Книга - A Gingerbread Café Christmas: Christmas at the Gingerbread Café / Chocolate Dreams at the Gingerbread Cafe / Christmas Wedding at the Gingerbread Café

A Gingerbread Café Christmas: Christmas at the Gingerbread Café / Chocolate Dreams at the Gingerbread Cafe / Christmas Wedding at the Gingerbread Café
Rebecca Raisin


‘…’s a modern Maeve Binchy. If you love books about community life with true-to-life characters in true-to-life situations, delivered with gentle humour and heartfelt emotion, these are for you.’ – Books for BunnyEnjoy the warmth, cupcakes and hot chocolate at The Gingerbread Café…Christmas is the season the Gingerbread Café was made for and Lil has every recipe down, from gingerbread men to cinnamon muffins. So when gorgeous outsider Damon opens a shop opposite The Gingerbread Café in the lead up to Christmas, Lil refuses to let him steal her customers without a fight – no matter how much he makes her heart flutter.When it comes to love, Lil’s never quite got the method right! But as the snow begins to fall, it looks like this time deviating from the recipe might just lead Lil to the magic ingredient she’s been missing all along…This Christmas, curl up with three delicious stories from best-selling author Rebecca Raisin – the ultimate romantic indulgence.Praise for Rebecca Raisin‘a lovely winter wonderland setting, where things are covered in snow’ – Sam Still Reading‘will make you laugh and warm your heart.’ – Louisa’s Reviews‘This one gets an A!’ – Clue Review‘…simply divine, with stunning writing slipping between being utterly romantic, charming and fun-filled and a little emotional.’ – Reviewed the Book‘a book that’s sure to leave you feeling all warm and fuzzy inside’ – Paris Baker’s Book Nook‘drama and romance, but most of all it's got a more general sweetness and love and happiness that is often hard to find these days.’ – Love Reading Romance‘fun, quick, festive reads that’ll leave you glowing from within (or in my case a puffy mess).’ – Into the Bookcase‘…the perfect read to get you in the mood for Christmas and my mouth was watering after reading about all of the delicious-sounding baking.’ – Bookbabblers‘the sweetest romance novel readers have yet to read!’ – UniversalCreativityInc14‘It has everything, from sensational food to gorgeous romance and all the little things in-between.’ – Becca's Books







REBECCA RAISIN is a true bibliophile. This love of books morphed into the desire to write them. She’s been widely published in various short-story anthologies, and in fiction magazines, and is now focusing on writing romance. The only downfall about writing about gorgeous men who have brains as well as brawn is falling in love with them — just as well they’re fictional. Rebecca aims to write characters you can see yourself being friends with. People with big hearts who care about relationships, and, most importantly, believe in true, once-in-a-lifetime love.




The Gingerbread Café Trilogy

Rebecca Raisin








Copyright (#ulink_be723644-64f1-52b8-9fad-523e64707ed5)

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2013

Copyright © Rebecca Raisin 2013

Rebecca Raisin asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2013 ISBN: 9781474034647

Version date: 2018-06-20




Contents


Cover (#ufc87ec23-9e53-5513-bda7-4c42a271be0b)

Author Bio (#uc973c26b-e38b-5728-bb63-aba2e2bb2c0f)

Title Page (#u33c2ce30-ec05-5c61-a61c-bbcbbcf2feef)

Copyright (#u0e08eeb0-d8a6-56c6-96c3-cbef4372f2a6)

Christmas at the Gingerbread Café (#ubb65f055-b291-55ce-b1e3-4263278cf71c)

Blurb (#u840be1ed-0dda-52f2-aa54-eda1617fa25b)

Acknowledgements (#ub0a6695b-b54a-527c-89cd-7985cfec75a7)

Dedication (#u9d1738c6-9f7e-5a41-b053-1fc860599275)

Chapter One (#u64cc9e87-5be3-58b6-a8a4-2bbd7a12e0f3)

Chapter Two (#u0a285561-44c9-52e7-bdfb-b823af176758)

Chapter Three (#u05245d20-0878-53d3-bdad-40fec6bf143e)

Chapter Four (#u3bd184d2-0021-580a-ac1a-771f72f2e761)

Chapter Five (#ucc2ce761-ea77-5b02-955a-041b550a248c)

Chapter Six (#u154c9e89-25ab-5766-a7a9-4bc854e1109f)

Chapter Seven (#uc04159d3-366a-58bd-832f-71a6890dbdcc)

Chapter Eight (#uc28f9c49-02ec-5ad1-80b3-8774f7810c97)

Chapter Nine (#u61d03958-eec5-57f8-9752-91b87892e934)

Chapter Ten (#u936df05c-efdd-51dc-889b-f8e7ce9aa77e)

Chocolate Dreams at the Gingerbread Café (#ucaf37b67-7a12-50c5-9dee-c5a9713ec491)

Blurb (#uaa4df2cb-0e5c-50c1-8652-a8458de425f1)

Praise (#u2c965797-ccf6-5750-a3e8-e4c4fbed1c96)

Dedication (#u6ea7d001-74b2-5cd0-ba03-606620d103db)

Chapter One (#uf34095a6-9654-5262-a7c8-a09ffc4ec470)

Chapter Two (#u9e49a9bc-1fc2-5b5a-88d6-15bf6693b084)

Chapter Three (#ud4bd11e5-d927-5558-a820-8cdf39007d73)

Chapter Four (#u1d997d14-6999-5459-80a6-573b88236776)

Chapter Five (#u4924472d-c2a3-5fbe-9165-485d3104e5d8)

Chapter Six (#uf5743aff-e63a-58fa-a948-25b4af8a1589)

Chapter Seven (#uf2020455-5c01-573f-a5dc-15f0428a5e5d)

Chapter Eight (#u769d5330-0d5c-5cf7-91f7-410e19118ada)

Chapter Nine (#u3d91b14b-b596-52e1-b2b5-e0a5430d3d79)

Chapter Ten (#u14db8dd8-3417-57a6-90a7-b99e20553d1f)

Chapter Eleven (#u31b87e7d-16ae-50d1-829c-fe56b771f3dd)

Chapter Twelve (#uff337b44-17c7-5477-a5ec-ac89c7ede5bb)

Christmas Wedding at the Gingerbread Café (#uc32102d3-d74d-5209-a596-d120b6daea16)

Blurb (#uf42d8f4b-4b57-5fcb-b2ba-ffa830b14bd8)

Praise (#uabb54878-cb7d-57ee-bc7d-900b6a28a437)

Dedication (#u9a9cb608-ebb7-5f5f-9df3-b5b2e1ebe90f)

Chapter One – Ten days (#u27f386f1-7d8b-5cfe-a7c0-ee0c6f3e5b98)

Chapter Two – Nine days (#uba53a20f-0fb0-51e9-ab67-0a13c88a4152)

Chapter Three – Eight days (#uc490524d-f2aa-520b-aae8-5dac77bc0bc8)

Chapter Four – Seven days (#uec6d2bcd-f6d5-5e2e-9bd7-230212809692)

Chapter Five – Six days (#u781ad489-62f3-5d03-b3d3-85c5660e83cd)

Chapter Six – Five days (#u6fa72a16-2664-519a-af6a-00cdd854f8b1)

Chapter Seven – Four days (#u331d5468-93ca-5595-bafd-f0835c73dc1e)

Chapter Eight – Three days (#u2345829f-35a3-5760-b0d2-804e8b0b626b)

Chapter Nine – Two days (#u898a1466-0310-5885-be29-067adec23abf)

Chapter Ten – One day (#uf34771fb-2b23-55a8-b938-b196c775ad91)

Chapter Eleven – Wedding Day (#ub340b620-3666-5dc0-bd7b-3655e7023f26)

Epilogue – Christmas Day (#uadb7bd30-396e-5710-95a8-27750ae5ff5b)

Excerpt (#uddc2d967-cddd-57a4-815f-684b99b8e6d2)

Endpages (#u07601d64-7336-581e-94cc-6de4834d90f3)

About the Publisher (#u7303fdb8-b0c3-50a8-82d9-a60b9ff2388d)



Christmas at the Gingerbread Café (#ulink_6a540c21-9756-54a2-b936-ad52014c5b74)


The icing on her Christmas cake!

Christmas is the season the Gingerbread Café was made for…but owner Lily couldn’t be feeling less merry if she tried. She’s spent another year dreaming of being whisked away on a sleigh-ride for two, but she’s facing festive season alone – again. And, just to give her another reason to feel anything other than candy-cane perky, a new shop across the road has opened… Not only is it selling baked goods, but the owner, with his seriously charming smile, has every girl in town swooning.

But Lily isn’t about to let her business crumble — the Gingerbread Café is the heart of the community, and she’s going to fight for it! This could be the Christmas that maybe, just maybe, all her dreams – even the someone-to-decorate-the-Christmas-tree-with ones – really do come true!


Thank you seems too simple a sentiment for the amount of support and encouragement that I’ve received from my writer friends. They are an inspiration to me, and my first port of call to celebrate or commiserate, and I feel blessed to have them in my life. I read their work, and am in awe of their talent.

Thank you Lisa Swallow, for everything. None of this would have happened without you. There’s nothing better than knowing you’re an email away to laugh, shout, or discuss hot guys with – purely for research! You’re the best. And your success spurs me on.

Julie Davies, I feel like I’ve known you forever. But maybe that’s the sign of an extraordinary writer. Feeling as though you’re connected because their words have touched you.

Thank you to the Carina UK team. Victoria, you’ve been amazing, and I felt immediately like we were on the same wavelength. I look forward to working with you on the next book!

EWG- The Word Cult; Laura, Jake, Lisa, Alyssa and Deb, I love you guys.

To Clare and Liz from Dymocks Ellenbrook – You are the sweetest girls, ever.

Ashley, thanks for coming home and not mentioning it when the house looks like it’s been burgled, and you have to make dinner because writing has taken precedence.

And Mum, you’re the best proof-reader I know, and very cheap (free) you drop everything and set to work. I love you. Rachel, all I have to do is ask, until our pesky twin ESP kicks in, and you’re there, thank you.

My extended family: Aunty Norma, Uncle Alex & Toni, Aunty Jen, Uncle Ronald, Jason & Liesel, Emma, Marg & Kim, Lisa Raisin, Tracy, Cathy, Sam, Tone, Joss, Jules, Jo bear, and Roz ( I’m claiming you) – thanks for all your Facebook messages, and ‘likes’ and ‘shares’ and your constant support. Pretty lucky to have my own cheer squad.

Lastly, William and Jaxson – You’re the reason I’m following my dreams. You guys have taught me so much about life, and love, and what truly counts. I love you, my precious (zombie) boys.


For Julie Davies




Chapter One (#ulink_5854687e-ff32-5c8f-ad65-e5f462f7115f)


Amazing Grace blares out from the speakers above me, and I cry, not delicate, pretty tears, but great big heaves that will puff up my eyes, like a blowfish. That song touches me, always has, always will. With one hand jammed well and truly up the turkey’s behind I sing those mellifluous words as if I’m preaching to a choir. Careful, so my tears don’t swamp the damn bird, I grab another handful of aromatic stuffing. My secret recipe: a mix of pork sausage, pecans, cranberries and crumbled corn bread. Punchy flavors that will seep into the flesh and make your heart sing. The song reaches its crescendo, and my tears turn into a fully-fledged blubber-fest. The doorbell jangles and I realize I can’t wipe my face with my messy hands. Frantic, I try and compose myself as best I can.

“Jesus Mother o’ Mary, ain’t no customers comin’ in here with this kinda carry-on! It’s been two years since that damn fool left you. When you gonna move on, my sweet cherry blossom?”

CeeCee. My only employee at the Gingerbread Café, a big, round, southern black woman, who tells it like it is. Older than me by a couple of decades, more like a second mother than anything. Bless her heart.

“Oh, yeah?” I retort. “How are you expecting me to move on? I still love the man.”

“He ain’t no man. A man wouldn’t never cheat on his wife. He’s a boy, playing at being a man.”

“You’re right there.” Still, it’s been two lonely years, and I ache for him. There’s no accounting for what the heart feels. I’m heading towards the pointy end of my twenties. By now, I should be raising babies like all the other girls in town, not baking gingerbread families in lieu of the real thing.

I’m distracted from my heartbreak by CeeCee cackling like a witch. She puts her hands on her hips, which are hidden by the dense parka she wears, and doubles over. While she’s hooting and hollering, I stare, unsure of what’s so damn amusing. “Are you finished?” I ask, arching my eyebrows.

This starts her off again, and she’s leg slapping, cawing, the whole shebang.

“It’s just…” She looks at me, and wipes her weeping eyes. “You look a sight. Your hand shoved so far up the rear of that turkey, like you looking for the meaning of life, your boohooing, this sad old music. Golly.”

“This is your music, CeeCee. Your gospel CD.”

She colors. “I knew that. It’s truly beautiful, beautiful, it is.”

“Thought you might say that.” I grin back. CeeCee’s church is the most important thing in her life, aside from her family, and me.

“Where we up to?” she says, taking off her parka, which is dusted white from snow. Carefully, she shakes the flakes into the sink before hanging her jacket on the coat rack by the fire.

“I’m stuffing these birds, and hoping to God someone’s going to buy them. Where’s the rush? Two and a bit weeks before Christmas we’re usually run off our feet.”

CeeCee wraps an apron around her plump frame. “It’ll happen, Lil. Maybe everyone’s just starting a little later this year, is all.” She shrugs, and goes to the sink to wash her hands.

“I don’t remember it ever being this quiet. No catering booked at all over the holidays, aside from the few Christmas parties we’ve already done. Don’t you think that’s strange?”

“So, we push the café more, maybe write up the chalkboard with the fact you’re selling turkeys already stuffed.” This provokes another gale of laughter.

“This is going to be you in a minute—” I indicate to the bird “—so I don’t see what’s so darn amusing.”

“Give me that bowl, then.”

We put the stuffing mix between us and hum along to Christmas music while we work. We decorated the café almost a month ago now. Winter has set in. The grey skies are a backdrop for our flashing Christmas lights that adorn the windows. Outside, snow drifts down coating the window panes and it’s so cozy I want to snuggle by the fire and watch the world go by. Glimmering red and green baubles hang from the ceiling, and spin like disco balls each time a customer blows in. A real tree holds up the corner; the smell from the needles, earth and pine, seeps out beneath the shiny decorations.

In pride of place, sitting squarely in the bay window, is our gingerbread house. It’s four feet high, with red and white candy-cane pillars holding up the thatched roof. There’s a wide chimney, decorated with green and red jelly beans, ready for Santa to climb down. And the white chocolate front door has a wreath made from spun sugar. In the garden, marshmallow snowmen gaze cheerfully out from under their hats. If you look inside the star-shaped window, you can see a gingerbread family sitting beside a Christmas tree. The local children come in droves to ogle it, and CeeCee is always quick to invite them in for a cup of cocoa, out of the cold.

I opened up the Gingerbread Café a few years back, but the town of Ashford is only a blip on the map of Connecticut, so I run a catering business to make ends meet. We cater for any party, large or small, and open the café during the week to sell freshly made cakes, pies, and whatever CeeCee’s got a hankering for. But we specialize in anything ginger. Gingerbread men, cookies, beverages, you name it, we’ve made it. You can’t get any more comforting than a concoction of golden syrup, butter, and ginger baking in the oven in the shape of little bobble-headed people. The smell alone will transport you back to childhood.

CeeCee’s the best pie maker I’ve ever known. They sell out as quickly as we can make them. But pies alone won’t keep me afloat.

“So, you hear anything about that fine-looking thing, from over the road?” CeeCee asks.

“What fine thing?”

She rolls her eyes dramatically. “Damon, his name is. The one opening up the new shop, remember? You know who I mean. We went over there to peek just the other day.”

“I haven’t heard boo about him. And who cares, anyhow?”

“You sure as hell wouldn’t be bent over dead poultry, leaking from those big blue eyes of yours, if he was snuggled in your bed at night.”

I gasp and pretend to be outraged. “CeeCee! Maybe you could keep him warm—you ever think of that?”

“Oh, my. If I was your age, I’d be over there lickety-split. But I ain’t and he might be just the distraction you need.”

“Pfft. The only distraction I need is for that cash register to start opening and closing on account of it filling with cold hard cash.”

“You could fix up those blond curls of yours, maybe paint your nails. You ain’t got time to dilly-dally. Once the girls in town catch on, he’s gonna be snapped right up,” says CeeCee, clicking her fingers.

“They can have him. I still love Joel.”

CeeCee shakes her head and mumbles to herself. “That’s about the dumbest thing I ever heard. You know he’s moved on.”

I certainly do. There’s no one in this small town of ours that doesn’t know. He sure as hell made a mockery of me. Childhood sweethearts, until twenty-three months, four days and, oh, five hours ago. He’s made a mistake, and he’ll come back, I just know it. Money’s what caused it, or lack thereof. He’s gone, hightailed it out of town with some redheaded bimbo originally from Kentucky. She’s got more money than Donald Trump, and that’s why if you ask me. We lost our house after his car yard went belly up, and I nearly lost my business.

“Lookie here,” CeeCee says. “I think we’re about to get our first customer.”

The doorbell jangles, and in comes Walt, who sells furniture across the way.

“Morning, ladies.” He takes off his almost-threadbare earmuff hat. I’ve never seen Walt without the damn thing, but he won’t hear a word about it. It’s his lucky hat, he says. Folks round here have all sorts of quirks like that.

“Hey, Walt,” I say. “Sure is snowing out there.”

“That it is. Mulled-wine weather if you ask me.”

CeeCee washes her hands, and dries them on her apron. “We don’t have none of that, but I can fix you a steaming mug of gingerbread coffee, Walt. Surely will warm those hands o’ yours. How’d you like that?”

“Sounds mighty nice,” he says, edging closer to the fire. The logs crackle and spit, casting an orange glow over Walt’s ruddy face.




Chapter Two (#ulink_8fac3d5a-bae9-5c9b-af14-1706574a62e4)


CeeCee mixes molasses, ginger, and cinnamon and a dash of baking soda. She sets it aside while she pours freshly brewed coffee into a mug. “You want cream and sugar, Walt?”

“Why not?” Walt says amiably.

CeeCee adds the molasses mix to the coffee, and dollops fresh cream on top, sprinkling a dash of ground cloves to add a bit of spice. “Mmm hmm, that’s about the best-looking coffee I ever seen. I’m going to have to make me one now.”

“So, I guess I’m stuffing these birds by myself?” I say, smiling.

“You got that right.” She winks at me, and walks to the counter handing Walt the mug. He nods his thanks and drinks deeply, smacking his lips together after each gulp.

“What can I get for you?” CeeCee asks.

“Janey sent me in for a ham, and a turkey, not too big but not too little, neither.” He rubs his belly for emphasis.

“Sure thing,” CeeCee says. “How’s about one with Lil’s special stuffing? Janey won’t need to do a thing, ‘cept put it in the oven, and baste it a few times.”

“Yeah? Then maybe we’ll have a peaceful Christmas morning.”

“Doubt that,” CeeCee says. “If she can’t get all het up at her husband Christmas Day, it just ain’t Christmas.”

“You think?” Walt tilts his head, and smiles. “So, you girls still busy, what with the new guy, an’ all?”

I look sharply at Walt. “What do you mean?”

“I heard he’s selling turkeys and hams, just like you.”

“Say what!” CeeCee says, barely audible with her head pushed deep into the chest fridge. All I see is her denim-clad rump poking out.

“What, you don’t know?” Walt says and averts his eyes suddenly sheepish.

“But I thought he was a small goods shop?” My heart hammers — the last thing I need is more competition.

“Yeah, he is—what did you think small goods was?”

I sigh inwardly. “Well, small goods, with an emphasis on the small —”

CeeCee butts in. “Maybe a few cheeses, some o’ that fancy coffee. What, he gonna start making gingerbread houses too now, and pumpkin pies, and whatnot?” She places her hands on her hips, and is getting up a full head of steam. “That just ain’t how we do business round here.”

Walt scratches the back of his neck. “I thought you knew. He’s been advertising in the paper…”

I castigate myself for not being more observant, but I don’t want to make Walt feel any more uncomfortable than he already is.

“That’s OK, Walt. I might have a little chat with him, later on. CeeCee made a nice batch of apple pies yesterday. I’m going to give you one for Janey. You tell her we appreciate her custom, OK?”

CeeCee adds a pie to the box with Walt’s ham and turkey. “Nice big chunks of apple, too. You make sure you heat it up first, OK?”

He takes his wallet out and hands CeeCee some cash. “Thank you, girls. She surely will appreciate that.”

“You have a good Christmas, if we don’t see you before,” I say, nodding to him.

“Same goes for you. And thanks, I hope you sort it all out.”

“Don’t you even think of it,” CeeCee says.

We wait for Walt to leave, and I expel a pent-up breath. “Well, no wonder!” I pace the floor and silently curse my own stupidity.

CeeCee wrings her hands on a tea towel. “Lookie here, maybe he just don’t know. You should go on over there and tell him.”

“How can he not know? It’s a small town—any idiot can work it out. You think he’s going to start catering too?”

I walk to the window and stare out. There he is, waving like a fool. At me. I glare at him and stomp back to the bench. “He’s trying to make nice. Well, that won’t wash. I’m going over there to tell him what I think of him!”

CeeCee sighs. “Wait, don’t go over there and have a hissy fit. That ain’t gonna help matters.”

“He’s got no business stealing our customers. And I’m going to tell him that.”

I bundle my apron, fling it on a table, and march out of the shop. The cold air stings my skin, and I rue the fact I didn’t put my jacket on. Damon sees me coming, and smiles; his big brown puppy-dog eyes look kindly at me, but that doesn’t stop me for a minute. He’s a shark. A charlatan. And I’m going to tell him so.

He walks out to the stoop of his shop. “Hey,” he says, sweet as pie. “I was going to come over and introduce myself this afternoon.”

“Who do you think you are?” I stuff my hands into the pockets of my jeans, and resist the urge to stamp my foot.

“Sorry?” His forehead creases, adding to his rugged good looks. He sure can play the innocent, all right.

“You think you can just move into town and steal my customers? Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing!” The street comes alive as shoppers stop to watch. This’ll be spread round town before I’m even done talking.

He looks truly bamboozled, but I know it’s an act. I’ve seen plenty of men like him. He’s dressed like some kind of cowboy, tight denim jeans that hug in all the right places, a red checker shirt, unbuttoned one too many buttons, exposing his chest. This infuriates me. Good looks like that, he’s going to be popular and I’m going to suffer for it. I can see the ladies of this town, frocking up, smearing all kinds of gloop on their faces, while they parade around his shop, pretending to be interested in whatever it is he’s selling.

“I’m really not following, ah, Miss…” He rubs a hand through his sandy blond hair, which is too darn long for a man.

“Name’s Lily, and you don’t fool me, mister. Not for a minute.”

“What are you talking about now? What have I done?” He grins; he actually grins.

“You’ve been selling turkeys. And Christmas hams! God only knows what else. You’re using your looks to get the ladies in this town to spend their hard-earned money in your shop, and putting me out of business in the meantime.”

“My looks?”

It’s all I can do not to huff. “So, you’ve got nothing to say for yourself?”

He kicks the slushy ice on the pavement, as if he’s trying to formulate some kind of lie.

“I’m sorry if I caused you this…upset. But I own a shop, and I sell all kinds of things for Christmas. I never thought it would affect you. Surely, there’s enough room for both of us?”

“No, there darn well isn’t! And I’m going to make sure you’re not open long enough to find out, anyway.” I spin on my heel and head back to the shop.

He calls out behind me, “I’m starting up cooking classes, Miss Lily. You want to book in to one?”

That stops me in my tracks. Shivering from the elements, I turn back, hovering in the middle of the road. “You what?”

He smirks at me, and for a moment I see my future — an empty shop. There’s no way the ladies of this town will be able to resist him.

“I said, I’m starting cooking classes. You want to come to one?”

“Are you trying to bankrupt me?”

He rubs his chin, and widens those big brown eyes of his. “No. I’m just trying to earn a living.”

My eyes are blazing, but I try to smile and act more confident than I feel. “You go on and do that, then. We’ll see who is still in business by the new year.”

Cars honk at me blocking their way. With their headlights trained on me I suddenly feel under the spotlight. I race back inside the shop, my hands shaking as if I’ve got the DTs.

“You gonna catch your death going outside like that!” CeeCee says. “Go warm up by the fire. Look at you, so white I’m gonna call you Casper.”

I’m so worked up, I haven’t realized I’m covered in snowflakes. My teeth chatter, as if they’re holding a one-way conversation. I rush towards the grate, my hands outstretched to the flames.

“So? What’d he say?” CeeCee frowns, and massages her temples.

I rub my hands together, and turn my back to the fire. “You’re not going to believe it. He’s going to start cooking classes!”

CeeCee’s face relaxes and she laughs. “That boy know he good-lookin’.”

“Do you think it’ll affect us?”

“Not likely, but who knows? I think we need to have some kinda sale up in here.”

We look towards the window and gaze across. His shop is filled with customers. “Would you look at that?” I point to a small itty-bitty woman. “Rosaleen’s over there, and in her church clothes.” I knew this would get to CeeCee.

“I don’t believe it. Church clothes on a Wednesday.”

Before I know it, CeeCee is out front. “Hey, Rosaleen, shouldn’t you be supporting members of your congregation?” she hollers over.

Rosaleen looks at us, her face pinched. “He is a part of our congregation. I already asked him.”

CeeCee shakes her head and tuts, before walking back inside. “Dressed up like that, trying to impress him, at her age, no less.” She harrumphs. “Right, sugar plum. What we gonna discount? Most o’ those folk so tight they squeak. If we offer cut-price goods, they’ll be back over here with their tail between their legs.”

“Good idea. I’ll get the blackboard, and we can write it up and face it directly towards his shop.”

We giggle like schoolgirls, and I smile. We’ll win, I know it. We have to. There aren’t enough customers in this town for both of us.




Chapter Three (#ulink_4405fb7e-b441-566f-9d28-67902a365dd0)


The next morning, I get to the shop earlier than usual. I’m planning on baking some gingersnap-pear cheesecakes, after a friend of CeeCee’s dropped us in a pile of fresh pears. The scent of the ripe fruit hits me as soon as I open the back door, aromatic and sweeter than any perfume.

Thinking I may as well open the shop since I’m here anyway, I catch sight of Damon. His door is open and there’s a flood of customers on his stoop. I peer over, and, lo and behold, he’s got a chalkboard facing my way.

It reads: Why did the turkey cross the road? Because the other side is better!

Of all the dirty tricks. I edge away from the window, and try to calm myself. We sold nearly half our turkeys yesterday, but at half price, so there’ll be almost no profit, but at least I won’t be stuck with them. I thought surely that’d be the end of it, and he’d learn his lesson. I guess not.

I set to work peeling pears and try to think up a new strategy. It’s finicky work, but cooking always calms me. That’s probably why I run a business that makes next to no money.

An hour later, the fruit’s peeled and sliced. I finely grate fresh ginger and mix it through the sliced pears, setting it aside so the flavors combine. I smirk when I realize I have the perfect payback for Mr Smarty Pants across the way.

“Where you at?” CeeCee waddles in from out back.

“Where am I? Cee, it isn’t exactly big in here, you know.”

“Now don’t you be backchatting me. You won’t believe what I just heard.” She plonks her bag on a table, and unwinds her scarf, getting tangled on account of the fact she’s wearing her mittens. She’s out of breath and in a tizzy.

“What?”

“He’s starting those cooking classes, and tonight he’s making gingersnap-pear cheesecake!”

I gasp.

“That ain’t all. They get to take whatever they bake home with them.”

“How did he know we’re baking that today?”

“He must have seen Billy come in with all those pears, or else someone told him.”

“Who did we tell we planned on gingersnap-pear cheesecake?”

“We only told Reverend Joe, and Billy’s mamma.”

Yesterday we had a multitude of customers that came in to shoot the breeze. Anyone could have heard. We’re going to have to watch everything we say in future.

CeeCee narrows her eyes. “I bet it was Billy’s mamma. And she’ll probably start taking their pears over to him.”

“Is there any point even making it now?” Eyeing the amount of fruit I’ve spent so much time preparing, I sigh. “Be a shame to waste it.”

CeeCee surveys the work I’ve done. “I have a hankering for it after all that talk yesterday. We make it, and then if they don’t sell we halve the price by lunchtime. Maybe no one’s booked in to his classes—you ever think of that?”

“Yeah, you’re right. It’s not like most of them don’t know how to make cheesecake, anyway. Did you see his sign?”

CeeCee shuffles over to the window, muttering and cursing, though she doesn’t hold with cursing, usually. “I don’t believe it. He’s trying to start a war with us! What we gonna do?”

I turn on the CD player and the gospel choir begin with Silent Night. The lights in the window flash green, red, and a luminescent white. The angel atop the tree seems to smile benevolently down on me. Steeling myself, I say, “We’re going to appeal to their Christmas spirit.”

CeeCee looks at me as if I’ve lost my marbles. “Here you go.” I reach under the counter and produce a Santa hat and a bell I found in our box of old decorations.

“And what you expect me to do with this?” She widens her eyes, and jingles the bell.

“You, Mrs Claus, are going to drum up business by walking the length of the street, handing out candy canes, and some kind of coupon. Buy one, get one free. Or Buy one, pay it forward, and they can donate a free item to the church. What do you think?”

A grin replaces her consternation. “I didn’t think you had it in you. How’s about I walk on his side of the street?”

I know we should be feeling worried on account of giving so much away, but we’re like schoolkids, and I’m having more fun than I care to admit. “Sounds like you know what you’re doing, Mrs Claus.”

CeeCee laughs, her big-bellied southern haw, and goes to our Santa display. “I’m just gonna borrow the fat man’s jacket here for a minute—lucky we the same size.” She wraps the dusty red jacket around herself and giggles, and tries to fit the hat over her thick black curls. “You gonna owe me a hair set, sugar plum. This hat sure gonna flatten my wave.”

“Sure, I’ll organize Missy to fix your hair up pretty for Christmas.” I laugh.

“I look a sight!” she says, grinning at her reflection in the window. “Right, go print me some coupons, and I’ll set to work.”

Leaving Mrs Claus out front, I rush back to my shoebox-size office and hastily type some coupons. Everyone in town loves a bargain, and if they are seen doing something for the church, even better.

Let’s see him try and outmaneuver me on this. I have the added bonus of being a local born and bred, and our town is more reserved with new folk.

With a sly grin on my face, I jog back out to the front, yelling, “That fool won’t know what hit him,” only to run straight into the damn fool.

“Who are you talking about?” Damon asks, rubbing his chin where my head has just connected.

“Ouch! Who creeps up like that? If you want me to feel the earth move, that isn’t the way to go about it,” I say, sure I’m going to be sporting a big lump on my head any minute now.

“Which fool are you talking about?”

I make a show of wincing, while I try and think of an answer. CeeCee’s no help, standing there as a half-dressed Santa, her lips quivering as she tries to hold in laughter. I know she’s going to lose it, and then the whole sorry story will come tumbling out of her mouth.

“Excuse me, mister, who said you could come in here and spy on us?”

His forehead creases, and that same sexy smile creeps back on his face. “Who said I was spying?”

“That smile might work on other girls, but it sure doesn’t work on me. I said you’re spying. Now get on out of here. Shoo.” I wave my hand towards the door.

“Shoo? Not until you tell me who the fool is.”

“You’re as dumb as a bucket of rocks if you think I’m telling you anything.”

“I see.” He scratches his chin, which has a red mark from our collision. “I think you’re cooking up another plan to steal my customers.”

“Of all the…I think you’re forgetting who was here first. You’re stealing my customers—let’s be clear on that.” I try hard not to poke my tongue out at him. He brings out the worst in me, this newcomer. He’s wearing those same tight jeans, and under his open jacket he’s wearing another of those checker shirts, but has yet another button undone. I can see right down to his belly button and I happen to notice he’s got quite the six-pack going on. The girls round here are going to swoon over him.

He edges backwards, his brown eyes sparkling with mirth. “Well, my family has lived here since before there was electricity, don’t you know? And wouldn’t the town folk love to know you’re not giving me the same warm welcome that they are?”

CeeCee bustles over. “Oh, yeah? And who’s your family, then? Ain’t no one mentioned your people to me.”

“My people, as you say, are the Guthries, born and bred right here in Ashford for as long as anyone can remember.”

CeeCee and I inhale sharply. The Guthries are the oldest and richest family in our town. So rich, they don’t live here any more. They follow the sun and never struggle through a winter unless they’re skiing. They owned a fleet of cargo ships, and train lines, and had their fingers in all sorts of pies when it came to transport. A few years back they sold their businesses, raking in a fortune. They still own by and large a heap of properties around town, and are well-respected, church-going folk. Not that we ever see them in Ashford, any more.

It’s all I can do not to cry. There’s no way I can beat him if he’s backed by that kind of money.

“Why you even bothering to work, then?” CeeCee asks. “We know most o’ the Guthries don’t do much ‘cept sit on their porches and get fat off good ‘ol American food, since they got no need for employment. They’ve got people to do their bidding.”

“They’re my family, but I make my own way.” He crosses his arms and puffs out his chest like a prize cock. His jaw juts out, making me think there’s more to the story than he’s letting on.

“You the rotten apple?” CeeCee asks, tilting her head. I hope to God he is, then my shop might just have a chance.

“I don’t like handouts, that’s all.”

CeeCee makes a show of clearing her throat. “Good to hear. Now we got cakes to make, but I guess you know all about that.”

He ducks his head. “Well, all right. I was just coming to invite you over to my cooking class tonight. Free of charge.”

My fighting spirit returns, and I paste on a smile. “Thanks all the same, but we’ve got so many orders to assemble. Yesterday was one of our busiest days ever, you see.”

“I see. Not much money in half-price poultry, is there?”

“Well, you know how it is,” I say. “We’re full of Christmas cheer this time of year.” CeeCee rings the bell maniacally. I nod to her, grinning. “And we like to look after folk around here.”

“I’ll say.” He uncrosses his arms and leans over to me and whispers, “Bet my cheesecake is better than yours.”

I reel, as if poked. “We’ll see about that.”

He walks away, cool as a cucumber, and tips a finger to his head as though he’s wearing a hat. We watch him cross the street; he jogs, and jumps when he reaches the pavement. I can honestly say I’ve never seen a man’s butt look so good in jeans before. They’re so tight, every muscle is evident as his body pushes against the faded denim. It’s like watching magic happen. I take a deep appreciative breath in.

“He sure ain’t ugly, is he?” CeeCee says wistfully.

“No, ma’am.”

He turns abruptly and catches us staring, jaws agape. I promptly close my mouth and busy myself at the counter.

“Well, I’ll be,” CeeCee says, shaking herself back to the present. “How did we not know he’s a Guthrie?”

“I don’t know. What do you think? That they’ll bail him out as long as it takes to close us down?”

CeeCee drags her gaze from the window. “Sugar plum, I don’t rightly know. He doesn’t seem like that, though. He seems sweet as cherry pie.”

“Here we go. You’re getting all misty-eyed.”

CeeCee glances at me, and I can tell she’s debating whether to say what’s on her mind.

“Just say it, Cee. What are you cooking in that mind of yours?”

“Hmm. I just got a feeling.”

I groan. CeeCee thinks she’s got second sight, sometimes. Second sight, only when it comes to me and whichever man she’s trying to set me up with.

She shakes her head, and says, “I know, I know, but this time it’s different. There’s somethin’ special about him. I saw the way he looked at you. Like electricity or somethin’. I could see sparks flying between you. It was like lightning. Like—”

“Like a thunderstorm,” I interrupt. “Like a great big brooding cloud of despair. That’s what you saw.”

“Mark my words. He’s different. He gonna pull you outta this funk.”

Ignoring CeeCee, I walk to the bench. The pears have infused with the ginger. I toy with the ingredients for the cheesecake, fidgety all of a sudden.

“You think so too?” she asks hopefully.

“I think you’re crazy, Cee. And Joel, what about Joel?” I’m hoping if I say it like a prayer, he’ll come back. Joel would see straight through Damon’s ploys. Yeah, so Damon may be flirting with me, but that’s so I loosen up and let him ruin my business. Joel would know what to do about this situation. My heart lurches at the thought of spending Christmas Day alone. No Joel to open presents with. No Joel full stop. In fact, no family here at all this year.

My folks discovered cruising when they retired and are sailing around New Zealand, of all places. Damned if I know where they heard about it. My siblings got out of our small town as quick as they could after school was done. My brother lives in New York City, and leads some glamorous life, full of socialites, and parties. He’s so far gone in that world, he doesn’t make time for family any more. My parents pretend that they’re happy for him, but it breaks my heart their own son doesn’t visit. And my sister, Betty, has gone on to Michigan with her husband and had about a hundred babies.

“You thinking of Joel, again?” CeeCee demands. “Girl, when you gonna stop mooning over him? He just don’t deserve that kinda attention. He up and divorced you, Lil…” Her voice softens. “I think it’s time you realized that’s about as finished as a marriage gets.”

I didn’t even see it coming. Thought it was a phase — maybe some married men get itchy feet. As devastating as it was, I’d give him another chance, once he knew the grass wasn’t greener elsewhere. But instead, he served me divorce papers. Something I never wanted to see. My heart broke into about a million pieces that day.

I think back to our marriage, and the promises we made. When he stared into my eyes, and recited wedding vows, I believed him. When I said, ‘Till death do us part’ I truly meant it. How can one person have that kind of hold of your heart, and not feel the same any more? Marriage should be for ever — at least, that’s what I was raised to believe. When you stumble, you work through it, together. But Joel, he’s not on the same page as me, not yet.

CeeCee breaks my train of thought. “You OK, Lil? You look like you seen a ghost.”

Pensive, I try and shake the memories away. “You’re right, Cee. No time for mooning over what I can’t change.” I force a bright look on my face, and remember the challenge at hand. “So, you still going to be Mrs Claus, or what?”

CeeCee picks up a basket and stuffs it full of candy canes. “Surely am. Gimme those coupons, and let me go drum up some sales.”




Chapter Four (#ulink_046b3d5c-b938-510c-b97d-976d012616fd)


That afternoon we’re rushed off our feet. The folk in town are vying to pay it forward to the church so the reverend will look kindly upon them. They’ve got good hearts, and I hope, what with all the discounts, I’m still making some money. Everyone who comes in appreciates the gospel Christmas music. CeeCee hams it up in her soprano voice, and pitches and warbles to the customers, who join merrily in.

We sell our last Lane cake; the white iced fruit cakes are a Christmas tradition in Alabama, where CeeCee is from. She’s got most of the town folk hooked on her southern food. Most of our gingersnap-pear cheesecakes are snapped up too. Dusting my hands on my apron as the final customer carries his box of goods out, I raise my eyebrows at CeeCee. She’s gulping down iced-tea as if she’s been stuck in the desert.

“I sure didn’t expect such a flurry all at once.”

She puts her empty glass down, and says, “I don’t think I ever been that parched. Glory be, that was busier than I ever seen it before.”

Glancing over the street, I see Damon. He’s on his haunches scrawling something on his chalkboard. Guilt gnaws at me, as I see his shop is empty, and has been each time I had a minute to look his way. He’s spent the morning sitting on a stool by the window reading the paper, or talking on his cell.

“What’s he doin’?” CeeCee wonders.

“Probably advertising his cooking classes. They just aren’t going to work. Folk ‘round here can cook, anyway.”

CeeCee grunts. “Yeah, but that’s what folks said about you opening a shop to sell home-made food. They all said who was gonna buy from you when they been taught how to bake since they was knee-high to a grasshopper? But they did, they surely did. Maybe he ain’t cooking home-made food. Maybe he’s fixing to teach them something fancy. You see all those grown-up kids coming back from whatever big city they livin’ in. They don’t want their mamma’s traditional meals — they want all that fancy stuff, like sushi or some such.”

“But he’s making our cheesecake. While it’s mighty tasty, it isn’t exactly fancy.”

“Probably just to get them in. Show them he’s one of us. Then he’ll start on with all that seaweed, and raw fish.” She screws up her face. “It’s just disgusting.”

Damon stands up, and dusts his hands on the seat of his jeans. He looks over his shoulder at us, and waves. He has big hands Big, but graceful, as I imagine a piano player would have.

I’m lost for a moment thinking of whether his hands would be soft or rough and calloused from cooking, when CeeCee yelps. “Free! He’s doing it free!”

I look at the blackboard.

“FREE cooking class. Baked food, made with LOVE. Take home what you make.”

Damon does a mock salute and strolls back inside his shop.

“Pray tell, what’s all that made with love about?” CeeCee asks, her forehead furrowing.

“You still think he’s special now?”

“He’s just playing a game with you.” She takes off her Santa jacket and hat, both damp from the weather. Her hair lies flat on the top of her head; she runs a hand through it, musing. “Come by the fire.” CeeCee says as I throw another log on, and watch it slowly take. We sit on the small sofa that faces the street.

CeeCee continues, “You like a daughter to me, you know that. So I’m going to speak to you like your mamma would. Look at that man.” She points to Damon standing at the window, hands crossed over his chest, facing towards us.

“What?”

“I can tell a person’s heart by their smile. And his smile goes all the way up to his eyes. Joel’s smile stopped right under his nose. You see what I’m saying?”

“You’re saying Joel looked down his nose at people?”

“Damn straight, I am.”

I laugh at CeeCee’s sincerity. She’s trying to hypnotize me into agreeing with her. I shake my head. “Well, if he’s giving out free classes, I might just stay open all night, and sell whatever I have left. I’ll start a batch of butterscotch pies, and hope no one knows it’s me who baked them.”

CeeCee taps her nose with her finger, implying a secret. “They’ll know it were you. But you go right on ahead. I’m just gonna sit here awhile and warm my old bones up.”

“You do that. I might as well tell everyone our new closing time.”

CeeCee’s cackle follows me out of the door as I go to write on the chalkboard.

The wind has picked up. I shrug into my jacket, and fumble for the chalk in my pocket.

“You can’t let up, can you?” I spin to look up at Damon, a mite scary, leaning over me while I’m squatting at the board.

“Not all of us have family money to fall back on, you know.”

“That right?”

“Sure is.”

“You don’t hardly know a thing about me.”

“I can say the same for you.” I stand and gaze into his eyes. I try to look fierce, but it reminds me of staring competitions we had back in high school. We stared at each other until someone blinked, and they lost the game. I purse my lips, trying to keep my laughter in check but it barrels out of me, in a very unladylike way.

His eyes crinkle. “This funny to you?”

“A little. It’s just, it reminded me…”

Damon’s phone rings, a loud, startling tone. He checks the screen, and rushes off, head hunched as he answers it.

“Well, I’ll be. Can’t miss a phone call. Typical city slicker,” I grumble.

By the time I finish the sign, complete with whorls of tinsel colored in chalk, CeeCee has cleaned the kitchen from the day’s labors and has started making pastry. “So much for warming those old bones. You don’t trust me to make the pies, I see.”

“Sugar plum, you got enough going on, lest someone say, your pies ain’t made with love.”

I sidle up and hug her. I’d be lost without CeeCee in my life. “You’re tired. We can leave the pies until tomorrow.”

“It’s OK, sugar. I’d rather be here with you than at home on my lonesome.”

“You’re too good to me.” With CeeCee being so sweet, and me being reminded of all the things we’ve both lost, I well up again. I turn away from her and try and dry my eyes with the back of my hand but she knows me better than that.

“Don’t you go getting all sentimental on me.” I lose it completely when I see tears pool in her eyes. Again, I curse myself for being such a dramatic crier. I’m so sensitive sometimes it kills me.

CeeCee and her husband, Curtis, moved from Alabama to Ashford when their kids were just babies. Curtis worked on the railroads for most of his life, and that’s how they wound up here. He spent his time to-ing and fro-ing on the train lines, with Ashford as their base. Train lines that the Guthries used to own. They swapped one small town for another. And then their kids, all grown up, moved out of town, like so many, gone to find better jobs in big cities. CeeCee lost Curtis to cancer, one winter, not three years back. When I think of her all alone in that old house of hers, I crumble.

“I know what you’re thinking, but I’m fine, truly I am. I’ve got my church, and my friends. The kids are coming up for Christmas Day, and I’ll see my grandbabies. That’s all I want. I’m happy on my own. What about you? You wanna come over and spend the day with us? You know you part of the family.”

I wipe my eyes, and take a deep breath. “Aw, no. I don’t want to intrude, and I know what you’re going to say, so don’t bother. You cuddle those grandbabies of yours. I’m going to sloth on the couch all day, and watch a bunch of soppy Christmas movies. I won’t even get out of my PJs. It’ll be nice not to have to get up and rush in here.”

CeeCee clucks her tongue. “What about dinner? You can at least come over and let me feed you.”

“We’ll see.” As much as I love CeeCee, I don’t want her thinking she has to entertain me. She’ll have her own kids there, and her grandbabies who she loves more than anything. A day by myself doesn’t sound so awful. I plan on crying along to cheesy flicks on TV and eating ice cream straight from the tub.

“Would you look at that?” CeeCee says, pointing to across the road.

Damon’s back on the stool by the shop window looking dejected. He’s bent over, cradling his head in his hands.

“That poor man,” CeeCee says. “Breaks your heart just looking at him.”

I bite my lip, and ponder. Is he just playing a game here, or what?

CeeCee’s rolling out big balls of pastry without even looking; it’s second nature to her. “Go on over there, Lil. Looks like he could use a friend.”

“What? Are you falling for this? He’s angling for sympathy, that’s all.”

“And why not, pray tell? He’s like a movie star, those fine chiseled cheekbones and that curly hair—don’t you just want to run your hands through it?”

Like an expert chef, CeeCee’s flinging the pastry all over the place, while her eyes don’t move from Damon.

“No, I don’t want to run my hands through his hair. I’m sure it’s all tangled. That only happens in books, Cee. Sounds like you’ve been reading one too many bodice rippers, if you ask me.” I was all talk. He truly did look sad, sitting there as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“Get on over there, and make that boy smile. Go on, get.”

I’m one of those people who always feel guilty. If someone bangs into me, I apologize. If someone drives up the footpath and runs over my shoe, I say sorry I was in the way. And here I am, feeling guilty robbing this man of his customers, yet it’s going to cost me too, this whole competition. I sigh; I’m not made for war.

“Fine. I’ll go. And what should I say, do you think?”

A huge smile lights up CeeCee’s face, and I wonder if those two are in cahoots together. It sure wouldn’t surprise me. She pretends to be really interested in her pastry all of a sudden. “Take him a pecan pie. I’m going make another batch tomorrow, anyways.”

It’s all well and good joking about it, but what am I going to say to the man? I begin to wonder if it was the phone call that’s made him so morose.

While I’m wrapping the pie, CeeCee mutters to herself. I know she’s fixing to tell me something, so I take my time, and wait for her to mull it over.

“You know, this might sound crazy, but why don’t you two join forces?”

“Are you on about the matchmaking thing again?”

“No, no.” She shakes her head. “I mean, why not join forces with the Christmas rush? Instead of competing against each other — work together. You never know what might happen. You’ve been trying to find someone to help you cater for as long as I can remember. And lookie here, that fine thing might just be the man for the job.”

“And how’s that going to work? Have you been drinking the sherry when you’re baking those cakes?”

“Just a nip to fortify me,” she says, and laughs. “But I don’t see why you can’t work together. You know, you could run some cooking classes for him — there’s not much you don’t know about baking. He can supply you with those ingredients you ship in for your catering customers. He sells a whole lot of things you don’t, and vice versa. You can work together. You could expand catering to bigger customers in towns further out, if you had another pair of hands — hands like his.” She looks meaningfully at me.

“And when did this come to you? Don’t tell me you just thought about it.” My palms are sweaty, and I realize CeeCee might be right about venturing further out. If Damon can actually cook it might just be a possibility. On my own, I have no hope of catering for larger customers. And there aren’t too many folk interested in working for me, who can cook, and work under pressure, or who want to lose their weekends to do it, either. I’ve been hoping for some extra help, so I can take on more clients, but catering’s hard work. So far, all of the avenues I’ve tried to find staff have turned into a dead end.

CeeCee’s idea spins through my mind. If we worked together, I could surely double the catering side of things, and we’d use products we both sold. It could really work. I stop short; what am I thinking?

“You can thank me later,” CeeCee says. “Now get on over there and see what’s bothering him.”

I fossick through my handbag for my lip gloss, and slick it on.

“Well, I’ll be, make-up too?” CeeCee raises her eyebrows.

“A girl’s got pride, Cee. There’s no reason for me to go over there looking downright disheveled. It has nothing to do with him.”

“‘Course it don’t.” She hums the wedding march as I grab the pie and walk out of the door.

“Oh, please.” I roll my eyes heavenward.

“Cherry blossom?”

“Yeah?” I hold the door open.

“You forgetting your jacket again? Someone sure is distracted these days.”

I scoff, and walk back inside to the coat rack.





Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Получить полную версию книги.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/rebecca-raisin/a-gingerbread-cafe-christmas-christmas-at-the-gingerbread-c/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.