falling from the sky, couples stood together—most of the men looking none too keen on the idea of being dragged off to a bakery purported to be a food love source, while groups of women chatted excitedly about the “romance cookies.”

It took sheer willpower for Flynn not to roll his eyes. The airline magazine that had first broken the story had clearly created an epidemic. By the time this piece hit Food Lovers’ Valentine’s Day issue, the shop would be overrun with the lovelorn. He hoped the owner was prepared for the onslaught. Flynn knew, from personal experience, how a too-fast rocket to success could be as destructive as a too-quick drop to the bottom.

Regardless, he was here to do a job, not offer a business consultation.

He brushed by a woman holding a toddler and entered Joyful Creations. A blast of warm air and holiday music greeted him like he’d jumped into a Christmas bath. The scent of fresh-baked bread, coupled with vanilla, cinnamon and a hint of raspberry, assaulted his senses. The waiting patrons were surely impressed, but Flynn had seen all this and smelled all this before.

“Hey, no cutting,” the woman said.

“I’m not buying anything,” he replied, and kept going. Get in, get the story, get out. Get back to Boston. Hopefully before Mimi even noticed he was gone. If Mimi even noticed he was gone.

“Why would you battle this crowd if you weren’t going to buy anything?” the woman asked, shuffling the kid to the other hip.

“For…” Flynn turned toward the counter where two women were busy filling orders as quickly as they were being shouted over the din. One, gray-haired and petite, the other, tall and blond, curvy, with the kind of hips that said she didn’t spend her days obsessing over having two pieces of celery or one.

Wow. The airline magazine hadn’t run a photo of Samantha Barnett with their story, just one of the cookies. But clearly, she was the owner that the writer had described as “energetic, friendly, youthful.”

“Her,” Flynn said.

“Sam? Good luck with that.” The woman laughed, then turned back to her kid, playing with his nose. Pretending the thing was a button or something. Flynn had no experience with other people’s children and had no intention of starting now, so he moved away.

It took the navigational skills of a fleet admiral to wade through the crowd inside the shop, but a few minutes later, Flynn had managed to reach the glass counter. He stood to the far right, away from the line of paying customers, most of them looking like they’d come straight from placing a personal ad. “Are you Samantha Barnett?”

The blonde looked up. Little tendrils of her hair were beginning to escape her ponytail, as if the first few strands were thinking of making a break for the border. She wore little makeup, just a dash of red lip gloss and a dusting of mascara. He suspected the slight hint of crimson in her cheeks was natural, a flush from the frantic pace of the warm bakery. A long white apron with the words Joyful Creations scrolled across the middle in a curled red script hugged her frame, covering dark denim jeans and a soft green V-neck sweater. “I’m sorry, sir, you’ll have to get into the line.”

“I’m not here to buy anything.”

That made her pause. Stop putting reindeer-shaped cookies into a white box. “Do you have a delivery or some mail for me?”

He shook his head. Vowed to buy a new dress coat, if he looked like a mailman in this one. “I just want to talk to you.”

“Now is not a good time.” She let out a little laugh. “I’m kind of busy.”

“Yeah, well, I’m on a deadline.” He fished a business card out of his pocket and slid it across the glass case. “Flynn MacGregor with FoodLovers magazine. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”

Her face lit up, as so many others before hers had. Everyone had heard of Food Lovers. It was the magazine about the food industry, carried in every grocery store and bookstore, read by thirty million people nationwide. A print mention in its pages was the equivalent of starring in a movie.

Even if Food Lovers magazine’s focus had shifted, ever since Tony Reynolds had taken over as editor a year ago. His insistence on finding the story behind the story, the dish on every chef, restaurant and food business, had given the magazine more of a tabloid feel, but also tripled readership in a matter of months.

At first, Flynn hadn’t minded doing what Tony wanted. But as each story became more and more invasive of people’s personal lives, Flynn’s job had begun to grate on him. More than once he had thought about quitting. But Flynn MacGregor hadn’t gotten to where he was by turning tail just because he butted heads with an editor or ran into a roadblock ot two.

“Wow,” Samantha said, clearly not bothered by Food Lovers’ reputation. “You want to talk to me? What about?”

“Your bakery. Why you got into this business. What makes Joyful Creations special…” As he ran through his usual preinterview spiel, Flynn bit back his impatience. Reminded himself this was his four hundredth interview, but probably her first or second. Flynn could recite the questions without even needing to write them down ahead of time. Heck, he could practically write her answers for her. She got into baking because she loved people, loved food. The best part about being in business in a small town was the customers. Yada-yada-yada.

As for the cookies that made people fall in love, Flynn put no stock in things like that. He’d seen soups that supposedly made women go into labor, cakes that were rumored to jump-start diets, appetizers bandied about as the next best aphrodisiac. None of which had proven to be true, but still, the magazine had run a charming piece in its pages, appealing to its vast readership.

While he was here, he’d track down a few of the couples who owed their happiness to the sugar-and-flour concoctions, then put some kind of cutesy spin on the story. The art department would fancy up the headline with dancing gingerbread men or something, and they’d all walk away thinking Joyful Creations was the best thing to come along since Cupid and his trademark bow.

“That’s pretty much how it works, Miss Barnett,” Flynn finished, wrapping up his sugarcoated version of the article process.

The bakery owner nodded. “Sounds great. Relatively painless.”

“Sam? I hate to interrupt,” another woman cut in, just as Flynn was getting ready to ask his first question, “but I really need to pick up my order. I have a preschool waiting. And you know preschoolers. They want their sugar.”

Samantha Barnett snapped to attention, back to her customer. “Oh, sure, Rachel. Sorry about that. Two dozen, right?”

The other woman, a petite brunette, grinned. “And one extra, for the teacher.”

“Of course.” Samantha smiled, finished putting the reindeer into the box, then tied it with a thin red ribbon and handed the white container across the counter. “Here you go.”

“Will you put it on my tab?”

Samantha waved off the words. “Consider it a Christmas gift to the Bumblebees.”

Not a smart way to run a business, giving away profits like that, but Flynn kept that to himself. He wasn’t her financial consultant. “The interview, Miss Barnett?”

Behind them, the line groaned. Samantha brushed her bangs off her forehead. “Can I meet with you later today? Maybe after the shop closes? I’m swamped right now.”

She had help, didn’t she? On top of that, he had somewhere else he wanted to go before beginning that long drive back to Boston, not endless amounts of time to wait around for preschoolers to get their sugar rush. “And I’m on deadline.”

The next person had slipped into the space vacated by Miss Bumblebee, a tall senior citizen in a flap-eared flannel cap and a Carhartt jacket. He ambled up to the counter, leaned one arm on the glass case and made himself at home, like he was planning on spending an hour or two there. “Hiya, Samantha. Heard about the article in that airline magazine. Congratulations! You really put our town on the map, not that you weren’t a destination from the start, what with those cookies and all.” He leaned forward, cupping a beefy hand around his mouth. “Though I’m not so sure I want all these tourists to stay. They’re causing quite the traffic jam.”

Samantha chuckled. “Thanks, Earl. And sorry I can’t do anything about the traffic. Except fill the orders as fast as I can.” She slid a glance Flynn’s way.

“You give me my interview, Miss Barnett, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

“Give me a few hours, Mr. MacGregor, and I’ll give you whatever you want.”

He knew there was no innuendo in her words, but the male part of him heard one all the same. He cleared his throat and took a step back. “I have to get back on the road. Today. So why don’t you just cooperate with me and we can both be happy?”

“I have customers to wait on, and it looks like now you’re going to have a long wait either way.” She gestured toward the windows with her chin as her hands worked beneath the counter, shoveling muffins into a bag. “You might as well make yourself comfortable.”

Flynn turned and looked through the glass. And saw yet another reason to hate Riverbend.

A blizzard.

By noon, Sam was already so exhausted, she was sure she’d collapse face-first into the double-layer cinnamon streusel. But she pasted a smile on her face, kept handing out cookies and pastries, all while dispensing directions to her staff. She’d called in her seasonal part-timers, and everyone else she could think of, right down to Mary, who did the weekend cleaning, to help keep up with the sudden influx of tourists. It seemed every person in a three-state area had read the article and turned out to see if Joyful Creations would live up to its reputation of bringing love to people who tried Grandma Joy’s Secret Recipe Cherry Chocolate Chunk Cookies.

Sam had long heard the rumors about her grandmother’s cookies—after all, they were the very treats Grandma Joy had served to Grandpa Neil when they had first met—but had never quite believed all the people who credited the tiny desserts for their happy unions. Then a reporter from Travelers magazine had tried them on a trip through town and immediately fallen in love with one of the local women. The two of them had run off to Jamaica and gotten married the very next weekend. Afterward, the reporter had raved about the cookies and his happy ending in the airline publication, launching Sam’s shop to national fame, and turning a rumor into a fact.

Ever since, things hadn’t slowed down. Sam had worked a lot of hours before—but this was ridiculous. Nearly every spare moment was spent at the bakery, working, restocking and filling orders. But it was all for a larger goal, so she kept pushing, knowing the bigger reward was on the horizon.

“I can’t decide.” The platinum-blond woman, dressed head to toe in couture, put a leather-gloved finger to her lips. “How many calories did you say were in the peanut butter kiss cookies?”

The smile was beginning to hurt Sam’s face. “About one hundred and ten per cookie.”

“And those special cherry chocolate chunk ones?”

“About a hundred and fifty.”

“Do those cookies really work? Those love ones?”

“That’s what people say, ma’am.”

“Well, it would really have to be worth the calories. That’s a lot to work off in the gym, you know, if I don’t meet Mr. Right. And if I meet Mr. Wrong—” the woman threw up her hands “—well that’s even more time on the treadmill.”

Sam bit her lip, then pushed the smile up further.

“Do you happen to know the fat grams? I’m on a very strict diet. My doctor doesn’t want me to have more than twenty-two grams of fat per day.”

From what Sam could see, the woman didn’t have twenty-two grams of fat in her entire body, but she kept that to herself. “I don’t know the grams of fat offhand, ma’am, but I assure you, none of these cookies have that many per serving.”

The gloved finger to the lips again. She tipped her head to the right, then the left, her pageboy swinging with the indecision. Behind her, the entire line shifted and groaned in annoyance. “I still don’t know.”

“Why don’t you buy one of each?” Sam said. “Have one today and one tomorrow.”

“That’s a wonderful idea.” The woman beamed, as if Sam were Einstein. She handed her money across the glass case to Ginny while Sam wrapped the cookies in wax paper and slid them into a bright white Joyful Creations box, then tied a thin red ribbon around the box. “But…”

“But what?”

“How can I decide which one to have today?”

Sam just smiled, told the woman to have a merry Christmas, and moved on to the next customer. Four hundred of Grandma Joy’s secret recipe cherry chocolate chunk cookies later, the line had finally thinned. Sam bent over, taking a moment to straighten the trays, whisk away a few crumbs and bring order back to the display.

Then, through the glass she glimpsed a pair of designer men’s shoes, their glossy finish marred by road salt, dots of dried snow. Her gaze traveled upward. Pressed trousers, a dark gray cashmere dress coat. White shirt. Crimson tie.

He was back. Flynn MacGregor.

Blue eyes, so deep, so dark, they were the color of the sky when a thunderstorm came rolling through. Black, wavy hair that had been tamed with a close cut. And a face set in rigid stone. “I have waited. For hours. Watched dozens of customers come through here, thinking you have the answer to love, marriage and apparently the beginnings of the earth.” He let out a breath of displeasure. “I had no idea you could get such bonuses with your coffee cake.”

His droll manner told her it wasn’t a joke, nor a compliment. “I don’t purport to offer anything other than baked goods, Mr. MacGregor.”

“That’s not what the people in that line thought. That very long line, I might add. One that took nearly three hours to clear out. And now—” he flicked out a wrist and glanced at his watch “—I’m never going to get to where I needed to go today if I don’t get this interview done. Now.”

“I don’t think you’re going to be able to make it farther than a few miles. I doubt the roads are clear. The weather is still pretty bad.”

“My editor is from the mailman school of thought. Neither blizzard nor earthquake shall stop a deadline.”

She eyed him. “And I take it you agree with his philosophy?”

“I didn’t get to where I am in my career by letting a little snow stop me.” He leaned forward. “So, do you have time now, Miss Barnett?”

Clearly, Sam’s best bet was to fit in with his plans. Business had slowed enough for her to give the reporter some time anyway. “Sure. And it’d be great to sit down for a minute.” Sam turned toward her great-aunt. “Aunt Ginny, could you handle the counter for a little while?”

The older woman gave her a grin. “Absolutely.”

Sam pivoted back to Flynn. The man was handsome enough, even if he was about as warm and fuzzy as a hedgehog. But, he had come all the way from Boston, and Lord knew she could use the publicity. The airline magazine story had been a great boon, but Sam was a smart enough business person to know that kind of PR wouldn’t last long. “Can I get you some coffee? A Danish? Muffin? Cookies?”

“I’d like a sampling of the house specialties. And some coffee would be nice.”

He had good looks, but he had all the friendliness of a brick wall. His words came out clear, direct, to the point. No wasted syllables, no wide smiles.

Nevertheless, he offered the one gift Sam had been dreaming about for years. A positive profile of the bakery in the widely popular Food Lovers magazine would be just the kickoff she needed to launch the new locations she’d been hoping to open this year. Heck, the exposure she’d hoped and prayed for ever since she’d taken over the bakery. Coupled with the boost in business the airline magazine’s story had given her, Joyful Creations was on its way to nationwide prominence.

And she was on her way out of Riverbend.

Finally.

Not to mention, she’d also have the financial security she needed to fund her grandmother’s long-term care needs. It was all right here.

In Flynn MacGregor. If that didn’t prove Santa existed, Sam wasn’t sure what did.

She hummed snippets of Christmas carols as she filled a holly-decorated plate with a variety of the bakery’s best treats. Gingerbread cookies, pecan bars, cranberry orange muffins, white mocha fudge, peppermint chocolate bark, frosted sugar Santa cookies—she piled them all on until the plate threatened to spill.

“Don’t forget some of these,” Ginny said, handing Sam a couple cherry chocolate chunk cookies.

“Aunt Ginny, I don’t think he needs—”

“He came here for the story about the special cookies, didn’t he?” Her great-aunt gave her a wide smile. “And if the stories are true, you never know what might happen if he takes a bite.”

“You don’t seriously believe—”

“I do, and you should, too.” Ginny wagged a finger. “Why, your grandmother and grandfather never would have fallen in love if not for this recipe. I wouldn’t have married your Uncle Larry if it hadn’t been for these cookies. Why, look at all the proof around you in this town. You just don’t believe in them because you’ve never tried them.”

“That’s because I’m too busy baking to eat.” Sam sighed, accepted the two cookies and added them to the plate. What was the harm, really? There was nothing to that legend. Regardless of what Aunt Ginny thought.

Balancing the plate, Sam crossed the room and placed the treats and a steaming mug of coffee before the reporter. “Here you are, Mr.—”

And she lost the next word. Completely forgot his name.

He had taken off his coat and was sitting at one of the small round café tables in the corner, by the plate-glass windows that faced the town square. He had that air about him of wealth, all in the telltale signs of expensive fabric, perfectly fitting clothing, the way he carried himself. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing defined, muscled hands and forearms, fingers long enough to play piano, touch a woman and—

Whoa. She was staring.

“Mr. MacGregor,” she finished. Fast. “Enjoy.” Sam took a couple steps back. “Uh, enjoy.”

He turned to her and a grin flashed across his face so quickly, she could have almost sworn she’d imagined it. But no, it had been there. A thank-you, perhaps. Or maybe amusement at her discomfit?

Either way, his smile changed his entire face. Softened his features. Made Sam’s pulse race in a way it hadn’t in a long time.

“You already said that,” he said.

Okay, it had been amusement. Now she was embarrassed.

“Did I? Sorry. You, ah, make me nervous.” No way would she admit public humiliation.

“I do? Why?”

“I haven’t had a real reporter in the shop before. Well, except for Joey from the Riverbend Times, but that doesn’t count. He’s nineteen and still in college, and he’s usually just here to get a cup of decaf because regular coffee makes him so hyper he can hardly write.” She was babbling. What was wrong with her? Samantha Barnett never babbled. Never got unnerved.

Way to make a first impression, Sam.

“I should get back in the kitchen,” Sam said, thumbing in that direction.

“I need to interview you. Remember? And I’d prefer not to shout my questions.”

Now she’d annoyed him. “All right. Let me grab a cup of coffee. Unlike Joey, I do need the caffeine.”

He let out a laugh. Okay, so it had been about a half a syllable long, but still, Sam took that as a good sign. A beginning. If he liked her and liked the food, maybe this Flynn guy would write a kick-butt review, and all her Christmas wishes would be granted.

But as she walked away, he started drumming his fingers on the table, tapping out his impatience one digit at a time.

Ginny tapped her on the shoulder when she reached the coffeepot. “Sam, I forget to mention something earlier.”

“If it’s about getting me to share Grandma’s special recipe cookies with a man again—”

“No, no, it’s about that magazine he’s with. He said Food Lovers, didn’t he?”

Sam poured some coffee into a mug. “Yes. It’s huge. Everybody reads it, well, except for me. I never get time to read anything.”

Ginny made a face. “Well, I read it, or at least I used to. Years ago, Food Lovers used to just be about food, you know, recipes and things like that, but lately, it’s become more…”

“More what?” Sam prompted.

Her aunt paused a moment longer, then let out a breath. “Like those newspapers you see in the checkout stand. A lot of the stories are about the personal lives of the people who own the restaurants and the bakeries, not the food they serve. It’s kind of…intrusive.”

“What’s wrong with writing stories about the people who own the businesses?”

Ginny shrugged. “Just be careful,” she said, laying a hand on Sam’s. “I know how you guard your privacy, and your grandmother’s. I might not agree with your decision, but you’re my niece, so I support you no matter what.”

Sam drew Aunt Ginny into a hug. “Thank you.”

“Anything for you, Sam,” she said, then drew back. She glanced over the counter at Flynn MacGregor. “There’s one other thing you need to be careful of, too.”

“What’s that?”

Ginny grinned. “He’s awfully cute. That could be the kind of trouble you’ve been needing, dear niece, for a long time.”

Sam grabbed her coffee mug. “Adding a relationship into my life, as busy as it is?” She shook her head. “That would be like adding way too much yeast to a batter. In the end, you get nothing but a mess.”


CHAPTER TWO

SAM RETURNED with her coffee, Aunt Ginny’s words of wisdom still ringing in her head, and slipped into the opposite seat from Flynn MacGregor. He had a pad of paper open beside him, turned to a blank page, with a ready pen. He’d sampled the coffee, but none of the baked goods. Not so much as a crumb of Santa’s beard on the frosted sugar cookies. Nary a bite from Grandma’s special cookies—the ones he’d presumably come all this way to write about.

Sam’s spirits fell, but she didn’t let it show. Maybe he wanted to talk to her first. Or maybe he was, as Aunt Ginny had cautioned, here solely for the story behind the bakery.

Her story.

“Are you ready now?” he asked.

“Completely.”

“Good. Tell me the history of the bakery.”

Sam folded her hands on the table. “Joyful Creations was opened in 1948 by my grandmother Joy and grandfather Neil Barnett. My grandmother was an amazing cook. She made the most incredible cookies for our family every holiday. I remember one time I went over to her house, and she had ‘invent a cookie’ day. She just opened her cabinets, and she and I—”

“The bakery, Miss Barnett. Can we stick to that topic?”

“Oh, yes. Of course.” Sam wanted to kick herself. Babbling again. “My grandfather thought my grandmother was so good, she should share those talents with Riverbend. So they opened the bakery.”

He jotted down the information as she talked, his pen skimming across the page in an indecipherable scrawl.

Sam leaned forward. “Are you going to be able to read that later?”

He looked up. “This? It’s my own kind of shorthand. No vowels, abbreviations only I know for certain words.”

She chuckled. “It’s like my recipes. Some of them have been handed down for generations. My grandmother never really kept precise records and some of them just say ‘pecs’ or ‘CC.’ They’re like a puzzle.”

He arched a brow. “Pecs? CC?”

“Pecans. And CC was shorthand for chocolate chips.” Sam smiled. “It took me weeks to figure out some of them, after I took over the bakery. I should have paid more attention when I was little.”

His brows knitted in confusion. “I read it was a third-generation business. What happened to the second generation?”

“My parents died in a car accident when I was in middle school. I went to live with my grandparents. Grandpa Neil died ten years ago.” Sam splayed her palms on the table and bit her lip. Flynn MacGregor didn’t need to know more than that.

“And your grandmother? Is she still alive?”

Sam hated lying. It wasn’t in her nature to do so. But now she was in a position where telling the truth opened a bucket of worms that could get out of hand. “She is, but no longer working in the bakery.”

He wrote that down. “I’d like to interview her, too.”

“You can’t.”

Flynn looked up. “Why?”

“She’s…ill.” That was all he needed to know. Joy’s privacy was her own. This reporter could keep the story focused on the present.

Nevertheless, he made a note, a little note of mmm-hmm under his breath. Sam shifted in her chair. “Don’t you want to try a cranberry orange muffin?”

“In a minute.”

“But—”

“I’m writing an article, Miss Barnett, not a review.”

She shifted some more. Maybe her unease stemmed from his presence. The airline magazine had done the interview part over the phone. The reporter had come in and bought some cookies, then found his happy ending, unbeknownst to Sam, at a different time. Talking to someone she couldn’t see, and answering a few quick questions, had been easy. This face-to-face thing was much more difficult.

More distracting. Because this reporter had a deep blue, piercing gaze.

The bell over the door jingled and a whoosh of cold air burst into the room. “Sam!”

“Mrs. Meyers, how can I help you?”

“I need more cookies. My dog ate the box I brought home. I didn’t even get a chance to feed the batch I bought to my Carl and that man is in the grumpiest of moods.” Eileen Meyers swung her gaze heavenward. “He’s hanging the Christmas lights.”

“In this weather?”

“You know my husband. The man is as stubborn as a tick on a hunting dog, Sam. There are days I wonder why I’m even buying those cookies.”

“Because they’re your husband’s favorites,” Sam reminded her. Eileen had been in the day before, plunked down her money, her love for her husband still clear, even in a marriage that had celebrated its silver anniversary, and was edging its way toward gold.

Eileen harrumphed, but a smile played at the edge of her lips. “Will you get me another dozen?”

“Ginny can help you, Mrs. Meyers.”

Eileen laid a hand on Sam’s arm, her brown eyes filled with entreaty. “I love your Aunt Ginny, Sam, I do, but you know my Carl better than I do some days. He says you’re the only one who can pick out the cookies he likes best.”

Across from her, Flynn MacGregor’s pen tapped once against his notepad. A reminder of where her attention should be.

“Please, Sam?” Eileen’s hand held tight to Sam’s arm. “It’ll mean the world to Carl.”

“This will just take a minute,” she told Flynn. “Is that all right?”

“Of course.” A smile as fake as the spray-paint snow on the windows whipped across his face. “I’ve already waited for that massive line of customers to go down. Dealt with my car breaking down, and a blizzard blowing through town, which has undoubtedly delayed my leaving, too. What’s one more box of cookies?”

Sam filled Eileen’s order as quickly as she could, trying to head off Eileen’s attempts at conversation. And failing miserably. Eileen was one of those people who couldn’t buy a newspaper without engaging in a rundown of her life story. By the time she had paid for her cookies, she’d told Sam—again—all about how she and Mr. Meyers had met, what he’d done to sweep her off her feet and how he’d lost his romantic touch long ago.

“Are you done playing advice columnist?” Flynn asked when Eileen finally left.

“I’m sorry. Things have been especially crazy here since word got out about those cookies.” Sam gestured toward the plate, where the trio of Grandma’s special recipe still sat, untouched.

“The ones that are purported to make people fall in love?”

She shrugged. “That’s what people say.”

“I take it you don’t believe the rumors?”

She laughed. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s true. If two people find a happy ending because they eat my grandmother’s cookies, then I think it’s wonderful. For them, and for business.”

Flynn arched a brow. “Happy endings? Over cookies?”

“Not much of a romantic, are you?”

“No. I’m a practical man. I do my job, and I don’t dabble in all this—” he waved his hand “—fanciful stuff.”

“Me, too.” Sam laughed, the chuckle escaping her with a nervous clatter. “Well, not the man part.”

“Of course.” He nodded.

What was with this guy? He was as serious as a wreath without any decorations. Sam laced her fingers together and tried to get comfortable in the chair, but more, under his scrutiny. The sooner this interview was over, the better. “What else did you need to know?”

“How long have you been working here?”

“All my life. Basically, ever since I could walk. But I took over full-time when I was nineteen.”

Surprise dropped his jaw. “Nineteen? Isn’t that awfully young? What kind of business person could you be at that age?”

“You do what have to, Mr. MacGregor.” She sipped at her coffee, avoiding his piercing gaze. He had a way of looking at a woman like he could see right through her. Like Superman’s X-ray vision, only he wasn’t looking at the color of her underwear, but at the secrets of her soul.

She pushed the plate closer to him. “I think you’d really like the sugar frosted cookies. They’re a Joyful Creations specialty.”

Again, he bypassed the plate in front of him, in favor of his notes. “Did you go to culinary school?”

She shook her head. “I couldn’t. I was working here. Full-time.”

“Having no life, you mean.”

She bristled. “I enjoy my job.”

“I’m sure you do.” He flipped a page on his notepad, bringing him to a clean sheet of paper.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m not here to tell you how to run your business.”

“And yet, you’re judging me and you hardly know me.”

Flynn folded his hands over his pad. “Miss Barnett, I’ve been covering this industry for a long time. Talked to hundreds of bakers and chefs. This is the kind of business that consumes you.” He let out a laugh, another short, nearly bitter sound that barely became a full chuckle. “Pun intended.”

“My business doesn’t consume me.” But as the words left her mouth, she knew Joyful Creations had, indeed, done that very thing, particularly in the last few weeks. The business had taken away her weekends. Vacations. Eaten up friendships, nights out, dates. Left her with this empty feeling, as if she’d missed a half of herself.

The half that had watched her friends grow up. Get married. Start families. While she had toiled in the bakery, telling herself there’d be time down the road. As one year passed, then two, then five, and Sam hit twenty-five, and tried not to tell herself she’d missed too much already. She had plenty of time—down the road.

There was a reason she worked so hard. A very important reason. And once she’d reached her goals, she’d take time off.

She would.

“I watched you earlier. And I’ve watched you as you’ve talked about this business. I can see the stars in your eyes,” he went on. “The Travelers’ magazine article has probably put the lofty idea in your head that you can become the next McDonald’s or Mrs. Fields Cookies.”

“It hasn’t,” Sam leapt to say, then checked her defensive tone. “Well, maybe a little. Did you see those lines? It’s been that way nonstop for two weeks. I’m sure you’ve seen many businesses that became mega-successes after something like that. Don’t you think it’s possible for me to hit the big time?”

“I have seen it happen,” he conceded. “And let me be the first to warn you to be careful what you wish for.”

She leaned back in her chair and stared at him, incredulous. Ever since she’d met him, he’d been nothing but grouchy, and now here he was, trying to tell her how to run her own company. “Who put coal in your stocking this morning?”

“I’m just being honest. I believe in calling the shots I see.”

“So do I, Mr. MacGregor,” Sam said, rising. If she didn’t leave this table in the next five seconds, she’d be saying things to this man that she didn’t want to see in print. “And while we’re on the subject of our respective industries, I think yours has made you as jaded and as bitter as a bushel of lemons.” She gestured toward his still-full plate, and frustration surged inside her. With the busy day, with him, and especially with his refusal to try the very baked goods he was writing about yet already judging. “Maybe you should have started with the cookies first. A little sugar goes a long way toward making people happy. And you, sir, could use a lot of that.”


CHAPTER THREE

“WELL, I WAS WRONG.”

Flynn bit back the urge to curse. “What do you mean, wrong?”

“I replaced the air filter. And it turned out, that wasn’t it. That means, I was wrong.” Earl Klein shrugged. “It happens.” He put out his hands, as if that explained why Flynn’s car was sitting inside Earl’s Tire and Repair on a lift six feet off the ground, a jumble of parts scattered below.

“Did you fix it?” Flynn asked. Of all the people to end up with, Earl would have been Flynn’s last choice. He had asked around once he left the bakery, and it turned out the hunting cap guy he’d seen earlier owned the closest garage to Flynn’s broken-down car. Although, given how circular a conversation with Earl was turning out to be, Flynn was beginning to regret his choice.

Earl stared at Flynn like he had all the intelligence of a duck. “Does your car look fixed?”

“Well, no, but I was hoping—”

“Your fuel filter needs to be replaced. I usually have one for your model on hand, but used my last one yesterday. Damnedest thing, too. Paulie Lennox comes in here, his car was running fine, then all of a sudden—”

“I don’t care about Paulie Lennox. I don’t even know him.”

“Oh, you’d know him if you see him. He’s six foot seven. Tallest man in Riverbend. Sings in the church choir. Voice of an angel. Ain’t that weird for a guy that big? Must have organ pipes in his chest.”

Flynn gritted his teeth. “How long?”

“How long are his vocal cords? Damned if I know. I’m no doctor.”

“No, I meant how long until my car is fixed?”

“Oh, that.” Earl turned around and looked at the Lexus as if it might tell him. “Day. Maybe two. Gotta wait for the part. You know,’ cept for Paulie, we don’t get many of those fancy-dancy cars in here. If you’da come in here with a Ford, or Chevy pickup, I’d have you fixed up a couple minutes. But this, well, this requires what we call special treatment.”

Flynn hoped like hell this guy would give the Lexus special treatment, considering what the car cost. “Did you order the part? Or can you go get it?”

“I ordered it. Can’t go get it.”

Flynn wanted to bang his head into a brick wall. He’d probably get further in the conversation if he did. This was like playing Ping-Pong by himself. “Why can’t you go get the part?”

Earl leaned in closer to Flynn. “Have you looked outside, son? It’s snowing. Blizzard’s on its way into town, hell, it’s already here. Only an idiot would drive in this. And I’m no idiot.”

Flynn would beg to differ. “It’s four days before Christmas.”

“That don’t change the icy roads. Old Man Winter, he doesn’t have the same calendar as you and me.”

Flynn dug deep for more patience. “Is there another garage in town?”

Earl’s face frowned in offense. “Now, I’m going to pretend you didn’t even ask that, because you’re from out of town. My garage is the best one for miles, and the only one.”

Of course. Flynn groaned. “I have some place I need to go. As soon as possible.”

That was if he even decided to make that stop in southern Indiana. On the drive out here from Boston, it had seemed like a good idea, but the closer Flynn got to the Midwest, the more he began to second-guess his impromptu decision. That was why he had yet to make any promises he couldn’t keep. Better not to say a word. That way, no one was disappointed. Again.

“Well, that ain’t happenin’, is it?” Earl grinned. “You best get down to Betsy’s Bed and Breakfast. She’ll put you up and feed you, too.” He patted his stomach. “That woman can cook. And she’s real pretty, too. But she’s spoken for. So don’t go thinking you can ask her out. Me and Betsy, we have an understanding.” Earl wiggled a shaggy gray brow. “Thanks to those cookies of Sam’s, which helped us out a lot. Brought me and Betsy together, they did.”

Flynn put up his hands, hoping to ward off the mental picture that brought up. “I don’t want to know about it. Just point me in the general direction.”

Thirty seconds later, Flynn was back outside, battling an increasingly more powerful wind. The snow had multiplied and six more inches of the thick wet stuff now coated the sidewalks. The earlier tourist crowds had apparently gotten the hint and left for their hotels or real cities. Traffic, what there was left in Riverbend, had slowed to a crawl. Within minutes, the damp snow had seeped through Flynn’s shoes and he was slogging through slush, ruining five-hundred-dollar dress shoes. Damn it. What he wouldn’t do for a sled dog team right now.

“Do you need a ride?”

He turned to see Samantha Barnett at the wheel of an older model Jeep Cherokee. Or what he thought was Samantha Barnett. She was bundled in a blue parka-type jacket that obscured most of her delicate features, the hood covering all of her blond hair. But the smile—that 100-watt smile he’d seen earlier in the bakery—that he could see.

Only a fool would say no to that. And to the dry, warm vehicle.

“Sure.” He opened the door and climbed inside. Holiday music pumped from the stereo, filling the interior of the Jeep like stuffing in a turkey. Again, Flynn got that Norman Rockwell feeling. “Is this town for real?” he asked as Sam put the Jeep in gear and they passed yet another decorated window display—this one complete with a moving Santa’s workshop.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s a bit too jolly, don’t you think? I mean, it’s almost nauseating.”

“Nauseating? It’s Christmas. People are feeling…festive.”

“Festive? In this?” He gestured out the window. “My feet are soaked, nearly frostbitten, I’m sure. My car is being worked on by the village idiot, I’m on a deadline that I can’t miss and I’m being held hostage in a town that thinks Christmas is the be-all and end-all.”

“Well, isn’t it?”

“There are three hundred and sixty-four other days in the year, you know.”

Sam stared at him. Never before had she met anyone with as little Christmas spirit as Flynn MacGregor. “Don’t you celebrate Christmas? Put up a tree? Drink a little eggnog?”

Flynn didn’t answer. Instead he glanced out the window. “Do you know a place called Betsy’s Bed and Breakfast?”

“Of course I do. It’s a small town. Everyone knows everyone else, and everything. You burn your toast in the morning and Mrs. Beedleman over on Oak Street is on your doorstep, lending you her toaster before lunch.” Sam smiled. “I’m on my way to make a couple of deliveries, so I have time. Besides, driving you to Betsy’s is the least I can do to say I’m sorry for being so short with you earlier.” She took a left, using caution as she made the turn and navigated through the downtown intersection. “I guess I’m just a little protective when it comes to the bakery.”

“Most business owners are.” He kept watching out the window. “Is that a live reindeer I see in the park? This town is Christmas gone overboard.”

She turned to him. “You’re kind of grumpy, aren’t you? This whole anti-Christmas thing, the way you jumped on me about my business…Grumpy.”

He sat back. “No. Just…honest.”

She shrugged. “I call it grumpy.”

“Honest. Direct. To the point.”

She flashed another glance his way. “You know who else was grumpy? Ebenezer Scrooge. Remember him? He got a pretty bad preview of his future.”

Flynn rolled his eyes. “That was fiction. I’m talking real life.”

“Uh-huh. Let me know when the ghost of Christmas Future comes knocking on your door.”

“When he does, I’ll know it’s time to put away the scotch.”

Samantha laughed. Her laughter had a light, musical sound to it. Like the holiday carols coming from the stereo. Flynn tried hard not to like the sound, but…

He did.

“Listen, you had a rough day,” Sam said, “so you’re excused for any and all grumpiness. And don’t worry, you’re in good hands with Earl.”

Flynn let out a short gust of disbelief. “I’d be in better hands with a troop of baboons.”

“Oh, Earl’s not so bad. He’s really easygoing. You just gotta get used to him. And, indulge him by listening to his stories once in a while. Nothing makes him happier than that. You might even get a discount on your service if you suffer through his account of the blizzard of ’78 and how he baked a turkey, even though the power was out for four days.” She shot him a grin.

“I don’t have time for other people’s stories.”

“You’re a reporter, isn’t your whole mission to get the story?”

“Just the ones they pay me for.” That pay had been lucrative, ever since he turned in his first article. Flynn had risen to the top of his field, becoming well-known in the magazine industry for being the go-to guy for getting the job done—on time, and right on the word count.

Then he’d hit a road bump, a big one, with the celebrity chef back in June. His editor had lost faith in Flynn, but worse—

Flynn had temporarily lost faith in himself.

He refused to get sucked into that emotional vortex again. He’d gotten to the top by staying out of the story, and he’d do that again here. Get in and out, as fast as possible.

And then make one stop, one very important stop, before heading back to Boston.

But he couldn’t do either if he didn’t shake off that silly whisper of conscience, write the story his editor wanted and get it in on time, no matter what it took.

The interior of the Jeep had reached a comfortable temperature and Sam pulled off one glove, then the other. Her hands, he noticed, were slim and delicate, the nails short and no-nonsense, not polished. She tugged on the zipper of the parka, but it stuck. “Oh, this coat,” she muttered, still tugging with one hand while she drove with the other.

“Let me.” He reached over, intending only to help her, but his hand brushed against hers, and instant heat exploded in that touch. Flynn’s hand jerked upward. He hadn’t reacted with such instantaneous attraction to a woman—a woman he’d just met—in a long time. Granted, Samantha Barnett was beautiful, but there was something about her. Something indefinable. A brightness to her smile, to her personality, that seemed to draw him in, make him forget his reporter’s objectivity.

Not smart. If there was one thing Flynn prided himself on being, it was smart.

Controlled. He didn’t let things get out of hand, get crazy. By keeping tight reins on his life, on himself, he was able to manage everything. The one time he had lost control, he’d nearly lost his career.

He cleared his throat. He clasped the tiny silver zipper and pulled. After a slight catch, the fastener gave way, parting the front of the coat with a low-pitched hum as it slid down.

Beneath the coat, she wore a soft green sweater that dipped in a slight V at the neck and skimmed over her curves. From the second he’d met Samantha Barnett, Flynn had noticed the way the green of the sweater enhanced the green in her eyes, offset the golden tones in her hair. But now, without the cover of the apron, he noticed twice as much.

And noticed even more about her.

The scent of her perfume…cinnamon, vanilla, honey—or was it simply the leftover scents of the bakery?—wafted up to tease at his senses. Would her skin taste the same? Taste as good as the baked delights in the cases of the shop?

Flynn drew back. Shook himself.

Get back on track, back in work mode.

Getting distracted by a woman was not part of the plan. It never was. He did not get emotionally involved. Did not let himself care, about the people in the story, about people in general. That was how he stayed in control of his life.

No way was he deviating from the road he had laid for himself. Even Mimi, with her need for no real tie, no commitment, fit into what he needed. A woman like Samantha Barnett, who had small-town, commitment values written all over her, would not. “Your, ah, zipper is all fixed.”

“Thanks.” She flashed that smile his way again.

That was when Flynn MacGregor realized he had a problem. He’d been distracted from the minute he’d walked into that bakery.

Betsy’s Bed and Breakfast was located less than six blocks from Earl’s repair shop, but with Flynn MacGregor so close, the ride seemed to take ten hours instead of ten minutes. Sam was aware of his every breath, his every movement. She kept her eyes on the road, not just because visibility had become nearly zero, but because it seemed as if the only thing she saw in her peripheral vision was Flynn.

She hadn’t been out on a date in—

Well, a long time. Too much work, too little personal life. That must be why her every thought seemed to revolve around him. Why she’d become hyperaware of the woodsy notes of his cologne. Why her gaze kept straying to his hands, his broad shoulders, the cleft in his jaw.

This ride was a prime opportunity to impress him. To tell him more about the bakery. Not flirt. Not that him jumping in to help with her zipper was flirting…except she had held her breath when he’d gotten so close. Noted the fit of his jacket. The flecks of gold in his eyes. The way the last rays of sun glinted in his hair.

Business, Sam. Business.

“Have you interviewed many bakery owners?” she asked. Then wanted to kick herself. She hadn’t exactly hit the witty jackpot with that one.

“A few. Mostly, I cover high-end restaurants. Or, I did.” He gave her a wry grin, one that made her wonder about the use of the past tense. “All those chefs courting heart attacks, trying to maintain their five-star ratings.”

Sam stopped the Jeep, the four-wheel drive working hard to grip the icy roads, and let a mother and her three children cross the street. Sam recognized Linda Powell, and waved to her through the front window. The littlest Powell waved back, a small red mittened hand bringing a smile to Sam’s face. “Is the restaurant business really that competitive?”

He snorted. “Are you kidding? In some cities, these places campaign all year to garner those ratings. They agonize over their menus, stress over the tiniest ingredients, sometimes shipping in a certain fish from one pocket of the world because the chef insists absolutely nothing else will do. Every detail is obsessed over, nitpicked at like it’s life and death. They’ll accept nothing less than the unqualified best. A bad review can close a place, a good review can skyrocket it to the top.”

“But…that’s ridiculous.” She halted at a stop sign, waiting to make the right onto Maple Street. The Jeep’s wipers clicked back and forth, wiping snow off the frosty glass. “A review is simply one person’s opinion.”

“Ah, but people like me are paid to be the experts.” Flynn put a hand on his chest, affecting a dramatic posture. “They live or die by our words.”

They had reached Betsy’s Bed and Breakfast, where a small hand-painted sign out front announced the converted Victorian’s vacancies. Sam stopped in front of the quaint home and parked alongside the front walk. Betsy, a complete Christmas fanatic, had decked the entire porch in holiday flare, with a moving Santa, twinkling lights and even a lighted sleigh and reindeer on the roof.

“And what about me?” Sam asked, turning to Flynn before he exited the Jeep. “What do you think will be my fate? Do you think I’ll skyrocket to the top?”

Flynn studied her for a long time, his gaze unreadable in the darkening day, a storm in his blue eyes rivaling the one in the sky. “That, Miss Barnett, is still to be determined.”


CHAPTER FOUR

BETSY WILLIAMS, the owner of the bed and breakfast, greeted Flynn with bells on. Literally.

The buxom, wide woman hurried across the foyer and put out her arms, the bells on her house slippers jingling and jangling as she moved, like a one-person reindeer symphony. “Welcome! It’s so nice to have another guest! At Betsy’s Bed and Breakfast, there’s always room for one more!”

Flynn would have turned and run, except Samantha Barnett was standing behind him, blocking the sole exit. “I’m only here until my car is fixed.”

And hopefully not a single second longer.

“As long as you want, my heart and home are open to you.” She beamed, bright red lips spreading across her face and revealing even, white teeth. Her hand shot out, and she pumped his in greeting, extracting his name and reason for coming to Riverbend in quick succession. “Oh, that’s just so exciting!” Betsy said. “Now, tell me what you want for breakfast. Waffles, French toast or eggs?”

Flynn forced a smile to his face. “Surprise me.”

Betsy squealed. “I’ll delight you, is what I’ll do. And I’ll have plenty of baked goods to choose from, too, won’t I, Sam?”

“You’re my first delivery of the day, Betsy. Not to mention, my best customer.”

Betsy hustled around and took Flynn’s arm, practically hauling him toward the front parlor. “I was her only customer, don’t you know, back when she first took over. So many people didn’t think a girl, still practically a teenager, could run a shop like that. And she did have her mishaps, didn’t you, Sam? A few burned things and well, that one teeny-weeny explosion, but you moved past those little setbacks.” Betsy beamed. “You’re a regular baker now, even if you had no formal training.”

Flynn glanced over at Samantha. Her smile seemed held on by strings.

“And those romance cookies, why they worked for me and my Earl. Oh, he’s such a cutie, isn’t he?” Betsy barreled on, saving Flynn from having to offer an opinion. “Those cookies have fixed up many a person who has come through my door. I serve them every morning on the buffet table.” Betsy wagged a finger at him. “If you’re looking for love, Mr. MacGregor, you be sure to try those cookies.”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

She assessed him like a Christmas ham. “I don’t see a ring. That means you need the cookies.” Betsy nodded. “And our Sam, here, she’s available.”

“Betsy, Mr. MacGregor needs a room,” Sam interjected.

“Oh, my goodness, I almost forgot! And here I am, the hostess and everything.” Betsy tsk-tsked herself. “And you need to get back to work, missy, right?”

“I do,” Sam replied. “Business is booming lately.”

“Well, why wouldn’t it? Where else are people going to go to get their cookies? You’re the only bakery for miles and miles!” Betsy grinned, as if she’d just paid Samantha a huge compliment. Flynn supposed, in her own way, Betsy thought she had, but he could see the sting in Samantha’s eyes. The implication that her success was due solely to a lack of competition, not hard work and expertise. Maybe Betsy still saw Sam as that young kid who burned the muffins.

For a second, his chest constricted with sympathy, then he yanked the emotion back. The first rule in reporting was not to get involved with the story, stay above the fray.

He’d used that as a yardstick to measure every personal decision he’d ever made. After years of sticking to that mantra like tape to a present, Flynn wasn’t about to start caring now. To start putting his heart into the mix. He did not cross those boundaries.

Ever.

He didn’t care if Riverbend had issues with Sam Barnett or vice versa. Didn’t care if her business was going gangbusters or going bust. He’d made a very good living without ever putting his heart into a story, because Flynn MacGregor had learned a long time ago that doing so meant putting his emotions through a meat grinder. He’d rather write about kitchen implements than experience them.

“I’d like to get settled, Miss Williams,” Flynn said. “And find out how to log onto your network.”

“Network?” She frowned, then propped a fist on her ample hip. “I’ll have you know Betsy’s Bed and Breakfast is not a chain.”

“Internet network,” Flynn said. “I wanted to check my e-mail.”

“Oh, that.” She crossed to a side table, to straighten the green-feathered hat on a stuffed cat in an elf costume, then walked back to Flynn. “I don’t have one of those either.”

“Well, then your dial-up connection. That’ll do.”

“Dial-up to what? Anytime we need to talk to somebody, we either walk on down to their house or call ’em on the phone.” Betsy wagged a finger at him. “By the way, local calls are free at Betsy’s Bed and Breakfast, but there is an extra charge for any long distance. The parlor phone is the one set aside for guest usage.”

Flynn pivoted back toward Samantha. “There is an Internet connection in this town, isn’t there?”

“Well, yes, but…” Samantha gave him a smile. “It’s not very reliable, so most people here don’t bother with it.”

He truly had landed in the middle of nowhere. Flynn bit back his impatience, but it surged forward all the same. “What exactly does that mean?”

“Meaning when there’s a storm, like there is now, the Internet is the first to go.”

“What about cable? Satellite?”

“Not here, not yet. Companies look for demand before they start investing the dollars in technology and, well, Riverbend has never been big on embracing that kind of thing.” Samantha shrugged.

“How the hell do you do business out here?”

“Most people still do things the old-fashioned way, I suppose. Face-to-face, with a smile and handshake.”

A headache began to pound in Flynn’s temples. He rubbed at his forehead. He couldn’t miss his deadline. Absolutely could not. It wasn’t just that Food Lovers was holding the Valentine’s Day issue especially for this article, and being late would risk raising Tony’s ire. Flynn had already earned a slot on the ire list.

There was more than his career to consider. In the last few months since that interview that had blown up in his face, Flynn had found himself searching for—

A connection. To a past he thought he’d shut off, closed like a closet door full of memories no one wanted to look at. He’d done everything he could to take care of that past, to assuage his guilt. But suddenly throwing money at it wasn’t enough.

He needed to go in person, even if he wasn’t so sure his shoes on that doorstep would be very welcome. Either way, one glance out the window at the storm that had become a frenzy of white, told him the chances of leaving today—even if his car was fixed—were nil.

Until the storm eased, he’d work. Write up this thing about magic elves baking love cookies, or whatever the secret was, turn it over to his editor, and then he could get back to the meat that fed his paycheck and his constant hunger to find the scoop—scathing restaurant reviews exposing the true underbelly of the food industry.

“How am I supposed to work without an Internet connection?” he said.

“We have electricity,” Betsy said, her voice high and helpful. “You can plug in a computer. That’s good enough, isn’t it?” Upstairs, someone called Betsy’s name, mentioning an emergency. She sighed. “Oh, Lord, not again.” She toodled a wave, then headed up the stairs, while her slippers sang their jarring song.

Flynn turned back to Samantha. “If Scrooge’s ghosts do come visit me, they better bring a connection to civilization. And if they can’t, just put me out of my misery. Because this place is Jingle Hell.”

“He’s awful, Aunt Ginny.” Sam shuddered. “He hates this town, hates me, I think, and even hates Christmas.”

“But he’s easy on the eyes. That kind of evens things out, doesn’t it?” Ginny Weatherby, who had worked at Joyful Creations for nearly twelve years, smiled at her niece. The two of them were in the back of the bakery, cleaning up and putting it to rights after the busy day. The front half of Joyful Creations was dark, silent, the sign in the window turned to Closed, leaving them in relative peace and quiet. “Your grandmother would have agreed.”

“Grandma liked everyone who came through this door.” Sam groaned. “I think he purposely sets out to frustrate me. How am I supposed to give him a good interview? I’m afraid I’ll say something I’ll regret.”

“Oh, you’re smart enough not to do that, Sam. I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

“I don’t want him to find out about Grandma,” Sam said.

Ginny’s gaze softened. “Would it be so bad for people to know?”

Sam toyed with the handle on the sprayer. “I just want people to remember her the way she was, Aunt Ginny.”

“They will, Sam.” She put a hand on her niece’s shoulder. “You need to trust that people of this town are your friends, that they love and care about you, and your grandmother.”

“I’ll think about it,” Sam said. Though she had thought about the same question a hundred times over the past five years, and come back to the same answer. She didn’t want people’s pity. And most of all, she didn’t want them to be hurt when they found out the Joy Barnett they knew and loved was no longer there. “For now, I’m more worried about that Flynn guy. He gets on my last nerve, I swear.”

Ginny loaded the dishwasher and pushed a few buttons. “Give him cookies. That’ll sweeten him up.”

“I did. He wouldn’t eat them.” Sam sprayed disinfectant on the countertops and wiped them down, using the opportunity to work out some of her frustrations.

Aunt Ginny made a face. “Well, then I don’t trust him. Any man who won’t eat a plate of cookies, there’s something wrong. Unless he’s diabetic, then he has an excuse. Did you check for a medical ID bracelet?”

“No. Maybe I should have looked for a jerk bracelet.”

“Have some patience, dear.” She patted her niece’s hand. “This guy could give the shop lots of great publicity.”

“I’m trying to be patient.”

“And you never know, he could be the one.”

Sam rolled her eyes. “Stop trying to fix me up with every man who walks through that door.”

Aunt Ginny took off her apron and hung it on a hook by the door, then crossed to her niece. The gentle twinkle of love shone in her light green eyes. “Your mother wouldn’t want to see you living your life alone, dear, and neither would your grandmother.”

“I’m not alone. I have you.”

Sam would forever be grateful to her Aunt Ginny, who had moved to Riverbend from Florida a few months after Sam took over the bakery. Not much of a baker, she hadn’t exactly stepped into her sister Joy’s shoes, instead becoming the friend and helper Sam needed most. Though making cookies had never been her favorite thing to do, she’d been an enthusiastic supporter of the business, and especially of Sam.

Ginny pursed her lips. “Not the same thing and you know it.”

“It’s good enough for now. You know why I have to pour everything into the business.” Sam went back to wiping, concentrating on creating concentric circles of shine, instead of the thoughts weighing on her. The ones that crept up when she least expected them—reminding her that she had stayed in this shop instead of going to college, getting married, having a family. The part that every so often wondered what if…she didn’t have these responsibilities, these expectations?

But she did, so she kept on wiping, and cleaning.

Ginny’s hand on her shoulder was a soft reminder that they had visited this topic dozens of times. “You don’t have to pour everything into here, dear. Leave some room for you.”

“I will,” Sam promised, though she didn’t mean it. Ginny didn’t understand—and never really had—the all-consuming pressure Sam felt to increase business, and revenues. Grandma Joy deserved the best care—and the only way to pay for that was by bringing in more money. Not think about possibilities that couldn’t happen.

“And as far as this reporter goes,” Ginny said, grabbing her coat as she waited for Sam to finish putting away the cleaning products, “I think it’s time you tried the cranberry orange bread. The frosted loaf, not the plain one. I haven’t met a person yet that didn’t rave about it.”

Sam let out a breath, relieved Ginny hadn’t suggested sweetening him up with a date, or something else Sam definitely didn’t have time or room in her life for. “Okay. I’ll bring some over to Betsy’s in the morning. Try to sweeten him up.”

“And wear your hair up. Put in your hoop earrings, and for God’s sake,” Aunt Ginny added, wagging a finger, “wear some lipstick.”

“Ginny, this isn’t a beauty contest, it’s an interview.”

Ginny grinned. “I didn’t get to this age without learning a thing or two about men. And if there’s one thing I know, it’s to use your assets, Sam,” she said, shutting off the lights and closing the shop but not the subject, “every last one.”

Flynn woke up in a bad mood.

He flipped open his cell phone, prayed for at least one signal bar, and got none. Moved around the frilly room, over to the lace-curtained window, still nothing. Pushing aside a trio of chubby Santas on the sill, Flynn opened the window, stuck the phone outside as far as his arm would reach and still had zero signal. Where was he? Mars? Soon as he got back to Boston, he was switching wireless carriers. Apparently this one’s promise of service “anywhere” didn’t include small Indiana towns in the middle of nowhere.





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