The Reindeer Falls Collection

Volume One

Jana Aston

Copyright © 2019 by Jana Aston

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Edited by RJ Locksley

Cover by Kari March Designs

Created with Vellum

Contents

The Boss Who Stole Christmas

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

If You Give a Jerk a Gingerbread

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

The One Night Stand Before Christmas

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Holiday Recipes

Have you met Dr Miller?

Also by Jana Aston

The Reindeer Falls Collection

About the Author

The Boss Who Stole Christmas

Chapter 1

My boss is the Grinch. A Scrooge. A Dursley amongst Harrys.

I'm sure of it, even if he doesn't live on a cliff overlooking Whoville or own a dog named Max. Even if he doesn't have an orphan named Harry living under his stairs. Even if he hasn't cancelled the company Christmas party.

I bet he considered it.

He's a misanthropic, mean-tempered jerk with a piece of coal where his heart should be. Confirmed Grinch. Mr Ebenezer Scrooge himself.

The worst.

The worst, hidden in a six-foot-tall package of male perfection. It'd be easier if he looked like an old Scrooge, wouldn't it? We're predisposed to liking things that are pretty, to giving them the benefit of the doubt, like feral kittens. No matter how much they hiss or scratch, they're just so darn adorable we still voluntarily pick them up and attempt to cuddle.

Nick Saint-Croix isn't adorable.

He's hot as—

"Miss Winter." My thoughts are interrupted by none other than the Grinch himself. His voice is just as disarming as his looks. Smooth and confident. Seductive, like a plate full of your favorite Christmas cookies. The kind that take too long to make but they melt in your mouth and remind you of your childhood. If there was any justice his voice would sound like he swallowed a frog, but no. He's got a warm baritone that tempts you to lean in, until the moment your brain catches up with your eardrums and reminds you that he's awful and you'd give anything to make him stop talking. With a cookie or a sock or that ball gag you looked up online specifically for your make-him-shut-up fantasies.

"Were you planning on attending the ten o'clock meeting?" he continues without waiting for me to acknowledge his presence. "Or will you require the rest of the morning to finish reading my email? It can't be more than a few hundred words and yet you can't seem to tear yourself away from staring at it."

For the record, it's nine fifty-six and the conference room is a ten-second walk from my desk. And Nick Saint-Croix moves like a cat. I'd have heard him coming if I hadn't been staring at his stupid email indulging in my fantasies about him developing a pot belly and turning green.

Please, Santa. It's all I want for Christmas.

I turn in my chair and drag my gaze up to his face. He has the kind of looks that make women stop in their tracks. I know, because I've seen it happen time and again in this very office. There isn't one particular feature that I can blame for his perfection, it's all of them. Broad shoulders, narrow hips. Thick dark hair and brilliant green eyes. His eyes are the worst—the most annoying, attractive, mesmerizing shade of green. They remind me of Christmas itself, of evergreen trees and brightly wrapped packages. Until they narrow in one of his trademark cold glances.

Tall. He has me by half a foot when I’m in heels. Without them I’m reduced to the approximate size of one of Santa's elves when standing next to Nick, not a feeling I enjoy, so I've taken to keeping heels in my desk drawer so I can change out of my practical boots and into heels the moment I got to work.

Designer suits, expensive watches. Arrogance he wears like a sexual call to arms. Whenever he makes direct eye contact with me I’m sure he’s capable of reading every last errant thought in my head. The ones I have about what he looks like under those designer suits blended together with the fantasies I have about him eating bad sushi for lunch.

A hot Grinch.

And with less than a month until Christmas he's become extra Scrooge-like. Hence the email. The one demanding the presentation for the Friendly Llama campaign today—a full three days before the deadline. As if schedules and deadlines are of no interest to him and I can simply produce presentations from thin air.

I can, because I've become used to dealing with him, and staying two steps ahead of Mr. Saint-Croix has become my primary life goal. Both personally and professionally.

Speaking of my career, there's one more thing you should know. I work at Flying Reindeer Toy Company. Which means my scrooge of a boss runs a toy company.

Actual toys, not sex toys.

Oh, the irony. A mean-tempered, childless man at the helm of the very toys that result in endless smiles and laughter and shrieks of joy amongst the tiny humans. He seems more suited for corporate finance. For the kind of takeovers that put mom-and-pops out of businesses and drain retirement accounts.

I'd never have taken this job if I'd met him beforehand. I worked for his uncle for three years. Lovely man. Not a clue how Nick turned out the way he did.

Brooding.

Irritable.

I bet he doesn't even put up a Christmas tree.

We all expected Mr Saint-Croix would eventually retire, of course he would. But it was a bit like Santa himself retiring, it wasn’t like it'd happen in my lifetime, right? Santa stays the same age and works forever and ever. It's the law. The law of childhood and tradition and happiness. Except that Reindeer Falls isn't the North Pole and the senior Mr Saint-Croix isn't actually Santa Claus.

Five months ago Christopher Saint-Croix retired. The Saint-Croixes never had any children, but his brother did. Two of them. Mr Saint-Croix's niece had worked for her uncle since graduating from college six years prior. She’s sweet by the way. Friendly. Approachable. Kind. Nothing like her brother, Nick.

Christopher's other sibling, a sister, runs our Human Resources department. Sara reports to her and will be running that department as soon as Martha is ready to retire.

I can't say I spent much time worrying about who would someday take over the Flying Reindeer Toy Company.

I should have.

Because that's how I inherited the Grinch of Reindeer Falls as a boss.

"I'm coming," I tell him. He slow-blinks at that response and suddenly I'm thinking sex thoughts, like oh-my-God-I'm-coming. "To the meeting," I amend. "I'll be there on time, I promise." I turn back to my desk without waiting for a reply and jab at my keyboard, willing him to go away so that I don't have to walk down the hallway with him.

He doesn't. Instead he picks up the Advent calendar on my desk. It's one I made myself over the four-day Thanksgiving weekend while drinking hot cocoa and watching Christmas movies. My Christmas decorations were up the weekend prior to Thanksgiving as per my tradition, so I had the time to work on a little arts and crafts project near and dear to my heart.

"Interesting," he murmurs, wiggling one of the little cardboard doors. There are only ten of them. Numbered two through six and sixteen through twenty. "Is this some kind of defective prototype?"

"That's personal." I whirl around in my chair and snatch it out of his hand. Does he have to ruin everything? I toss the calendar into my desk drawer and slam it shut. Nick grunts and heads for the conference room.

I wait until nine fifty-eight to get out of my chair. Then, with a long exhale, I grab my laptop and coffee cup and head to the morning meeting. Maybe later I'll go to the mall and sit on Santa's lap, ask him to bring Nick a normal-sized heart without a defective jerk-hole.

It could happen, after all. Anything is possible at Christmas.

Chapter 2

"Next item on the agenda, the Teddy Bear Café."

It's oddly satisfying listening to Nick utter the words Teddy Bear Café because they're so very ridiculous coming out of his mouth. Sometimes I wonder if he's always imagined himself taking over his uncle's toy business or if he had other plans. I know he grew up in Reindeer Falls, just like I did. But he was five years ahead of me in school so we never crossed paths until he returned to ruin my dream job.

His sister was three years ahead of me in school so I was vaguely familiar with her even before I began working for her uncle. Sara was the one who interviewed me when I applied—the only place I applied because I didn't have a backup plan for my dream job.

Sara stayed in Reindeer Falls. Married a nice guy she met in college, had a baby with another on the way.

Nick left.

Now he's back and I'm stuck with his curmudgeonly ass.

For now, anyway. I expect he'll eventually come to his senses and flee Reindeer Falls for the big city. Any big city. That's my long-term dream. My short-term dream is Nick getting run over by a sleigh.

Teddy Bear Café is my project. You understand why I put up with the Scrooge, right? Besides him, this job is a dream. I mean, hello. I get paid to work on projects involving cafés and teddy bears.

"Construction is a month ahead of schedule," I report. "We're on track to open a full month before the summer tourist season in Reindeer Falls." This may come as a surprise to some of you, but Reindeer Falls is quite the happening tourist destination.

In a small Midwestern city kind of way.

I bet Nick is bored out of his mind here. He spent the last four years living in Europe. Based in Germany, which I only knew because his sister mentioned him a time or three during lunch in the employee break room. Probably where he bought all his fancy suits too, because they surely didn't come from the Macy's in Saginaw.

I'm not sure Nick is Reindeer Falls material. Which is the worst thing I can say about a person. I imagine it's like a New Yorker side-eyeing transplants with disdain. Not NYC material, I imagine they think as they watch someone patiently wait on the crosswalk instead of darting into the street inches from a yellow cab like a local.

Reindeer Falls is the most charming city I've ever seen and there's no place else I'd rather be. Population five thousand thirty-four, which is misleading because there's a city of fifty thousand just twenty minutes away. And Detroit is ninety minutes away, so it's not as though we're a tiny isolated town where everyone knows everyone’s business. We're Midwest adorable. Our official town slogan is "Little Bavaria," because the town was founded by German immigrants and built to resemble a village in Germany. To this day a full fifty percent of the residents are of German descent and a strict building code remains in place requiring new builds mimic the European charm of our origin.

And sure, maybe I'm biased because I was born here. And because my name is Holly Winter. And I might as well just tell you now… I have two sisters named Ginger and Noel.

Yes, my family loves Christmas.

My mom denies that she married my dad for his last name, but between you and me, I'm pretty sure she pursued him so she could have a gaggle of Christmas-themed babies.

But back to the Teddy Bear Café. It's my passion project. Bavarian Bear is one of the product lines I'm responsible for. They've been made in Nuremberg, Germany for over a hundred years and the Flying Reindeer Toy Company has been the exclusive North American distributor of Bavarian Bears for the last forty years. A special Bavarian Reindeer was even developed as the company's flagship toy.

When a storefront on Main Street opened up earlier this year I proposed that we rent the space and open a Teddy Bear Café, where children could bring their Bavarian Bears (or their Bavarian Reindeers) for tea. It will be a destination for tourists and a place where local children can have their birthday parties. We'll sell the complete line of Bavarian Bears at that location along with the accessories. You know, tiny pairs of shoes for your bear. Outfits so you can dress your bear as a doctor or an astronaut or a gymnast. Child-sized pajamas sold with a matching set for your bear. We're going to have a bear clinic for any bears that need repairs and a bear spa for any bears that need a bit of a wash.

I know, I know. This all sounds too delicious to be true. But this is life in Reindeer Falls and the reason I don't want to quit and get a boring job somewhere else. Having a part in the Flying Reindeer Toy Company feels a bit like being a Christmas elf and who doesn't want to have an in with Santa?

Listen, I know Santa isn't real. But he's real in my Christmas-loving heart and that's good enough for me.

This project is something I've wanted to do since I started with the company. The Bavarian Bear makers have a smaller version of the café in Nuremberg. When I saw it on their website I was enchanted—and determined that we could do something similar here in Reindeer Falls. We have a steady flow of tourism here. We're a Midwest holiday destination for starters. Tree lightings and gingerbread baking contests and horse-drawn sleigh rides on a specially designed track though the Reindeer Falls forest. Fine, we don't really have a forest per se. It's a few hundred acres of woods on the edge of town owned by the Hartfield family. They cleared a path through the woods, bought a few sleighs and Santa's Sleigh Ride was born. And let me tell you, they do a nice business each winter.

We also have Oktoberfest season each fall. Main Street is lined with quirky shops and we have the town’s main claim to fame: Otto's Christmas Mart, the largest Christmas retail store in the nation, bringing in visitors year round from near and far. And we have not one but two hotels with water parks catering to the summer crowd. Like I said, we're a pretty happening place for a town that crowns an annual Candy Cane Princess.

I don't want to brag but I was Miss Candy Cane Princess seven years ago. I know it might be a little vain, but I still have the tiara. I use it as my tree topper because being Miss Candy Cane Princess was my childhood dream. That and working for the Flying Reindeer Toy Company when I grew up.

I tap on my laptop to move the notes I've prepared to the display screen on the conference room wall so everyone can see the updates. I've got photos of the construction process and images of the tea room furniture already on order. I've got a custom line of china under development which we'll use in the tea room and sell as a new product line.

I might be gushing a little bit but this café is my passion project and besides, how could anyone not be excited about this?

"Has the advertising been adjusted to accommodate the early opening?" Nick asks, his gaze on mine, slowly rolling a pen between his fingers while he silently judges me.

"No. The official opening will remain the first of June. The soft opening is currently projected for the tenth of May. We'll push the soft opening to locals and use the time to fine-tune operations before the summer season. The payroll budget has been adjusted to accommodate an early opening," I hastily add when Nick continues to stare at me.

I clear my throat and click to the next slide, the financials. "We're already twenty percent booked for next summer based on our pre-launch advertising and reservations made via an online reservation system. I expect that will increase drastically once we release interior photos and really begin the adverting push. On the modest end of my forecast, I've estimated profits based on a seventy-percent booking during the summer and winter seasons and a thirty-percent booking during the off-season." A graphic with the projected revenues based on these numbers appears on the screen. "But these are very modest. I expect we'll be a hundred percent booked by midsummer once people get a look at the finished space. And I think our off-season numbers will be much higher than thirty percent once we become a birthday party destination for local children, but I wanted to be conservative on my—"

"What about the disappointed children?" Nick interrupts.

I freeze. Is he mocking me? What disappointed children? Does he want me to have a game plan for kids who hate fun? God, he probably does. Why didn't I think of this? Of course he'd want that, he's probably hated fun since he learned how to talk and decided everyone was a disappointment.

"If we're booked to capacity during the busy season and they can't get a table?" Nick presses when I remain temporarily mute. "The location in Nuremberg that we're modeling this after has a takeaway counter. Did you ask them if they were willing to share the ratio of dine-in versus takeaway business?"

Oh.

I fidget in my chair. I sort of love-hate the way he calls takeout takeaway. I'm sure it's a leftover from his time spent living in Europe. But also, I hate him so I refuse to admit it's charming.

"I wasn't aware they had a takeout counter. There weren't any pictures of that on their website."

"On their website," Nick repeats slowly as his brows rise. "You've never been to the café in Germany?"

"No," I answer, but I say it with confidence because I will not show him an iota of weakness. I've done my research on this, I know my business plan is solid. "We don't have room within the available square footage for a takeout counter and besides, the numbers work without it."

Nick taps the pen in his fingers against his lower lip while he thinks. The room is silent as we wait on him to ruin my day in one way or another.

"The Jack Frost Candle Company is closing in January," Nick announces. "They currently occupy the space adjacent to our new Teddy Bear Café. Let's grab it and add a takeaway business. We'll create a passthrough in the back rooms of both units so they can share kitchen and refrigeration space. We can add a few tables and an additional merchandise counter on the takeaway side. Holly will accompany me on my trip to Germany next week and meet with the management of the original café in Nuremberg. See how they operate during their peak season and what ideas we can implement for our version."

Wait one minute. Did he just say travel with him?

"Oh, my God, no!"

Every eye in the room turns to stare at me.

"I mean, um…" I stall, brain racing. "The Jack Frost Candle Company is closing? Wow, they've been in business forever." I shake my head sadly, looking anywhere but at Nick. My friend from accounting gives me a sympathetic grimace. "I'll, uh, need to stock up on Candy Cane candles before they close. It's my favorite scent. ’Tis the season." Jiminy Christmas, Holly, stop speaking! "How do you know they're closing, by the way?" I straighten the screen of my laptop and bounce my foot nervously under the table. "I haven't heard a word about it."

"I'm friends with their daughter, Taryn."

Ugh, Taryn. She was a senior at Reindeer Falls High when I was a freshman, so she's two years younger than Nick. She was the kind of girl who made fun of your favorite Christmas socks when you accidentally-on-purpose wore them in March. The kind of Christmas troll who shuts down a beloved local candle company—

"She's taking over her parents’ shop and moving the store to a new location at the River Place Shops," Nick says, interrupting my thoughts. "She needed more space to add candle-making workshops and it seems someone beat her to the vacant spot located next to their original location."

Oh.

Okay, that was me. I'm the one who beat her to that empty retail space for the Teddy Bear Café. And she's not closing the business, she's expanding it, so maybe she's not on Santa's naughty list after all. I stare at Nick, wondering what kind of friends they are. Wondering if they're naked friends.

Gross.

"Will the kitchen design accommodate the additional workload required to support the takeaway business? Can we make the needed adjustments now before construction is completed?" Nick glances up from typing on his laptop.

"It will." I know it will because I had the kitchen layout reviewed by three separate pastry chefs and they all indicated the workspace was sufficient for double the projected output. I'd wanted to ensure we were covered if we decided to expand or add a catering component.

"You'll double-check?" Nick says as he continues typing. He says it like it's a question but it's not. It's an order. I'll have to reconfigure all my numbers to include the additional takeout quantities and then show him my work and then he'll question why we have twenty percent more refrigeration space than I'm projecting we need and I'll spend ten minutes explaining that refrigeration space is not custom but comes in predetermined cubic feet and a twenty-percent overage is a better option than the next size down, which will only provide us with a projected two percent of excess refrigeration space.

And he'll stare at me the entire time. Silent and brooding.

It'll take me a week to revamp my entire financial plan for the Teddy Bear Café to include the additional rent costs of the unit next door, additional construction costs, and additional staff costs. Then I'll have to redo all the estimated sales forecasts. Hire a designer to create a design for to-go containers and bags and cups. Then I'll have to source all those items, get samples. No, it won't take me a week, it'll take the rest of the month.

"Send me a report when you're done," Nick adds as if this is all a foregone conclusion simply because he's tossed out the order. I mean, I understand he's the boss. I do. But this isn't how his grandfather ran things, let me tell you.

His grandfather didn't wear a single suit that made me wonder what he looked like naked, for starters.

Gah! There is no way I'm going on that trip with him. None. Not happening. Maybe he's already forgotten about it? I fidget in my chair and glance at Nick out of the corner of my eye while he grills the warehouse manager on the costs of cardboard. I've never been on a business trip. I wouldn't even know how to go about scheduling it. Am I supposed to book my flight and hotel and then submit an expense report? Or will his assistant book me? Perhaps… perhaps I can just ignore the situation until it's too late? He's leaving in less than a week, it's probably already far too late to book an extra airline ticket. In December for heaven’s sake. I exhale and relax into the conference room chair.

Nick's eyes flicker in my direction while the warehouse manager explains the costs of the holiday boxes. I sit up a little straighter and wonder how loud I sighed.

A moment later a new email pings into my inbox.

The subject line reads Travel Itinerary.

Chapter 3

"I can't go to Germany next week."

I announce this with confidence and a steady voice. I spent all evening practicing my get-out-of-traveling-with-Nick speech in front of my bathroom mirror and I think it's solid. I think I've predicted any arguments and prepared an appropriate rebuttal for each.

"I'll coordinate with my contact at Bavarian Bear on the takeout business via email," I add without waiting for a response. Nick was frowning at something on his monitor when I finally summoned the courage to enter his office to speak with him and I purposely didn't wait until I had his attention before I launched into my speech. Side note: I'm surprised his pretty face hasn't already frozen into a permanent scowl. I bet he'll have scowl lines before he's forty. "It'll be tantamount to me being there, but easier for everyone."

"Tantamount?" He leans back in his chair, turning his attention fully on me. The scowl is replaced with a look I'd call curiously skeptical. He rests one hand on the armrest of his chair, his other hand moving to straighten his tie. His uncle wore Christmas ties the entire month of December. A different one each day, he had so many.

Nick's tie is the color of coal.

"Virtually the same," I say with a little wave of my hand.

"Tell me, Miss Winter, what part of my direction that you'd travel to Germany sounded like it was optional? It wasn't."

I hate speaking to him in his uncle's office. Nick's office now, I know that. I'm not in denial. His aunt and uncle have already relocated to Key West and gotten themselves half a dozen chickens. Pet chickens. They wander around the yard and dodge in and out of a custom-made chicken coop. I don't really understand it either, but Mr and Mrs Saint-Croix seem thrilled with retirement and I'm well aware they're not returning.

But speaking to Nick in this office is disorienting because he didn't redecorate. I expected him to replace the framed posters of toys with cheesy motivational posters or the skyline of a big city or his diploma from Dartmouth. I expected him to replace the old wood desk his uncle sat behind for nearly forty years with something sleek and modern and new.

But he didn't. He did nothing but replace the chair and the computer. And one other thing.

He added a bulletin board. A giant oversized thing framed with a wide expanse of oak and attached to the wall next to the door, in direct view of Nick's desk. It appeared as if by magic over a weekend a month or so ago, and it has remained empty ever since. It drives me nuts, being empty. What’s the point of hanging a bulletin board if you’re not going to attach anything to it? It’s weird.

He’s weird.

"I'll never be able to complete the changes to the Teddy Bear Café by the end of the month if I miss a week to travel to Germany."

"Who said the changes were due at the end of the month?" He drops the tie and taps his fingers on the desktop.

"I assumed you'd want—"

"I wish you'd stop assuming," he interrupts, his words sharp but his voice unexpectedly soft. It throws me off. And there's something in his expression, something I can't quite pinpoint. A rankled irritation which is so unfair. He's constantly got me on my toes, demanding reports, challenging me in meetings, sneaking up on me at my desk to ask me questions I've already answered via email.

I'm the one who should be annoyed, I think with an indignant burst. Not him.

"Nick, it's Christmas," I say, and I know my voice sounds a bit like I'm begging, but I can't help myself. December in Reindeer Falls is my favorite time of year. Everyone knows this.

"It's December third," he replies drily, clearly unimpressed with my plea.

"You know what I mean. It's the holiday season," I retort, spreading my arms as if to indicate the entire month is a holiday. It is. This shouldn't require explanation.

"It's the holiday season in Germany too," he counters. "I'd have thought the idea of seeing the inspiration for Reindeer Falls at its most magical time of year would appeal to you."

He's not wrong there. It should. It does.

It's the idea of being in his company for the better part of a week that makes me uncomfortable. Uncomfortable in all the wrong places.

I drop my gaze to his desk before launching into the next excuse on my list.

"You probably don't know this, but the Food Network is filming The Great Gingerbread Bake-Off in Reindeer Falls this year, and my sister has an excellent chance of winning. I have to be here for that."

"The finale's being filmed live on Christmas Eve from the town square," Nick counters without hesitation. "I assure you I'll have you home before then." His fancy chair makes nary a squeak as he bounces in it, just an inch or two while he watches me. He's loving every moment of this.

But also…

Son of a nutcracker, how did he know that? How does he know anything about The Great Gingerbread Bake-Off? I was counting on him not having a clue about the local holiday calendar. I quickly move on to my next argument.

"I don't have a passport," I announce. I even manage to add a little fake sadness to this fake news.

Nick stares at me for a long time, the silence hanging heavy in the air between us until I'm nearly fidgeting with the lie. Jittery from his attention. Hours pass. Eons. Cookies for Santa are baked from scratch, cooled, and plated in the time Nick spends staring at me, waiting for me to crack.

"Should I assume then," he finally asks, his words slow and deliberate, "that you snuck in and out of the country illegally last month when you needed three days off to attend your cousin’s wedding in Mexico?"

My eyes widen and I flush. I'm positive I never told him that wedding was in Mexico. I look at the wall behind his desk. The floor. The framed poster of a wooden toy set the company introduced in the ‘70s. It's one of our most popular toys, still in production. Mostly I look anywhere but at Nick.

"My boyfriend has a very important Christmas party I'm meant to attend," I blurt out. This is a little off script, but to be fair I wasn't expecting to have to dig this far down my excuse list and I'm flustered.

"You don't have a boyfriend," Nick replies, and when I risk a glance in his direction I see his eyes have narrowed and the fingers on the arm of his chair have tightened.

"You don't know that!"

"What's his name?" he asks, tearing my attention from the carpeting back to his face.

Um, think, Holly, think. A man's name. Anything but Nick.

"Sant… ana. Santana," I recover. "Like the band."

"What does he do?" I think I detect the hint of a smile on Nick's face but it's hard to be sure because he so rarely smiles.

It could be a grimace. Or gas.

"He's in a band." I want to die. I did not just say my fake boyfriend Santana is in a band. But dealing with Nick is like dealing with a killer dog. It's best to show no fear. I place a hand defiantly on my hip and hold my ground. I bet Santana is really nice to me and smiles all the time.

"Holly." Nick says my name on what is nearly a sigh. His eyes close briefly, his head tilted toward the ceiling as if he's summoning strength from the overhead lighting. He doesn't often use my first name, instead having some kind of a weird preoccupation with calling me Miss Winter. I sort of prefer it to be honest, because when he says my first name he always says it in a tone that makes me think about sex.

Sex with him.

Which is disturbing on so many levels. So, so many. Why would anyone want to have sex with someone they don't like? With someone mean? He'd probably critique the way I lifted my hips or demand I come on command. He'd probably request a spreadsheet with pivot tables documenting my range of flexibility by limb. He'd want sketches showing exactly how close my knees could get to my head.

Goodness, the idea of that is sorta hot though. The bendy part, not the mean part.

I wonder if Ebenezer Scrooge was attractive when he was a young man? If he caused turmoil in the hearts and loins of sweet young ladies as he snapped orders and scowled. If young Ebenezer was a hunk with great hair and a lean body. If he smelled subtly of Christmas trees and freshly fallen snow.

Ebenezer was probably terrible in bed. I bet it was what turned him into such a grump. He probably came really fast and had no idea what to do with his tongue.

"We're done with this conversation," Nick finally snaps, looking resigned even though he's won. His eyes drop to my feet before he turns back to his monitor, an obvious dismissal. "Pack sensible footwear," he tosses out. "It's all cobblestones and uneven steps and the last thing I need is to carry you when you break an ankle."

I don't say anything more. My hand falls from my hip in defeat as I pivot on my inappropriate-for-cobblestone heels and walk to the door of Nick's office. As I reach the threshold my eyes snag on the bulletin board. Something has finally been tacked to it. I slow my exit long enough to see what it is.

It's a handwritten letter.

From a little girl.

Made out to the Flying Reindeer Toy Company and written in a curly childish print with purple ink. Katlyn from Conroe, Texas wants us to know that our Dog Detective board game is her favorite game in the whole wide world but she also wants to know why all the dogs are boy dogs and wonders if we could please add a girl dog named Chloe? She also suggests that Chloe should be the lead dogtective.

A few months ago Nick went on a warpath during a weekly meeting about gender stereotypes and then demanded a detailed analysis from every product manager, for every toy. Reports were required to include the targeted age range of each product, the implied gender of the toy and a five-year history of the marketing materials flagging any gender bias.

"Send your data to Holly," he said, even though I wasn't in charge of anyone. He wanted me to organize the data on one spreadsheet. With pivot tables.

I was annoyed, to be treated like a secretary responsible for compiling everyone's work, but I am a bit magical with an Excel spreadsheet and he’s the boss. So I did it, of course. Besides, two of the product managers are a bit… set in their ways. By which I mean they're nearing retirement and not real savvy with technology. Or open to gender-neutral toys. There was some grumbling about the gender of robots that week, believe me.

The Dog Detective game was updated just in time for the new version to hit retailers for the all-important fourth quarter. We also spent a good deal of money having the new edition featured as a Black Friday deal at the nation’s largest retailer, KINGS.

The new edition included two lead dogtectives, named Chloe and Katlyn.

I chance a look over my shoulder at Nick. He's not looking at his monitor, he's looking directly at me.

Chapter 4

"I can't believe you're complaining about a free vacation to Europe with your hot boss. You're a disaster, Holly." My sister Ginger is scowling at—you guessed it—a slab of gingerbread.

"It's not a vacation, it's a business trip!" I protest. "With the Grinch of Reindeer Falls!" I add, because clearly she's missing the most important and worst detail.

"The acidity of this dough is off. Something is off." Ginger swipes at her forehead, leaving a streak of molasses across her skin. "I can't let Keller James win. My entire future is at stake and you're complaining about a trip to the North Pole. Unreal."

"It's not the North Pole," I grumble. "It's Nuremberg, Germany." Which, to be fair, is probably even better than the North Pole on account of all the charming Bavarian architecture. Plus there's really nothing to do at the North Pole, what with it being located in the midst of the Arctic Ocean and all.

"Doesn't Keller James have his own show on the Food Network?" Noel asks from her perch on a barstool at Ginger's kitchen counter. She asks the question around a mouthful of gingerbread. We're a few batches into this night.

"Yes," Ginger sighs before repeating the words the Food Network, as if she's in church and they're meant to be revered.

"I don't care how many TV shows he has. Nobody makes gingerbread like you, Ginger," I console. "He doesn't stand a chance."

"I need the prize money to open Ginger's Bake Shop. Keller James doesn't need the prize money! Why are they making us compete against professionals?" Ginger wails as she plunks another five-pound bag of flour on the counter. She's the youngest and she's been passionate about baking for as long as I can remember. While Noel and I were content to play with an Easy-Bake oven, Ginger was whipping up real cupcakes in Mom's real oven and packing them in boxes she'd repurposed by writing ‘Ginger's Bake Shop’ across the sides. She tied them closed with a never-ending assortment of old ribbons she'd collected. From everywhere. You know how some grandmas collect all the used bows at Christmas to be reused? That was Ginger. When she was twelve.

"You're a professional too," I point out. She does all the baking for a local inn but her dream is to open her own bakery. Here in Reindeer Falls, of course.

"It's hardly the same! He's a jackal!" Ginger huffs. "I wonder if he's using a Ceylon cinnamon," she mutters to herself while digging frantically through her spice rack. At least I assume she's muttering to herself. She can't possibly think Noel or I have a clue about varieties of cinnamon. "Subtle but refined. Haha! I'm onto you, jackal."

"Who's a jackal?" Noel questions. "Keller James?"

Now is probably not the time to bring it up but I've always liked his show Brunch, Biscuits & Tea. Also, we got to meet him during the taping of the first three episodes of The Great Gingerbread Bake-Off and he seemed like a nice guy.

"Yes. Him! Urgh!"

"Who says ‘jackal’ as a swear word?" Noel asks, as she takes her plate to the dishwasher before joining me at the kitchen table.

"It's a nicer way of saying ‘jackass,’" Ginger explains, but I think it's an unnecessary explanation because Noel rolls her eyes at me while muttering, "Go on with your bad self, G." Then Ginger turns her attention to me as she pulls out a chair and sits across from me. "What on earth are you doing?"

I've got an assortment of cardboard pieces, tape, glue, markers, pictures cut from magazines along with a pile of individually wrapped chocolates spread across the table. "Remaking my Advent calendar because Nick is stealing an entire week of Christmas from me."

"You get that Christmas is just the one day, right?" Noel asks.

"I'm gonna tell Mom you said that. Someone's getting coal in her stocking this year," I tease while tossing an empty candy wrapper at her head.

"Anyway," Noel says slowly, staring at my calendar as if I'm unhinged. "Are you coming down with the flu? Running a fever?" Noel is the oldest. She's not real impressed with baking or homemade craft projects.

"I wish, then I wouldn't have to go on this trip with Nick," I grumble as Noel continues to stare at the mess on the table while Ginger has a conversation with herself about the temperature of butter. "It's a custom Advent calendar," I explain. "For every day in December that I have to see Nick I get a treat."

"Uh-huh," Noel murmurs, her face unimpressed.

"As you can see"—I gesture toward my hodgepodge of a calendar—"doors nine through thirteen don't exist because I was supposed to have a glorious Nick-free week, but now that I'm stuck going to Germany with him I've got to add those dates back to the calendar." This Nick reward system is really nice. I'd consider expanding it to the rest of the year but I don't think eating a chocolate for every day he annoys me would be good for my waistline.

"I think you should just sleep with him and get it over with," Ginger announces from her place at the kitchen counter. I turn red and Noel smirks.

"You're my new favorite sister," Noel tells Ginger, grinning from ear to ear.

"Hey!" I hate it when they gang up on me, which they always do. I'm the middle sister, it comes with the territory.

"Let's fill doors nine through thirteen with condoms," Noel suggests.

"Yeah! Get a room with your hot boss already." Ginger giggles while attacking a slab of gingerbread with a rolling pin.

"It's not like that!" I protest. "It's strictly professional. I don't like him. He doesn't like me. There's no liking!"

"It's sooooo like that." This from Noel.

"Well, what about Ginger and Keller James? They need to get a room too. Everyone knows it."

"Hey! This isn't about me! We're making fun of you right now," Ginger says.

"I don't even know how the two of you made it through the first three gingerbread eliminations. You were both so busy eye-fucking each other I'm surprised either one of you managed to crack an egg into a bowl without missing."

"God, I can't wait to see how they edit that," Noel agrees.

"Oh, my word." Ginger drops the rolling pin, alarm covering her face along with a smudge of flour across the bridge of her nose. "Really?"

"Were you at the taping when they both reached for the same bottle of vanilla and he nearly kissed her?” Noel asks me, ignoring Ginger. "Hot." She waves a hand over her face in the universal cooldown gesture.

"That-t-t," Ginger stutters, "that never happened. He never almost kissed me."

"Says you," Noel and I reply in unison. Then we high-five each other in a childish display of sisterhood.

"I, um…" Ginger twists her hands in despair, her face flushed before she disappears into her bedroom.

"Bring me some condoms when you're done hiding," Noel calls out. "For Holly's Countdown-to-Dickmas Calendar."

"It's not…" I protest meekly. "I can't believe Santa brings you anything with that mouth.”

Ginger returns, her face wiped clean of baking mishaps and her auburn ponytail tightened. Along with the name Ginger and the love of baking gingerbread, she was blessed with ginger-colored highlights woven through her dark hair. She slaps a condom on the kitchen table. "For Holly's calendar. Let's focus on that."

Noel grins and grabs a marker. Then she writes Dickmas on a cardboard door and shoves the condom behind it.

I sigh and pick up my scissors. That was supposed to be the door for December eleventh. Now I've got to find a space to add yet another door to my calendar… which is very much starting to look like a defective prototype.

"Yes, let's focus on Holly's calendar," Noel agrees. turning her attention back to me and my craft project. "Don't you think an Advent calendar for the countdown to banging your boss is kind of sacrilegious?"

Mom always told me being the middle sister was good for building my character. It was also good for developing a death glare. I level one on Noel now. She simply grins in response, not the least bothered by bothering me.

"It's not a countdown to banging," I explain. "It's a reward calendar. For doing my job well despite the hardship of dealing with Nick."

"I bet it's hard all right," Noel agrees drily. I give her another death glare.

"I saw how he looked at you when we bumped into him at the grocery store a couple of weeks ago," Ginger comments while moving yet another tray of cookies to a cooling rack. "I think the two of you would be cute together."

"Who, Nick?" I ask as if I've no memory of the event. Of course I remember. It was the final catalyst to the creation of the Countdown-to-Dickmas Calendar. I mean the reward calendar. "At me?"

"Yes, Nick. At you."

"You're referring to how he stopped us in the grocery store to ask me about the Friendly Llama campaign? On a Saturday? While I was wearing sweatpants and no makeup?" And flat-heeled boots. He towered over me when he strolled toward Ginger and I in the baking ingredient aisle. I was in the midst of adding two five-pound bags of sugar to Ginger's cart when I turned around, bags in hand, to see Nick. He'd clearly just come from the gym, a damp green t-shirt clinging to his chest beneath an open winter coat, his hair messy, exactly the way I'd imagined it might look if I ran my hands through it.

Which I'd only ever do if I was trying to drown him or shove his face into a cake, obviously. There’s no other reason for my hands to be in Nick's perfect head of hair.

"Yes, that's exactly what I'm referring to. When he asked you how you were spending the weekend and you responded by saying something like, ‘Nice shirt. Very Grinchy.’"

"It was green! Like the Grinch!" I protest. Fine, maybe it wasn't my finest moment.

"He makes you nervous."

"No, he doesn't."

"Because you like him," Ginger continues as if my denial means nothing.

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do. And I don't know why that scares you so much. He's not Billy. Nick is here to stay."

Billy's my ex. We met at Michigan State; after graduation he came back with me to Reindeer Falls. He made it a little over a year before he decided he wasn't Reindeer Falls material. Or Holly Winters material.

"It's beginning to look a lot like Dickmas," Noel sings under her breath, but at a volume I'm meant to hear.

"The two of you have no idea what you're talking about," I grumble as I attack the image of a Christmas wreath cut from a magazine with a glue stick. "No idea. There will be no Dickmas with Nick, I assure you."

"You should mass-produce these." This from Noel. "I bet there's a huge market for Countdown-to-Dickmas calendars."

"They'd make amazing presents for my friends!" Ginger agrees with more enthusiasm than is necessary. She's going to support Noel in teasing me like it's her job as youngest sister.

"There's no countdown to Dickmas! That is not a thing. Nobody wants that to be a thing. And the last person in the world that would be a thing with is Nick Saint-Croix."

"Holly," Ginger chastises. "Where is your seasonal spirit? Is there no room at the Vagina Inn for Nick?"

"Oh, my God, you did not just say that." I shove chocolates behind the new doors and start to gather my things.

"I did!" Ginger laughs. "I'm pretty proud of myself too. That was a good one." She plops into a chair at the table, folding one leg up and resting her head on her knee while she watches me pack up.

"You're both the worst but I love you anyway. I've got to get home and pack. For my business trip," I add pointedly before either one of them can add a lewd comment about wrapping Nick's package or something equally ridiculous. "Try to behave yourselves while I'm gone."

"Have fun!"

"I won't."

Chapter 5

Nick picked me up so we could carpool to the airport. To be fair, it's a ninety-minute drive to Detroit Metro. To be unfair, it's another ninety minutes I have to spend with Nick.

And unlike my sisters, I'm not delusional enough to think we're carpooling because he secretly harbors a desire to spend time with me.

"Don't even think about missing the flight, Miss Winter," is how he wooed me into this carpool on his way out of the office on Friday. Then he stopped, four feet from my desk, and doubled back. "On second thought, I think it would be best we ride together. I'll pick you up on my way to the airport."

Then he grinned, told me to have a nice weekend and strolled out of the office before I could protest or ask if he had my address.

He picked me up ten minutes ago.

It’s already the longest ten minutes of my life. And we still have ninety long miles to go.

The conversation thus far has been lacking—as in Nick seems content to enjoy the deafening silence while I play out possible topics of conversation in my head.

Nick's posture is relaxed in the driver’s seat with one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting on the armrest between us. Every so often he drums his fingers against the steering wheel or shifts his hand, totally at ease.

Meanwhile I've got the nervous energy of an elf who overindulged in candy canes.

More silence.

I'm starting to wonder if he even remembers I'm in the car.

"We could play some Christmas music," I finally suggest. Anything to break up the silence that is providing my brain with too much idle time. Too much idle time in the presence of Nick and my heart rate speeds up because I'm thinking about things I have no business thinking about. Things like what Nick would feel like in the Vagina Inn. "I've got a playlist on my phone."

Nick side-eyes me from the driver’s seat and I can see the hint of a smile on his face before he shakes his head with a low exhale of a laugh. "I'll pass."

Right. Of course not. I tap my fingers nervously against my thigh. Luckily I've prepared an entire list of business topics we can discuss this week. I'm reaching into the handbag at my feet when Nick speaks again.

"Just out of curiosity, how early in the year do you start listening to your Christmas playlist?" He takes his eyes off the interstate for a brief second, his eyes flashing with something that might be amusement as he glances in my direction. "Day after Thanksgiving? December first? July?"

"Ha ha." I leave the notebook in my bag, realizing the list I prepared isn't anywhere near long enough. I'll need to ration it.

"Are you up to speed on the agenda for the trip?"

"Of course." I reach again for my bag, already rattling off the schedule from memory but wanting the itinerary in front of me all the same. We're taking a late-afternoon flight from Detroit to Frankfurt with a crack-of-dawn connecting flight to Nuremberg. Along with the meetings scheduled at Bavarian Bear, there's a tour of a toy train factory the company has been talking about collaborating with and meetings with a few parts suppliers.

Nick doesn't interrupt while I rattle on about the schedule, but he doesn't appear to be paying all that much attention either. When I'm confident I've covered the week’s agenda I close my notebook and place it in my lap, fingering the edges of the cardboard cover with the pad of my thumb. Then I sigh, a tiny resigned huff similar to the sound my parents’ dog makes when I attach a Santa hat to her head.

"What'd you do this weekend?"

The question takes me by surprise, coming out of nowhere on the tail end of my recap of the agenda. He seems sincere, honestly curious. Maybe he's bored with the silence too and worried I'll suggest my Christmas playlist again?

"I spent some time with my sisters. Ginger wanted company while she tested yet another batch of gingerbread. Did laundry, packed for this trip. Wrapped a few Christmas presents. And of course I went to the candlelight crowning for this year’s Miss Candy Cane Princess at Heritage Park." The Candy Cane Princess is named early in December so she can complete her duties for the rest of the month. Which are mainly riding on a float in the annual Christmas parade and assisting the Main Street Santa with his line on Saturdays.

"Ah, the Candy Cane Princess crowning," Nick repeats back slowly. "Is attending part of your duties as a past Candy Cane Princess?"

He knows about that? I feel my face flood with heat, suddenly embarrassed or shy, I'm not sure which. He doesn't quite sound like he's making fun of me so I'm not sure what his angle is.

"It's not a requirement, no," I finally manage to say. "Just something fun to do."

"Hmm," Nick murmurs. "Sounds like you could use a little more fun in your life, Holly."

Okay.

Did he just say that in a suggestive way or was it my imagination? His voice sounded like butterscotch caramel being stirred on a stovetop and kisses under the mistletoe. I'm suddenly warm all over and the Vagina Inn is flashing a neon vacancy sign while my overactive brain displays a montage of ways it could be filled. Could my sisters be right? Is it possible Nick has potential as something other than a miserly Scrooge? Maybe he's not horrible outside the office? Maybe—

Then he ruins it.

"I assume Santana was busy since you didn't mention him. Did he have a gig? Must be a busy time of year for a musician."

This jackal.

Ginger was right about one thing at least. Jackal is an oddly satisfying insult.

"Yes. Yes, he did have a gig." I lean forward to shove my notebook back into my bag then sit back in the passenger seat, arms crossed over my chest as I stare straight ahead, watching for the next road sign that will give me a clue about how much farther we are from the airport. "He's unbelievably busy but he took me out for breakfast," I find myself saying.

"This morning?"

"Yup." I pop the ‘p,’ satisfied to have the upper hand again. "At the Honey Jam Café." The Honey Jam Café has been a staple on Main Street since before I was born and their specialty is breakfast. They make waffles that will change your life. Delicately crisp on the outside but buttery and light just beneath that crisp surface. Perfection on a plate. You've never had a waffle unless you've had one from Honey Jam, trust me.

Also, I wish Santana actually existed because my stomach rumbles at the reminder that it hasn't had those waffles in too long. In truth, I had two hard-boiled eggs an hour before Nick picked me up.

"Weird. I was there too. Didn't see you."

"It was early. You were probably still sleeping." He probably sleeps in a cave he had dug out under his house. Caves are the preferred nests of Grinches everywhere.

"I was there early. My overnight guest was an unexpectedly early riser."

Eww.

I refrain from saying it out loud, but my pulse increases in agitation. I roll my neck and adjust my posture in the seat while taking a surreptitious glance at Nick. I bet his overnight guest was his friend Taryn. His naked friend Taryn.

"I thought allowing her to stay up late would guarantee I got to sleep in, but it doesn't work that way."

Oh, my Santa Claus, please stop talking! Now my brain is filled with visions of Taryn waking him up for an early-morning naked tryst. She got to see Nick naked and she got the best waffles on earth. I'm back to disliking her, Christmas spirit and family candle company be damned.

"Now she'll be cranky this afternoon and that'll be my fault."

Okay, enough. Now he's describing her like she's some errant child? What a disgusting misogynistic jerk!

"Luckily we'll be somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean by the time my sister calls to ream me out about messing up her schedule."

Wait. His sister? I rewind the conversation and remove my assumptions. "You had a sleepover with your niece?" My brain is trying its hardest to merge the idea of the Nick I know from work with the idea of him having a sleepover with his niece, Abby. I've met her a couple times. Last year at the company Christmas party and once over the summer when Sara brought her to the office. She's a spirited and messy little girl the way most toddlers are.

"You babysit?" I finally manage to sputter, turning in my seat to get a better look at him.

"For my niece, sure. Pays twenty bucks an hour, so why not," he adds with a shrug then laughs when he sees the look on my face. "I'm kidding. My sister and her husband went to a holiday party last night and their regular sitter canceled. They were going to be out late so I told them to just leave Abby with me overnight."

"Huh," I can't help myself from saying.

"My sister warned me that she wakes up at an unreasonable hour, but I didn't heed her warning. Like every jackass without kids of their own I thought I'd just put her to bed late and she'd sleep in the next morning." He shrugs and flashes me a grin that makes my heart nearly stop. "That little hustler stayed up through an entire viewing of Christmas Dogs and still woke up at a quarter to six."

Oh, sweet Lord. The visual of Abby in a set of footy pajamas cuddled up on the couch with Nick watching a Christmas movie just flashed through my mind and it's… strangely hot.

And unsettling.

"What did you do with her until Honey Jam opened for breakfast?" I ask, still trying to wrap my head around this previously unknown side of my boss. It's like finding out there's a spinoff to A Christmas Carol in which Ebenezer is the hot, fun uncle.

"We watched Christmas Dogs. Again. Start to finish." Nick shakes his head ruefully, a small smile tugging at his lips. "She's fixated on that movie and she's on a one-toddler mission to spread the word because she knows the second you stop paying attention. I thought I could catch up on some emails on my phone while we watched it the second time but damn, she'd wave her tiny hand around yelling ‘pause it, pause it,’ as if I was going to miss out on some pivotal plot point during the second viewing. Then she'd stare at me like I was hiding cookies from her until I put the phone down and gave the movie my undivided attention."

Well, crud.

I think my heart just grew two sizes.

For Nick.

What is even happening right now?

"Well," I finally manage, "that sounds like a nice sleepover."

"It was," he agrees. "Not how I want to spend every weekend just yet, but it was nice."

Just yet? So Nick thinks about spending weekends like that? Saturday nights with a movie at home, kids with footy pajamas, breakfasts at the Honey Jam Café? Since the first day he arrived to take over the Flying Reindeer Toy Company I've been making assumptions about his suitability for Reindeer Falls itself. He seems too big to be here. Too worldly to find it interesting. Reindeer Falls is the picture of Midwestern values, suburban to its core. Candy Cane Princess crownings are the heart of a city like ours. I pegged Nick as an urban loft kind of guy. I thought he was here begrudgingly, only because he had to be in order to run the company. I never once imagined that he wanted to be back in Michigan.

"We'd have let you sit with us at breakfast," he adds, with a sideways glance at me, a sly grin playing at his mouth. "If we'd seen you there."

I stare at his profile for a bit, a mile passing, then another. Nice Nick is a trap, I remind myself. Like waiting for the day after Thanksgiving sales to start your Christmas shopping. That's a rookie mistake.

So is having feelings for your hot boss.

I remind myself of all the reasons I dislike him. What were they again?

He's grumpy.

He's demanding.

He's a perfectionist.

He's broody and tall and more attractive than any man has a right to be.

He's. My. Boss.

These are all valid reasons.

Valid enough that I shouldn't be thinking about doing things with him that would put me on top of Santa's naughty list.

Yet I do. I think those things.

I'm feeling suffocated in this car. Suffocated by all the different versions of Nick dancing in my head.

Chapter 6

When we land in Nuremberg I'm tired, but energized in the way that being in a new place brings. I slept on and off during the overnight flight to Frankfort, as best as one can on a plane. The layover allowed just enough time for a cup of mediocre airport coffee before our connection to Nuremberg.

And I hate to admit it, but now that I'm in Germany I'm excited. I know I came on this trip under duress but I manage to conveniently block that out the moment they stamp my passport because I've never been to Germany. Heck, I've never been to Europe.

I'm charmed before we get out of the airport.

Nick seems to know what he's doing so I follow, doing my best to keep up with him as he navigates us through the airport, refraining from the urge to dive into a gift shop or take photos of random signs written in German.

It's not until we're in a cab that I realize Nick speaks German. It makes sense, but I add it to the list of things that surprise me about Nick all the same. Begrudgingly I also have to add it to the list of things about Nick that are kind of sexy.

Nuremberg is… magical. And the cab hasn't even pulled away from the curb yet. Light snowflakes are falling as the driver loads our bags into the trunk while I slide into the back seat, Nick right behind me. I feel a little grimy and worn from a day of travel. Nick doesn't. He looks as good as he always does, as if he's just had a great night’s sleep and strolled into the office refreshed and ready to demand a report or poke at me about something or other.

I wonder if I've read too much into the poking? Maybe I've overreacted?

Beside me Nick swipes at the screen of his phone with his thumb, ignoring me while he checks emails as the cab pulls away from the curb.

Nuremberg is positively huge in comparison to Reindeer Falls, with over half a million residents within the city and over three million in the metropolitan area. Seeing it before me, it makes me feel as though Reindeer Falls is a tiny dollhouse-sized replica, which pleases me greatly. I've heard Nuremberg has been dubbed the most German of German cities and while this is all I've seen of Germany, I'm inclined to agree. I've very nearly pressed my nose against the car window in an effort to drink it all in. We pass modern gas stations sandwiched between classic gothic architecture. We pass signs, some of which I can make out and some of which I can't. As we enter the old city I'm enchanted with the quaint medieval walkways, asphalt merging seamlessly with brick pavers.

We pass stores I want to explore and churches that look as though they've been standing a century or more. I know much of the old city was destroyed during World War II, but the rebuild is astounding in its authenticity.

We're staying in the old city. I was slightly disappointed to find out we were booked in a large American hotel chain instead of some charming local hotel, but I reminded myself I wasn't in Europe to have a romantic rendezvous with my boss. Any residual disappointment vanishes when the cab stops in front of the Sheraton. It's lovely and I'm officially excited.

Cab paid and bags in hand, we head inside. Nick checks us both in, me standing a bit uselessly off to the side while he chats with the desk clerk in German. I busy myself looking at a stand of glossy brochures touting various things to do in Nuremberg. Museums, walking tours, day trips and Christmas markets. My fingers are just brushing the edges of the Christmas market flyer when I feel Nick beside me. I snatch my fingers back from the flyer as if he's caught me reading a personal email on company time. It's nearly the same—we're here for work, I remind myself for the third time since the plane landed.

Nick hands me one of those tiny cardboard folders hotels slide room keys into, his fingers brushing mine with the transaction. I know we have two rooms, but suddenly the idea of sleeping at the same GPS coordinates as Nick feels like too much. The brush of his fingers against mine is too much. He's too much. My eyes drop to his lips and I swallow, quickly averting my gaze to the handle of my rolling suitcase. Sweet heavenly Yule log, why does he have to look so good? Everything about him is delicious and I'm so exhausted by it.

"See something you're interested in?" His voice is low, his tone as warm and seductive as those Christmas markets are to my mistletoe-encrusted heart. His voice sounds like sex. The good kind.

My gaze flies back to his. I’m blinking rapidly as I wonder if my expression gave me away. If I was so obvious in my appreciation of his stupid perfect face. If he knows that beneath my clothing I broke out into goosebumps when his finger brushed mine.

"No, nothing interesting," I finally manage. He glances between me and the rack of advertisements and back again.

"You look tired," he says after a long pause. And then, I'm not sure what happens, but I swear on Santa's life he nearly touches me, his hand lifting to within a few inches of my cheek before I flinch in surprise and he stops himself. "If you're not up for the meeting this afternoon I can attend without you."

"I'm fine!" I object immediately. If he's able to make the meeting, I'm able to make the meeting. Besides which, I don't know what to do with him when he's not being Scrooge-ish.

He smiles ruefully and shakes his head. "Of course you are." He gestures toward the elevators, guiding me in that direction. "We'll meet back in the lobby at two o'clock." His tone is back to the brisk coldness I'm used to and I find myself relaxing. Grinch Nick I know how to deal with.

Chapter 7

On day three of the trip, Nick surprises me.

"Change into something comfortable and meet me in the lobby in thirty," he says once we've returned to the hotel after a day spent with the Bavarian Bear company—an incredible experience and I have to admit Nick was correct in insisting I come. I was able to meet with the production staff and tweak the design for a new Bavarian Reindeer in development as well as see their bear café first hand and learn about the takeaway business. The manager was very forthcoming with information and ideas and I learned that pretzels are referred to as bretzels in Nuremberg, which gave me the idea to add a bretzel window to our takeaway storefront because it'll be an adorable nod to our German roots. Adorable and profitable. We'll capitalize on the foot traffic on Main Street looking for a quick snack in late afternoon or evening while using the same ovens from the café.

I can't wait to update the revenue forecasts and show them to Nick. I spent the entire cab ride back to the hotel filling him in on the idea, my mouth moving a mile a minute as the concept poured from my brain to my lips. I hadn't seen him most of the day as he'd had meetings separate from mine and I was more excited than I care to admit to run it past him.

This trip hasn't been what I expected, and in truth, maybe Nick isn't quite what I thought either. I actually felt guilty when I ate yesterday's Dickmas chocolate. I mean Advent chocolate. I mean—never mind. The point is, Nick's been decidedly un-Grinch-like on this trip. He hasn't baited me about anything or even mentioned Santana again. Outside of the office he's far more relaxed than I'm used to. Or maybe I'm the one who's more relaxed?

Either way, my guard is down.

Changing quickly into a pair of jeans and a cozy sweater, I pull my hair into a low pony before grabbing my scarf and jacket and heading back to the lobby. I'm zipping my jacket when Nick steps off the elevator. He's changed into a pair of jeans as well, a light down jacket zipped over his chest and a navy scarf looped perfectly around his neck. He's on his cell, gesturing toward the front door with a nod of his head. He's questioning the warehouse manager over a delay in processing a shipment that's put us two days behind schedule in shipping to retailers.

Nick is silent while he listens to whatever he's being told before he finally interrupts with, "Santa doesn't deliver on December twenty-sixth and neither do we. Fix it." Then he hangs up, dropping the phone into his pocket with one hand while hailing a cab with the other.

"Hauptmarkt," he tells the driver after we've both slid into the backseat.

Then there are several minutes of silence in which Nick tugs the phone out of his pocket to tap out an email with rapid, aggressive keystrokes and I watch the scenery pass, still unsure where we're headed.

"Everything okay?" I finally venture when the flurry of typing has stopped and a brief, irritated exhale leaves his lungs. Outside it’s dark, but the city is beyond romantic with its abundance of Christmas lighting. Strands of sparkly lights strung across the road. Lengths of evergreen strung over doors. Snow has settled into the valleys of the peaked roofs and magic is heavy in the air.

"It will be. The warehouse is over capacity and behind schedule. We're going to have to make some changes."

Before I can ask what that means the cab comes to a stop and Nick is passing Euro notes to the driver, door already open. By the time I slide out from the cab behind him my eyes are as round as two sugar cookies. Spread before us is the most magical Christmas market I've ever seen in my life. Actually, it's the only one I've ever seen in my life because we don't have a Christmas market in Reindeer Falls.

We're in the central square of Nuremberg's old town, a centuries-old church anchoring the space on one end and rows upon rows of stalls spread out ahead of us, each topped by red and white striped awnings. Light-wrapped garlands dangle between windows on the surrounding buildings. Mini-sparkle lights seem to drip from every available surface and the smell of everything wonderful hangs in the air. Roasting nuts, smoked sausages, and joy. It smells like Christmas.

But we can't possibly be here for this. I keep my feet firmly attached to the pavement as I glance around for whichever restaurant we must be headed to, thinking there must have been a business dinner added to tonight’s agenda. I bite my lip and tear my wistful expression away from the market, looking toward Nick as he takes my hand.

"I can't let you leave Nuremberg without experiencing the Christmas market."

"Yessss," I breathe out in one happy word. Nick laughs and the sound makes me warm all over. There's a brief moment in which I think he's going to continue holding my hand, until he looks down at my hand in his and shakes his head briefly, dropping my hand.

"Come on." He nods toward the market, a smile still tugging at his lips. "We'll eat Nuremberg sausages for dinner and drink mulled wine like locals."

I refrain from doing a childish twirl and head for the closest row of brightly lit stalls. I can't stop the giant smile from covering my face and I don't even try. There's so much to see I can hardly focus. Christmas tree ornaments and funny little figurines made from prunes. Nick tells me it's a market tradition and as we browse I see there are an endless variety of them. Prune scarecrows and prune bakers, prune couples kissing and prune doctors, even a prune Santa.

"The legend is, if you keep a prune man in your house money and happiness stay too."

Nick leans in to murmur the words close to my ear and I laugh, but a shiver runs down my spine and beneath my coat my skin prickles in awareness. Which is ridiculous, he's not even whispering words of seduction for crying out loud. The words ‘prune’ and ‘man’ in the same sentence are surely not a seduction.

I step back half a foot, but I buy a prune Santa Claus all the same. I'll find a place for him with my collection of Santas because of course I have a collection of Santas. It's got nothing to do with wanting a souvenir of this evening.

"You'll probably want to meet the Christkind," Nick mentions when we wander into a section of the market geared towards children. There's a merry-go-round that would melt the heart of the worst holiday skeptic along with a tiny train set on an oval track surrounding a cluster of Christmas trees and a four-foot-tall gingerbread house. I take a picture for Ginger.

"What's a Christkind?"

"She's the original Candy Cane Princess."

"Stop it." I elbow him in the ribs, sure he's goading me but for once not minding it.

"I'm serious." He dodges my elbow with ease, nodding toward a blonde teenager behind a velvet rope with a line of children waiting to take photos with her. She's got long curly locks, a foot-tall crown on her head and a matching gold gown. I observe the scene for a few seconds, realizing Nick is telling the truth. Clearly Reindeer Falls adapted this tradition from Nuremberg.

"Wow," I finally manage. "Her crown is so much bigger than the one I got."

We cover more ground, passing a gothic spire-shaped structure that must rise twenty feet in the air. Nick tells me it's a fountain, the Schöner Brunnen, dating back to the fourteenth century. Colorful figures adorn the fountain which is lit from below at night. Nick tells me they represent liberal arts and that two brass rings embedded into the wrought-iron fence surrounding the fountain are meant to bring good luck if you spin them.

He's the consummate tour guide.

And beyond patient as I stop to look at everything. Nothing is too small or odd to capture my interest. The market has so much to choose from my head is nearly spinning with Yuletide joy. Nick helps me pick out traditional gifts for my family: for Noel, an ornament handmade by a local craftsman; for my parents, an angel called a Rauschgoldengel. Her wings are coated in gold foil and Nick regales me with her legendary history.

Nick tells me that Nuremberg is famous for their gingerbread, which they call lebkuchen and have been baking for hundreds of years. It comes in every size and shape imaginable and with a variety of coatings. I purchase a wide variety for Ginger, knowing it will thrill her to sample and attempt to reconstruct the recipes.

"If you could have anything you wanted for Christmas, what would you ask for?" I question while we're waiting for the shopkeeper to bag up my collection of gingerbread. He's silent and I'm not sure he heard me so I turn, one eyebrow raised in question.

"Nothing I can have," he answers, and he seems uncomfortable, not looking directly at me. While I'm trying to decipher that he reaches past me to take the bag from the shopkeeper.

"I can carry that," I insist, trying to take it from him. Our fingers brush and that brief touch is enough to make my stomach drop and my breath catch.

It must be the Christmas market.

That's all.

I'm turned on by Christmas markets. Which makes sense, anyone would be. I bet the birthrate of Nuremberg skyrockets each September. They must pump pheromones into the air along with the scent of cinnamon. Get everyone all hot and bothered and drunk on mulled wine to ensure the continuity of the local population.

"Do you miss living in Europe?" I ask, suddenly curious. Curious about him in a way that has nothing to do with him being run over by a sleigh or hog-tied by a rogue tribe of elves.

"Of course," he replies. "But not as much as I missed Reindeer Falls."

My heart nearly stops. "You missed Reindeer Falls? As in, you always intended to come back?"

"I was always coming back." He looks at me strangely. "How could anyone not return to Reindeer Falls?"

"Right," I agree, except I'm nearly breathless. Because the air between us feels charged. Because his eyes softened when he said it. Because some people do leave, as quick as they can with no intention of returning.

I swear Nick is looking at my lips, but then I blink and I'm sure I imagined the entire thing. Perhaps they're chapped? I dig around in my handbag for a chapstick and smooth it across my lips as Nick looks over my shoulder at something or other.

"Come on, let's eat." Nick turns me in the direction of a food stall. The smell of smoked sausages permeates the air and my stomach growls. We each get a traditional Nuremberg sausage, which is three small sausages served in a bun. Then we grab drinks from another stall, which is the equivalent of a Christmas market bar—mulled wines and spiked eggnogs along with a variety of other drinks I can't decipher the names of. Drinks are served in a ceramic mug, which is both charming and environmental. The mugs can be returned for a partial refund, or kept as a souvenir.

I think we know what I'll be doing with my mug.

Nick insists I try the Glühwein, then laughs at the face I make after taking the first sip. It's essentially a red wine heated with spices and sugar, hints of cinnamon and cloves and a dash of vanilla heavy on my tongue. It’s stronger than I was expecting but I soon learn to embrace it.

We stand at tall round-topped tables while we eat, surrounded by others doing the same. Families with children in strollers and young professionals alike surround us. It appears the markets are a popular meeting spot for locals looking for a quick dinner or a drink with friends. Nick confirms this and it surprises me as I'd assumed it was geared toward tourists, but it charms me all the more knowing it's an authentic local experience.

"We need a Christmas market in Reindeer Falls," I tell him. "Or at the very least we need to add seasonal decorations to the front of the Teddy Bear Café to honor this magic." I wave a hand out before me to encompass the whole of the market, but we're interrupted before Nick can respond.

"Nick!"

A pretty brunette somewhere around our age stops at our table, grasping Nick by the shoulders and kissing him on both cheeks, greeting him with a flurry of words spoken in German.

"Johanna." Nick returns the greeting, a genuine smile crossing his face. He introduces me and explains that he used to work with Johanna when he was based in Nuremberg.

Johanna turns a friendly eye on me and gives me a quick hug of greeting, asking how I'm enjoying the city. I gush appropriately over the wonder and magic of the city, stopping abruptly when I catch Nick staring at me. Johanna smiles, a wide, easy grin covering her face before turning her attention back to Nick. Another flurry of German is exchanged between them. I don't miss the slight nod of her head in my direction or the flicker of Nick's eyes on me as he responds to whatever she's asked with a shake of his head. Johanna glances between us once again with a rueful smile before explaining in English that she has to run, her family is waiting on her, pointing to a tall man and a toddler in a stroller a few feet away.

"Auf wiedersehen." Nick reverts back to German to say goodbye, a brief hug exchanged before she disappears into the crowd.

I take a sip of my drink, watching him. I had the distinct impression they were talking about me, but it felt innocent. I think?

"What did she say? When you were talking to each other in German?" I ask a moment later, my curiosity getting the best of me. I’m chancing that whatever they were saying was innocuous and Nick will tell me. Or if it was awful, that he'll make something up to spare me.

He eyes me for a long moment, and I'm not sure he's going to respond. Either that or he doesn't want to share what the conversation was about and it's taking him a very long time to come up with a plausible story.

Curiosity piqued.

"She asked if we were sleeping together," he finally says. He doesn't break eye contact when he says it nor does he laugh or crack so much as a smile.

I choke on my drink.

"What?" I sputter around coughs, my heart racing faster than Rudolph on Christmas Eve. I focus on the table. The lights. The towering spire of the Schöner Brunnen. Anywhere but on Nick. "Right. As if," I finally manage, forcing myself to meet Nick's gaze. "What's the German word for ‘no?’" I ask with a big smile in an attempt to bring some levity to this conversation.

Another long stare. "Alles, was ich zu Weihnachten möchte, ist einen Kuss von dir," he says quietly, his eyes dropping briefly to my lips before he glances away. It felt like a caress, that glance. I'm not sure how that's even possible, but I felt it all the same.

I shiver, but I'm nowhere near cold.

Christmas market voodoo.

"That's a lot of words for ‘no,’" I finally manage.

"Yeah, complicated language." Nick balls up the wrappers from our sandwiches and tosses them in a nearby bin. "Come on, I want to show you something."

Chapter 8

"Are you sure we're allowed to do this?"

"Trust me." Nick flashes a smile at me when I glance back at him over my shoulder. We're climbing the stairs of the Church of Our Lady. The staircase is a spiral, winding us higher and higher, the stone steps narrow. At first I thought Nick made me go ahead so he could check out my ass, but now I'm grateful because if I slip he'll have to catch me.

And just maybe, being caught by Nick Saint-Croix wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.

Finally we reach a landing and I stop, slightly out of breath and grateful I keep up at least a cursory relationship with my gym. Nick isn't winded in the slightest. Hot jackal.

"Through there," he says, guiding me through a stone doorway to a balcony. Spread before us is the Christmas market in all its magical delight. From here we have a bird’s-eye view of the red and white booths below, the entire area lit by white lights glowing and twinkling, people happily strolling as far as I can see.

"Oh, wow." I breathe in the sight, tucking the moment into my heart. "This is amazing!"

Beside me Nick is quiet while I gasp, oohing and ahhing over the view. I take a picture, then turn with the phone still in my hands, unsure if Nick is bored and wanting to head back down.

He doesn't look bored.

He looks captivated.

But he's not looking at the view, he's looking at me.

Looking at me like he wants to kiss me.

My breath catches as he moves in a step closer, the stone half-wall pressing into my back, his head tilted over mine like he's going to kiss me. Oh, my Santa, he's really going to kiss me.

The moment stretches on for what feels like an eternity, his head bent over mine, his lips inches away. My heart is pumping so hard and I'm flushed from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. He places a hand on the side of my face, his thumb brushing across my cheek and his fingers tilting my neck a fraction to the right.

My heart is threatening to beat out of my chest. He's kissing me, right? There's nothing else he could be doing. If I had an eyelash on my cheek he'd have brushed it away already. If he needed to tell me something he could have told it to me from two feet away. He's going to kiss me, I cannot possibly be misinterpreting what is happening.

And…

I want him to. I want him to kiss me.

Badly. Desperately. More than anything in the entire world. I need to know what kissing Nick Saint-Croix would feel like.

And this slow descent to my lips is driving me crazy. Crazy with want. Dizzy with suspense. Am I surprised by this development? By the simmering of sexual tension? Or have I always known it was here, weakly hidden behind my denial? Tucked behind hating him? The energy between us is driving me to the brink. Mad with wanting and lust and longing. I've no idea how I've denied it this long because this… thing between us is real. As real and tangible and bright as the market below us.

I lean towards him, closing the remaining inch or two that separates our bodies until my chest is pressed against his. The countdown to Nick's lips pressing against mine is taking too long. Like an Advent calendar with far too many doors and the promise of everything you've ever wished for hidden behind the last one.

He smiles, the slightest tug of his lips when I press my body against his. As if he was waiting for it, as if my lean in was the equivalent of me waving a white flag. Maybe it was. The sole focus of my universe is Nick's lips.

He wets his bottom lip with his tongue and my knees nearly buckle. They might have, but I'm pinned between the wall and Nick so I remain upright. Then, finally, finally, finally, he dips his head lower and his lips are on mine.

Kissing Nick is like finding out that Santa is coming twice this year. And he's bringing things you didn't even think about putting on your list. I'll always associate the perfect kiss with the smell of roasting chestnuts and the hint of evergreen. With the brisk chill of winter nipping at my skin in stark contrast with the heat of our bodies. With the taste of mulled wine and the solid muscled weight of Nick wrapped around me.

I whimper low in my throat and press up on my tiptoes trying to get closer. His lips coax mine apart and he sucks gently at my bottom lip and I think I might very possibly die. Likely because I've forgotten to breathe. I suck in a breath and he repositions the angle, sliding his tongue into my mouth, and my heart nearly stops. Because it's good. It's perfect. This is the perfect kiss.

Grouchy Nick knows how to kiss. Knows exactly how to touch me to drive me wild. One hand cups the back of my neck, his fingers winding into the hair at my nape. The sensation puts every nerve ending on my body into high alert, wanting more. Wanting those warm fingers to caress every inch of me. He works the other hand under the hem of my jacket, slipping under my shirt just enough to touch a sliver of skin on my hip above the waistband of my jeans.

It's an innocent enough touch as touches go, but it doesn't make me feel innocent. It makes me feel wanton and reckless. It makes me feel as if all of this is a very good idea. More lips, more tongue, more touching. More Nick. My hands slide up his chest and wrap themselves around his neck. My leg wraps around his thigh as if I've no control over my own limbs. As if I'm attempting to climb him with the same curiosity and enthusiasm as a kitten climbing a Christmas tree.

Probably because I am.

I might even be willing to meow.

Nick meanwhile is as calm as a priest at midnight mass. I'm frantic and needy and gluttonous while he's the picture of self-control and restraint.

Except.

I can feel that he's not immune.

He's significantly not immune, if you get my drift.

The opposite of elf-sized.

I hum into his mouth and flex my hips against his leg. A moment later his hand is on my ass, supporting my weight as I attempt to dry-hump him in a church.

Oh, God.

Literally.

I'm making out with my hot boss in a church.

I pull back and blink, trying to clear my thoughts. Trying to understand how I got here. Nick dips his mouth to the side of my neck, pressing a trail of warm kisses along my skin as he loosens the leg wrapped around his waist and ensures I'm standing on two feet before he lets me go.

"Why did you do that? Why did you kiss me?" I'm breathing hard and leaning against the banister for support. Hot and bothered doesn't begin to describe my state of being at present.

"Because I wanted to." Not even a flinch. His voice is smooth and steady, his eyes not leaving mine. He runs two fingers over his bottom lip and it's all I can do not to tug him back to me. The tone of his voice sounds like every filthy thought I've ever had coated in a candy-cane sugar glaze.

"How come you've never done it before?"

My voice isn't smooth. It's distressed. Breathy. Needy.

He smiles at that. A wide grin that threatens to send my fingers straight to the button on his jeans. "Because you hate me."

"I don't always hate you," I object. It's true. It’s more of an eighty-twenty split between hate and lust. Eighty percent lust, obviously.

"That's good to know. Do you hate me right now?" He looks oddly… vulnerable? What is even happening right now? I feel as if the world is tilting beneath my feet.

"Not so much, no." I shake my head, confused. Yet not. I'm a mess.

"Good to know." He dips his head towards mine again but I put a hand on his chest, stopping him.

"Nick, what about Taryn?"

"Taryn?" He frowns, clearly confused by both the interruption and the question.

"You're not dating her?"

"No, we're just friends."

I think about that for a moment, contemplating all the meanings of ‘friends.’ "Are you naked friends?" I press.

He shakes his head, seemingly amused with my description. "Fully clothed friends."

"Okay." I nod, leaning in toward him then stopping myself before our lips touch again. "I broke up with Santana." I say it without a hint of irony then fist my fingers into Nick's jacket to tug him closer.

"Glad to hear it." Nick smiles, his lips brushing against mine in a whisper. There's something about the hover of his lips over mine that makes my heart stop. That makes me wet in the place I want him most. That makes my heart beat in anticipation and sets loose a gaggle of butterflies in my stomach.

"How long have you wanted to kiss me?" I ask, my voice barely audible. Wondering if this interest of his is going to disappear as fast as it's appeared.

"Since the first day."

"The first day?" I lean back with a doubtful frown. "When I brought reindeer cupcakes to the office and you made fun of me?"

"That exact day," he murmurs while pressing a soft kiss to the corner of my mouth. "But to be fair, it was the middle of June."

I shrug. It is fair, but they were reindeer cupcakes to celebrate his uncle’s last day and Nick's first day at the Reindeer Falls Toy Company, so it'd made sense to me.

"You're scowling," Nick says while simultaneously running his hand along my thigh. The thigh that's somehow found itself wrapped around his waist again. And we're no longer on the balcony, because Nick has somehow walked us backward a few steps to the alcove at the top of the stairs.

"I am not. I don't scowl. You scowl." I rub my chest against his and wind my fingers into the hair at his nape.

"It's not a scowl when it's directed at you. It's pent-up sexual frustration," he murmurs into my ear.

Oh.

Hmm.

"What are you doing?" I manage to ask when he's slipped his hand into my pants. I mean, I sort of get where he's going with this, but I have just enough sense of propriety left in me to wonder if we should change locations first. "Should we move this back to the hotel?"

"You can't wait that long."

Accurate. Still I manage to push the words "we're in a church" past my lips. But only just barely, because his fingers have slid low enough to part me while the tip of his middle finger brushes my clit with a gentle stroke.

"No one's around." He tugs the lobe of my ear between his lips as he murmurs into my ear. "Let me take care of you."

There's not a lot of speaking after that. It's mostly me breathing heavily as if I'm being fingered on the balcony of a church, because that is indeed what's happening.

"You've been driving me crazy since the day I got back to Reindeer Falls," Nick murmurs into my ear between erotic kisses that trail up and down my throat, pressing softly against my lips and running over my jaw.

Nick knows what he's doing with his fingers. He's focused and deliberate with each tap of his forefinger, each circle drawn, every slide downward to rim my opening. It's the most intense experience I've ever had with my clothes on, or off for that matter. He's gentle in a way that makes me take long deep breaths as sensation washes over me in waves. When he slips a single finger inside, my head drops back and I groan loud enough to echo.

"You're prickly and a little uptight."

"Am not," I deny. His thumb brushes my clit now that his finger is otherwise detained and this seems like a very unfair time to accuse me of being uptight. I'm the exact opposite of uptight. At least right at this moment.

"I'm into it," he says, his voice hot and gruff in my ear. I clench around his finger in a tiny needy spasm.

Okay. Maybe I am those things. "You're kind of a jerk," I point out.

"Maybe I am." He smiles against my neck. "But you're into it too." Then he covers my mouth with his so I don't have to respond. His tongue makes a slow sweep across my bottom lip and I shiver, not because I'm cold but because I'm so close to coming I might die from needing it. Because Nick knows exactly how to touch me, every movement precise and exacting. He adds a second finger to the first and pumps them into me, softly, stroking my inner walls with deft skill while his thumb brushes across my clit and his tongue wrangles with mine.

His fingers are coated with me, easing his manipulation of every sensitive nerve ending. And I know—even if I live to be one hundred I'll never experience anything quite like this again.

When he massages the exact right spot inside of me while pressing firmly on my clit with his thumb, I shatter. Because Nick is a master at eliciting my feelings. Annoyance, antagonism, indignation, passion, lust in one explosive bundle between my thighs.

I'm melted against him, one leg still on the ground but the entirety of my weight supported by Nick. My head is resting in the crook of his shoulder, my face resting against his chest while I try to regain my equilibrium. When he slides the fingers he just had inside of me into his mouth I nearly die from the eroticism of it. And the humiliation.

Did I really just let my boss finger-fuck me in a church? On a business trip? Did he just lick my orgasm off of his fingers?

Yeah, that all just happened.

"Don't overthink it, Holly," Nick says as he buttons my pants, tugging the zipper into place. I bite my bottom lip between my teeth and stare at a seam on the shoulder of his jacket until he takes my chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilts my head back enough to position me for another kiss. But he doesn't kiss me. Not yet. He waits until I look at him, then he smiles. His green eyes sparkle in the dim lighting as a slow smile spreads over his face, his head tilted over mine again in that slow torturous hover, his lips just inches away. He touches his forehead to mine, brushing a strand of hair over my shoulder while pulling me closer until our bodies are pressed together from hip to chest.

Then he kisses me.

Chapter 9

We leave the church before I can undo Nick's pants.

I would have. I'd have undone my boss’s pants in a church if he'd let me, which makes it official. I'm absolutely, positively on Santa's naughty list this year.

The moment we step out of the church Nick takes my hand and tugs me into the crowd, not letting go until we're in the back of a cab. Once there I act like a weirdo, sliding too far over to allow for cuddling and staring at my fingers in my lap. Gloves. I had gloves at one point this evening, didn't I? I've got no idea where they are now though. Gone along with my sanity.

When I rub my hands together in nervous anticipation Nick pulls my gloves from his pocket and hands them to me. How the hell he got them, I've no idea. They're a pale wintery blue, matching my scarf. I tug them onto my hands and resume twiddling my fingers like this is the first time I've been in the backseat with a member of the opposite sex.

It sort of is, come to think of it. I haven't been in a backseat since high school, and that definitely wasn't a cab.

Listen, I know Nick just made me come all of fifteen minutes ago, but if he doesn't want to continue this back at the hotel I will… well, I have no idea what I'll do. No amount of masturbation could ever replace the feeling of Nick's hands on my body.

What am I even thinking? This is insanity! All of it. When we get back to the hotel I'll say thank you for a lovely evening and go back to my room and Nick will go back to his room and we'll pretend this never happened. I must have been high on the scent of roasting chestnuts and Nick. That's the only thing that makes sense.

I start tapping my fingers onto my thighs, faster than a drummer in an aggressive rock band. A drummer wearing pale blue knit gloves that result in a nearly silent beat. I feel Nick staring at me so I turn my head. He's turned toward me, his arm resting along the headrest behind us, a knowing smile on his face.

Because he knows the sounds I make when I come and how I taste. He knows exactly how wet I get and how I feel squeezing his fingers when I come. I turn red. I'm sure of it. I can feel heat flush my face. Perhaps I have the flu. I stare straight ahead and try to estimate how far we are from the hotel. I swear the ride to the market was faster than this return trip.

"Tell me what you're thinking about, Holly."

"Nothing."

"We both know that's untrue."

"I was just thinking about a… spreadsheet." Sure, that's normal.

"A spreadsheet," Nick deadpans in reply.

"Hmm-hmm," I murmur, darting a look at him from the side of my eye. He picks up a strand of my hair and slides it between his fingers. I can barely feel it, only the slightest tug at the root, but it doesn't matter. He might as well be running his fingers over my naked skin, I'm so aware of the slightest brush or stroke when it comes from Nick.

"I must have done a very poor job of distracting you then." He says the words softly, only audible enough for me to hear. And he's somehow slid closer than he was a moment earlier, one hand on my thigh and the other still twined in the end of my hair.

"Do you prefer me distracted?" I chance a glance in his direction, my chest already rising and falling rapidly. His hand has slid up my thigh, his fingers wrapped around my inner thigh. There's a layer of denim between us, but if I didn't know better I'd swear I was naked. I'm positively throbbing for his hand to slide an inch further.

"Very much so." His lips dip to that spot just behind my ear. The spot that seems to have a direct line to my clit. Although to be fair, every spot that Nick touches seems to have this effect on me. "Not that I don't get off discussing spreadsheets with you."

I shoot him a look, unsure if he's teasing but not sure I care. He squeezes my thigh. Gently, just a slight increase of pressure, and I know there is no way we're not seeing this through. I'm going to drag him back to my hotel room and take off his pants.

A moment later we're making out in the backseat in ways I hadn't even dreamed up yet in high school. When Nick raises me off his lap far enough to slip his wallet from his pants I pause, disoriented and high from making out. I think he's grabbing a condom right up until the moment he pulls a few Euros from his wallet, handing it to the driver with one hand while reaching for the door with the other. Because the cab has stopped. Because we're at the hotel.

Which is good, because I was seriously contemplating back-of-cab sex as an option.

Once we're on the sidewalk in front of the hotel, Nick stalls. I feel like I'm in a snow globe with him. The world around us is still moving, lights burning brightly, cars whizzing past on the street and so help me, a light scattering of snow has started to fall. A snowflake lands on Nick's eyelash.

"Holly." He takes my hands in his, his eyes searching mine. He looks… uncertain? "We should talk."

Talk? Is he out of his mind? He wasn't interested in talking in the cab. I could feel just how uninterested he was in conversation pressed against my thigh.

"No." I'm shaking my head back and forth before he's finished his sentence. "Let's not."

"Let's not talk?" He's smiling at me when he says it so I can only imagine I look as crazy as I feel. Disheveled and crazed with lust.

"Nope." I shake my head and place a fingertip over his lips to shush him. One blue-gloved finger over his perfect, full bottom lip. Yeah, firm no on talking. "Follow me," I instruct, then turn on my heel and walk into the hotel. I don't stop until I've reached the elevator bank and hit the button to summon an elevator.

Nick leans on the wall next to the elevator, hands in pockets and a slight smirk on his face as he silently observes me. I fold my hands primly in front of me and watch the buttons above the elevators, willing them to move faster. I only notice my toe is bouncing frantically when I catch Nick's eyes trailing down my leg to my foot.

I swear I'm gonna four-star this hotel if the elevator doesn’t arrive in the next fifteen seconds. I steady my foot and remove my gloves, stuffing them into my pockets. I notice that Nick has all the stuff I bought earlier tonight. Which is good, because I'd have left it all in a heap in the church and remembered it sometime next week.

An elevator arrives and I step inside, pressing four. Nick's on five. He doesn't hit the button for five. The elevator stops on three and I nearly combust at the delay. A middle-aged guy gets on wearing workout gear and pushes the button for the gym on six. Finally, finally, finally the elevator stops on four, but I've already mentally deducted a star for the elevator not moving at the same speed as an amusement park thrill ride.

Nick places a hand over the open elevator door and gestures for me to precede him. But not one foot past the threshold he says my name and I turn to find him still standing in the elevator doorway, a relaxed smile on his face.

"Am I still following you?" He asks it like it's a genuine question, but his eyes are teasing.

Hardy har har. Who knew Nick Saint-Croix was such a jokester?

I exhale and tug him from the elevator. He follows me down the hallway without another word, blissfully. When we reach my door I'm shaking as I wave the key card in front of the lock.

I'm not facing him when the door clicks shut behind him, the room dimly lit from the small amount of light coming in from the street below. Behind me I hear Nick set the packages down on the dresser and unzip his jacket. It's possibly the loudest zipper in all of Europe. I unzip mine as I turn to face him, already toeing off my boots as I let my coat drop to the floor.

I'm well aware that I've been in denial about even the idea of having sex with Nick for some time, but now that I'm alone in a hotel room with him I want it now. Right this second. As in I'm likely to tear his clothing off if he's too slow about it. He must like his shirt because it comes off a moment after the jacket clears his arms.

He's tall and lean and I'm thankful for whatever he does in the gym.

My jeans are already around my ankles, one foot impatiently attempting to wiggle free of the material. I nearly trip myself trying to fling them from my ankles but Nick catches me when I start to wobble.

"Relax. I'm not going anywhere, Holly." He breathes the words into my ear and my heart is beating so fast I'm surprised I can hear them. This is the moment. The moment right before good sex. When you're both partly undressed and you know it's going to happen and you know it's going to be good and every nerve in your body is on high alert.

He inches my shirt up my sides with slow precision, his hands lightly skimming against me as the material rises inch by inch.

He's going to kill me. Just the drag of his fingertips is driving me wild. It's like I've never been touched before, and honestly maybe I haven't. Not like this. Not with this degree of anticipation. Not with this level of skill.

He eases my top over my head and drops it to the floor. I expect my bra to be next but instead Nick's fingers are on the elastic in my hair, gently tugging it free from my ponytail until the hair fans around my shoulders. Then, with lips working their way down my neck to my collarbone, he unclasps my bra and slides the straps down my arms. Slowly. Like I'm a present to be carefully unwrapped.

I'm dying and he's moving in slow motion. Examining every inch of me. Soft kisses, gentle caresses. I move my hands to his belt and unfasten his pants with none of the finesse that he's showing. Unsnap, unzip, tug. It doesn't speed him up in the least. He drags a lazy thumb under my chin, tilting my head back so he can lean in for a kiss. In bare feet I come up to his shoulder; I'd need a step stool to reach his lips if he wasn't bending to meet me. Turns out I don't need a stool because Nick lifts me clear off my feet, my legs coming to rest around his hips as he walks me to the bed like we've done this dance before. My nipples brush against his chest hair and I groan into the kiss.

Nick lowers us to the bed, carefully supporting my weight until I'm on the mattress, then sliding over me. His body molds against mine—the curve of my hips, the flat of his stomach. The friction of his skin against mine is more erotic than I'd have thought possible.

"I want these off." I shove at his underwear, my hands sliding under the elastic to palm his ass. I tilt my hips up at the same time to press him against me.

Oh. Oh, my.

"I'm not sure there's room for you at the inn," I whisper.

He blinks, confused by my nonsense but a small smile on his face as if he's amused nonetheless. "What?"

I wrap a hand around the length of him and stroke.

His eyes flare and he hisses out a breath. Good. Maybe it's my turn to drive him a little crazy. To speed things up. I add a twist to my wrist and slide. His head dips and his breathing increases. His pupils are dilated and he's looking at me in a way I want to memorize forever.

The weight of him is heavy in my hand. Warm and hard and large enough to give me a thrill of anticipation along with a hint of anxiety. I rub my thumb over the tip of him and listen in satisfaction to his low growl.

"You're distracting me," he announces a moment later and I find my hands pinned over my head, clasped firmly in one of his. I buck lightly against him and he pins me in place with a thigh wedged between mine as his mouth moves down my neck to my collarbone.

Now I'm the one growling.

And he's back controlling the pace. Maddeningly.

"I'm not distracting, I'm efficient." I gasp when he fastens his lips around my nipple. I tilt my hips toward him, as much as I'm able with him on top of me, begging wordlessly.

"Efficiently driving me crazy, yes."

He kisses me everywhere. Every inch of me burns in the wake of his lips.

He's gentle, and it's dizzying in its surprise. So different than what I'd have expected of him.

Finally he rises from the bed and finds his pants on the floor, returning with a condom. He's already torn the package with his teeth, rolling it over his length while I watch.

Then he's kneeling over me on the bed once more, his eyes on mine as his thigh nudges between mine, spreading my legs wide so he can settle in the valley of my legs. The weight of his erection on my stomach makes my skin burn with urgent need and I don't think I've ever wanted someone as much as I want Nick in this moment. My want is too big an emotion to even quantify and when he leans down and kisses me, the air is weighted with anticipation.

When he nudges into me it's with more gentleness than I'd have ever given him credit for. He's heavy inside of me. Heavy and thick and I'm deliciously full. I tip my hips towards him, silently begging for more, but Nick simply grins and dips his head to kiss the side of my neck as he eases inside of me with an agonizing slowness. As if he's enjoying every inch like its own delicious course.

This isn't how I imagined it—when I dared to imagine what it would be like between us. I imagined a frantic hate-fuck. This is not that. This is suspiciously like making love. A thought I shove out of my head as fast as it appears.

Nick would never do shoddy work, even in this. That's all.

My chest heaves beneath him and I run my hands down his back, touching every spot I can reach. Reveling in the feel of his skin beneath my fingers. He feels so good. Over me, inside of me.

I slowly yield to him, stretched around him as he slides deep. I wriggle under him, adjusting to the invasion and near ready to beg all over again. Finally, buried deep, he stops, not pulling back to give us the stroke we both need.

"Tell me you like me," he says. He's braced on his forearms over me, his head bent, our foreheads barely touching. His eyes are on mine and his jaw is clenched with the effort of holding himself still inside of me.

All the air leaves my lungs. What?

"Admit it," he growls, pressing a kiss softly to my lips, pulling my bottom lip between his.

"I'm feeling… fond of you right now," I offer.

He rolls his eyes but flexes his hips, giving us what we both want, finally beginning to stroke in and out at a pace I'm sure is meant to drive me to madness. I wiggle and buck beneath him, frantic to increase the tempo, overwrought to answer this building pressure between my legs. To see this union to its conclusion. Right this very instant.

"I can be fast," I implore with another attempt to increase the tempo, my fingers digging into his back and my bossy hips nearly frantic to come. "I'm so close."

This time Nick laughs, his eyes sparkling in amusement as he slips one hand down to hold my hip firmly in place. "Relax," he tells me, when I can do anything but. But he forces me to, with his maddening insistence on a rhythm benefiting us both. Deep, tireless strokes until I've given in completely. My body pliable and soft beneath him.

And as soon as I give into it, let go of the overthinking and the urgency, I'm lost in how pleasurable it is. When my orgasm arrives I'm not anxiously awaiting its arrival, afraid it will run off if I don't pay it enough attention. And when it hits it's all the better. Like a surprise party you didn't have to plan yourself.

Nick holds off his own release until I've ridden out every last spasm of joy. A couple of erratic thrusts of his hips are followed by a low groan and my name on his lips as he settles deep inside of me. His lips are on my temple and our chests are pressed together.

He flips us over, still joined.

"I thought you'd be quicker," I finally say, still breathing hard. I'm rising and falling in tune with Nick's breathing beneath me, sprawled across his chest. My face is turned to the side, pressed into the crook of his neck. I don't want to move.

"I don't do quick."

"Probably why you're always so cranky at the office."

"Yeah." His breath tickles my ear. "That's probably exactly it, Holly."

Chapter 10

He really doesn't do quick. Once we’re able to rouse ourselves from the bed we take a shower together, a snug fit in a hotel bathroom. He insists on soaping me himself, long sweeping caresses that do more to rile me up for round two than to cleanse. Thorough. Thoroughly seductive. Thoroughly making me question just what in the hell we’re doing.

When every inch of me is caressed and washed and patted dry we head back to bed. But now I'm warm and glowing and ready for more. Until he says the words I least want to hear.

"I don't have another condom."

I nearly have a fit, until I remember my Advent condom. I mean Advent calendar. Which, as it turns out, really was a Countdown-to-Dickmas calendar.

"I can still make you come though," he murmurs into my neck, which is a generous offer all things considered. Warm kisses accompany his words, fingers already sliding along the curve of my hip, pulling me closer. I shiver before remembering I have another solution to our problem.

"I have one," I announce, pulling out of his embrace. Nick watches, lounging back on the bed, one arm behind his head as I slide out of his embrace and return with my Advent calendar, wiggling it in the air like a magician displaying their next trick before I punch though the door marked Dickmas. Retrieving the condom, I hold it up between two fingers with a look of triumph.

"Ta da!" I announce when Nick simply stares at me.

"Did you just procure a condom from an Advent calendar?" he asks, his voice a little incredulous.

"Maybe?" I offer in response. "That's not really important right now, is it?"

He stares at me a moment longer, as if assessing. "I suppose not."

"Good." I toss the condom next to his head and swing a leg over his hips, straddling him. Then I run my fingernails lightly down his chest, committing the image to memory. He's beautiful. And for tonight, he's all mine and I'm going to make good use of every minute.

"You’re very eager for me to return to the inn, Holly." He trails a fingertip down my upper arm and I shiver in anticipation.

I also blush because he clearly didn't miss my little comment about the inn. I shrug and flex my hips against him. "You were an excellent inn guest. Five stars."

"I thought you might deduct a star for the delayed check-out."

Okay. Who the hell knew Nick Saint-Croix had a sense of humor? Not me. I laugh and Nick looks at me like he's never seen me before. Probably because I'm not normally smiling in his presence. I'm not normally naked in his presence either. Good Lord, what am I doing? My dream job. My boss.

This is a disaster. Pretending we can go back to normal tomorrow is lunacy, right? Tomorrow I'll know what Nick Saint-Croix looks like naked and what he feels like inside of me. Tomorrow will be awkward.

I'm ruining my life.

"I like it when you smile," he says, after a long pause. A long pause in which I'm staring at his chest and thinking about my life choices, the smile already gone from my face.

It's dark outside. It's still tonight—and I'm making the most of tonight. I run my hands up his chest as I slide myself on top of him until our chests touch, until our lips meet and I put everything else but right here and now out of my mind.

"No talking," I remind him, slapping my palm across his mouth in a ridiculously childish gesture. I catch myself and shrug, sliding my hand behind his neck. He just stares at me as if I'm a complicated puzzle he's trying to figure out.

Then his eyes drop, trailing across my breasts in a slow indecent caress, and I'm torn between wanting to cover myself and leaning into it. I settle for examining him while he has his fill of looking at me. I run my fingers along his jaw, feeling the stubble against my fingertips. Dragging them up to his ear and running them through the close-cut hair at his nape. I'd always wondered if his hair would feel as good as it looked. It feels better. Thick and dark, chocolatey brown and delicious. He's delicious. I press my fingertips into the back of his neck, reveling in the strength and feel of him.

Nick groans and pulls me closer, kissing me before shifting me up on his lap to capture a nipple between his lips.

Now we're both groaning.

"Don't stop," he says. "Don't stop touching me." So I don't. My fingers are eager to trail along his shoulders and wind themselves in his hair, my tongue equally eager. Eager to lick and taste and suck every bit of Nick I can reach. Added to the list of things you shouldn't know about your boss? What he tastes like. Heaven help me.

When he flips me over and kisses his way down my stomach I'm sure I'll expire from pleasure and embarrassment. I try to stop him once his destination is clear. Not sure I'm ready for that burned into my memory. Surely I'll never be able to focus on anything again, distracted by the memories of Nick’s head between my thighs. But Nick shushes me with my own words. "No talking, right?" And then he spreads my thighs wide enough for his broad shoulders to settle between and I decide that none of this counts. I might as well enjoy the full Nick Saint-Croix experience before the clock strikes midnight and I turn back into myself and he turns back into a jerk.

That's what I tell myself anyway. For the ten or so seconds I still have rational thought.

* * *

Nick's second visit to the inn is even better than his first, which sounds like a ridiculous thing to say, but it's true. Sexually, he's ideal.

"Holly," he starts after it's over and I'm resting my head on his chest. I feel a conversation coming on so I place a finger over his mouth and shush him. Talking right now would be like starting a New Year’s diet the day after Christmas instead of waiting until January first. Premature. Unnecessary. A very bad idea.

"I'm sleeping," I tell him and keep my eyes pressed shut. I don't stop using him as a pillow, however.

He exhales underneath me, his breath tickling the top of my head, but he remains quiet, playing with the ends of my hair until I'm not lying about being asleep.

Chapter 11

The next day I'm weirder than usual. I know this to be true because Nick tells me so.

"Why are you suddenly being weirder than usual?"

This comes during the car ride on the way to a meeting he has with Friedrich Trains. The company is located about an hour outside of Nuremberg so Nick has rented a car to take us there, a fact I should be grateful for because it means we're having this conversation in private instead of in front of a cab driver.

It's the first chance we've really had to talk, as this morning he kissed me on the forehead as he slipped out of bed, telling me he'd meet me in the lobby in an hour. He turned on my shower on his way out, with a, "Fifty-five minutes, Miss Winter," on his way out the door.

The forehead kiss is the worst of all the kisses, don't you think? It's like a breakup kiss. Gah! Not that we were together. Of course not. See, this is why sleeping with your boss is always a bad idea. Sexual relationships are tricky enough all on their own without the added complications and confusion of adding a weird power dynamic into it.

"Because we had sex, Nick! And you're my boss," I add, in case he doesn't realize how weird that detail makes this for me. He blinks, the movement a flinch, as if I've just called him an asshole to his face. "And we're never doing that again, obviously. And now it's weird."

"Obviously," he repeats, and my heart sinks even though he's repeating my own words back to me. So he agrees? That it's never happening again? Well, good. We're on the same page then. That'll keep this from being messier then needed.

Except I suddenly feel like crying, which is ridiculous. I don't even like him.

"Right," I agree.

"Right."

Okay then. I guess all Nick has to add to this conversation is repeating whatever I say. I stare out the window and watch the landscape pass. I hate to admit it, but foreign gas stations and supermarkets and the like are still charming to me, even in the midst of my angst. Esso, Rewe, Aldi. Okay, yeah, we have Aldi at home. Not in Reindeer Falls, but there's a couple in Saginaw.

"I can't believe I slept with you. You're my boss. My hot Grinch, amazing-at-sex boss."

"Twice," he points out, after a short pause. "You slept with me twice. And you came four times."

Well. That was a humblebrag if I've ever heard one. True, but still. I wonder if he'll think about it in the office. During the Monday meetings when I'm on the hot seat being grilled about profit margins, will his mind flash to memories of me asking him to make me come? Begging him for more? Demanding it faster and harder and deeper.

Just kill me now.

Because even if he's not remembering it, I will be. And then I'll wonder if he's wondering if I'm remembering.

"Well, don't worry about it. The night is over and today it's like nothing ever happened. Okay?" I slice my hand through the air like that's some kind of clean slate. "We're good. I'm good. I'm cool. I'm a professional. I realize this can't happen again. We were temporarily insane. We'll never mention it again. What happens in Nuremberg stays in Nuremberg."

Nick shifts in his seat, his left hand moving to straighten his tie, trapped under the seat belt, before he speaks.

"Holly." He pauses and I think he's not going to say more but then he does and it's worse than anything else he's said. Probably in the history of my knowing him. "You should talk to human resources if I've made you uncomfortable." His tone is calm. Resigned even, as if I'm some kind of an issue to be dealt with.

"You mean your aunt, Nick? You want me to tell your aunt that I've seen your penis? Because that's who runs the human resource department. At your uncle's company. Where you're my boss. Or would you prefer I discuss this with the other employee in our personnel department? Which just happens to be"—I pause here for dramatic effect even though we both know exactly who I'm referring to—"your sister."

"Technically you report to Sam," he points out. As if this is the time or place.

"Technically that makes you my boss’s boss."

"Yeah, Holly, it does." He sounds peevish now. "Reindeer Falls isn't exactly a big city. Sorry we happen to work at the same place," he adds dryly.

Oh, my word. Did he just imply there's not enough women to choose from in Reindeer Falls? Am I a default lay? I may not be European sophisticated but I am a former Miss Candy Cane Princess, and that's a very big deal.

Also, yes. That sounded ridiculous even to me in my own head. I cross my arms across my chest. Peevish with Nick. Peevish with myself.

He could have just hooked up with an old naked friend in Nuremberg last night if he's so particular about his selection pool. Jackal.

The rest of the ride—and the day for that matter—doesn't go much better. We're both more irritable than two people who had that much great sex the night before have any right to be. Nick is back to his Scrooge-like self. He spends the rest of the ride leaving voicemails for people back in the States, where it's barely morning. Once we arrive at the meeting, I feel sort of useless because the Friedrich Trains account isn't one of mine so there's no point in my being at the meeting. Not really. I'm only along for the ride because I came to Germany for the Bavarian Bear meetings and it's not like Nick was going to leave me in the hotel to relax all day. A fact he confirms when we arrive at Friedrich Trains and he tells me I can take notes to pass along to Sam. Which of course I would, but it just makes me feel secretarial to be told to do it.

I hate feeling secretarial.

And I'd run the hell out of the Friedrich Trains account if I had it. It belongs to Harold at the moment. He's one of the product managers who objected the loudest over the gender bias reporting we were asked to submit a few months ago. Not surprisingly, he believes that boys are the primary user of toys by choice, not because the advertising has historically targeted boys. I don't agree. Everyone loves trains. If the account was mine I'd develop a train set called the Reindeer Falls Express and market it as a family heirloom item—meant for everyone. A set that would be taken out each Christmas when the tree went up, the track laid in a perfect circle at the bottom. And then I'd develop a toy version made out of wood to appeal to younger parents seeking toys with a vintage feel. And I'd market it to boys and girls.

Something I tell Nick when we're on our way back to the hotel late that afternoon. After twenty minutes of silence I can't take it anymore and I burst forth with all of my ideas. Not only because I'm passionate about everything the Reindeer Falls Toy Company does, but because I'm passionate about alleviating awkward silences.

"I know you would," is his response. That’s it. The entirety of his response.

I want to kill him. What the hell does that mean? That he wouldn't? That my ideas are terrible? That he thinks trains are for boys too? Urggggh!

I slump back in my seat and plot his demise. I'm overreacting. I know it. I know it.

"They're good ideas," I finally manage through clenched teeth.

"I never said they weren't," he replies like he hasn't a care in the world.

We don't say anything for the rest of the trip. That evening we have a work dinner with a local vendor. It's a blessedly large dinner, so I beeline for the opposite end of the table from Nick when we arrive. I end up stuck between a boring guy who wants to talk to me about American baseball on one side and a woman who wants to talk to me about Nick on the other. It's still worth it because I need the distance from Nick.

Worth it—and horrible all at the same time. Because I catch him glancing in my direction a few times when I'm glancing in his and it's torture.

"Is he seeing anyone? Do you know?" This from the woman beside me. The one clearly enamored with him, based on the focus of her every question.

"Engaged," I tell her, before I even know what's coming out of my mouth. But really, is it my job to find him a hookup for tonight? I don't think so. "To a nice girl in Reindeer Falls. He talks about her nonstop. Spring wedding. Totally whipped."

"Whipped?" The woman's brows rise and I contemplate that the meaning of the word may not have translated in the way I'd intended. The woman's English is flawless, but her native language is German. I glance over to Nick. He's staring at me, his head bent so he can hear what the man next to him is saying. "Yup," I reply, doing my best to keep the smile from my face. "It's always the quiet ones, right?"

"I suppose," she agrees and with one last lingering, but now slightly puzzled glance at Nick, she turns her attention to the person sitting on the other side of her.

I take a sip of wine and smile. It's a smug smile. Sue me.

* * *

"You looked cozy with Hans," Nick comments as we walk back to the hotel after dinner. The restaurant we met at is only just around the corner from our hotel so we've not bothered with a cab.

"Who?"

"The guy looking down your shirt at dinner," Nick replies drily.

"Oh, him. Sure, he was lovely." Lovely, if you enjoy that sort of thing. "Maria wanted your number," I offer, against my better judgement. Why am I telling him that? Do I want to see what he'll say? Do I care?

"Maria?"

"The woman sitting next to me at dinner eye-fucking you all night."

"Hmm. Did you give it to her?"

He's stepped behind me a bit to give room to a couple passing us in the opposite direction so I can't see his face. I refrain from jabbing him in the ribs with my elbow before responding.

"No. I told her you were impotent and not to waste her time."

"Hmm," he murmurs, the tone giving me nothing. "Interesting."

"Did you want me to run back and give it to her?"

"No, you were right. It would be a waste of her time."

"Can't squeeze her in before our flight in the morning?"

We've entered our hotel and I've turned to face him. He's not looking at me, his focus instead on the large Christmas tree decorating the lobby.

"Is that what you think of me?" he finally says, meeting my eyes. I'm tempted to reach out and run my fingertip over his bottom lip, just to feel him against my skin in some way again, but I stop my twitchy traitorous hand from moving. Just barely. "That I'm happy to fuck anyone who offers?"

"She's hardly just anyone. You've met her, she's quite pretty." Honestly, I should have told her he was impotent in addition to the dominatrix insinuation, just to cover all my bases.

"Holly," he murmurs and I'm flustered. Because hearing him say my name instead of Miss Winters has always sounded like sex to me and now I have all the accompanying visuals to confirm it.

"I don't know." I look away, uncomfortable with his stare. "No. That was rude. And unprofessional. I apologize."

"It's fine." He jabs his hands in his pockets in a grumpy gesture I've become familiar with. "My language was unprofessional as well."

"No worries."

And that's how we end it. No worries. Who even says ‘no worries?’ Old people. Old ladies with cats, which is exactly how I'm going to end up because all other men are ruined for me now. None of them will ever measure up. And worse, I'll never look at an Advent calendar the same way again. Or Christmas lights. Or the scent of cinnamon and cloves.

Bavarian Bears. The taste of mulled wine. The entire nation of Germany.

It's all crap now.

Chapter 12

"So he told you how he felt and you rejected him."

"I did not. That did not happen." I'm shaking my head before Ginger has finished speaking.

It's the week before Christmas and I'm at Ginger's house delivering the gingerbread I bought her in Nuremberg and recapping my trip with Nick. Nick, who I haven't seen since we returned to Reindeer Falls. He took off on another business trip on Monday. An unscheduled business trip. My Advent calendar is sitting in a drawer filled with unopened doors because he was supposed to be in the office this week.

"Holly, are you nuts? What exactly did you want him to say? That he's borderline in love with you? You asked him why he kissed you and he said because he wanted to. He told you he'd been wanting to kiss you since the first day he met you. WAKE UP, HOLLY," she adds in a shout.

"You're very tense about this gingerbread competition."

"I'm very tense about your idiocy."

"Well. Somebody has the Christmas spirit." I slump over her kitchen table, chin in palm, pouting.

"Was the sex awful? The sex following the most romantic kiss on a church balcony that's likely ever occurred in the history of time?" Then just in case I forget her stance on the topic she mutters, "You blind bat," under her breath but loud enough for me to hear.

"Why are you swearing at me like an old woman from the 1940's?"

"Holly." Ginger sighs my name as she loads a loaf of ginger something or other into her oven and joins me at the table. "Let's go over this again. In detail."

"I'm not totally romantically inept, you know. I am older than you," I point out. "Bossy brat."

"So he kissed you on a church balcony," Ginger starts, ignoring my jab. "You swooned."

"I did not swoon!"

She levels me a look. "Holly, I'm swooning and it wasn't even my kiss."

"Fine," I huff. "There was swooning. He's a great kisser. He's even better in bed. He's attentive and generous and… fun." And maybe, just maybe, he's not as big of a jerk as I'd thought.

"Okay, so." Ginger waves a hand in the air like she's getting ready to make a case. "He kissed you on the balcony." She holds up one finger then takes it back, frowning. "No, wait. Let's back up. He took you to a Christmas market, Holly! He took you to a freaking Christmas market, which is exactly how I'd seduce you if I was trying to seduce you."

"Um, that wasn't creepy at all."

"Making my point. Don't sidetrack." She holds her finger back up in the air, ready to start her finger checklist. "He took you to a Christmas market. He walked around with you while you went shopping." She pauses here to wave a hand at the pile of gingerbread items scattered across her kitchen table and give me a pointed look. Then she holds up a third finger. "Then he walked you up the steps of an old church to show you the view and kissed you." Ginger drops her hand to her heart and makes a dramatic swooning motion in her chair, slumping over until I'm afraid she'll hit the floor.

"Okay, enough," I grumble. She sits up immediately, waving four fingers in my face.

"Then instead of saying ‘thank you for the kiss, sir,’ you asked him why he kissed you."

"‘Thank you for the kiss, sir?’ Are you serious?" I laugh. "Who talks like that? Does your oven have a gas leak or something? Are you okay in the head?"

Ginger ignores me. "And then he said because he wanted to. Because he wanted to kiss you, Holly Mistletoe Winter."

It's true. My middle name is Mistletoe. Even I have to admit my mom may have taken her Christmas fetish a bit far with that one.

"Five." The fingers are aggressively wiggling now. "You had sex. And it was good."

"Thank you for not belaboring that point."

"Six, the next day you reminded him he's your boss."

"He is my boss!"

"You made him feel like a creepy douchebag."

Hmm. Maybe she has a point?

"Was he? Did he step over the line? Make you uncomfortable?"

"No. Not at all."

"Seven." Ginger is starting to look far too smug for my big-sister liking. "You told him to forget the entire thing. You told him it never even happened. Eight, you cock-blocked him at dinner because you supposedly don't want him but you don't want anyone else to have him either."

Well. That's horribly accurate.

"Ten."

"Wait, what about nine?"

"Whatever." Ginger shrugs. "I'm sure you messed up another dozen ways you're not even telling me about."

I sigh loudly and roll my eyes.

"Ten." She opens and closes her hands in little bursts as if she needs to further emphasize my failures. "You accused him of being a slut."

"I did not!"

Except. Except I did, didn't I?

"Fine. But technically I apologized for that," I offer.

Ginger is not impressed. "Why are you like this? We were raised by nice people. You do not have a tragic backstory, Holly. Nick is not a villain. So he's your boss. So what? You have similar goals. You both love the Flying Reindeer Toy Company more than any two adults should. You're making this more difficult than it needs to be."

"I'm not like anything! I'm not being difficult! Falling in love is confusing, dagnabbit!"

Ginger gasps.

I gasp.

"You said it." She points at me, victory clear on her face.

"Dagnabbit? Yeah. Your weird way of swearing is rubbing off on me."

Ginger grunts and hits her forehead with an open palm. "No, not that. You said ‘love.’ You said you were falling in love with Nick. No takebacks!"

I want to laugh at her use of ‘no takebacks,’ but my heart is beating too fast to make fun of her. "Yeah, I guess I did."

"So. What are you going to do about it?" Ginger relaxes into her chair, unwrapping another of the gingerbread treats I brought her from Nuremberg. Clearly she feels her intervention with me is nearly over.

"I have no idea." Then another memory comes back to me, slapping me upside the head. Actually no, it's more of a punch to the gut. "He wanted me to admit I liked him. During… you know. While we were…"

Ginger stares at me as if I'm some special kind of idiot.

"You're kind of an idiot," she confirms.

"Yeah."

"Fix it, Holly. Fix it now, before it's too late. Don't make this the memory that haunts you for the rest of your life. Because it will. If you leave it like it is now the question of what could have been will haunt you like the Ghost of Christmas Past until the day you die. Not only that, but I bet an angel dies every day you're not together. Nice glass ones. Vintage. Falling from the tops of Christmas trees in heartbroken despair."

"That wasn't dramatic at all."

She shrugs. "I'm just trying to speak to you in a language you understand."

I nod. She's not wrong. I've heard her loud and clear and I think I know what I need to do.

"What about you?" I ask with a pointed stare.

"What about me?” Ginger asks with her mouthful of gingerbread, her nose scrunched up in confusion.

"How are things with your sexy chef?"

"He's not mine." Ginger huffs. "He's only in town for the filming of The Great Gingerbread Bake-Off and then he's out of here. Besides, he's a gingerbread-stealing jerk."

"Maybe you should give him a reason to stay," I suggest, ignoring her comment about Keller being a jerk. I don't think he's nearly the jerk Ginger seems to think he is.

"As if. He's not Reindeer Falls material. He's British. And famous. He has a show on the Food Network!"

"So?"

"So? He's not going to give all that up for me."

"Why does it have to be one or the other? He can still be British in Michigan."

"Cute. But that kind of guy doesn't end up in a small town in Michigan. And my life is here. My bakery is here. He's going to bounce the moment the show is over."

"Hmm. Maybe. Maybe not. Anyway, I've gotta go."

"To Nick's?" Ginger looks excited, dusting her hands off and standing up with me.

"No, not yet. I have to stop at the craft store first."

"Sure…" Ginger drawls the word out, looking at me as if I'm insane. "That sounds right."

Chapter 13

After a quick run to the craft store I spend the rest of the evening crafting. And thinking. And dreaming. Making a vision board of sorts.

Then I throw away the Countdown-to-Dickmas calendar.

Okay, yes, I removed all the chocolates first, but still. It's the thought that counts.

I get to work early, with my new Advent calendar tucked in my bag as I will myself to be brave. And then I wait for Nick. He's due back in the office today, which is a good thing because I have to see him. Now, today. I can't wait another moment. Because Ginger is right. Angels are surely crashing and breaking every day I continue to act like a coward.

I'm nearly vibrating with nerves, but it's okay. I bet Rudolph was nervous when he was called on to lead Santa's sleigh. I bet the Grinch was terrified when his heart finally grew to its proper size. I bet Scrooge was downright alarmed when he realized he needed to make some big changes.

I'm ready. Ready to embrace the true meaning of Christmas.

Love, however it presents itself. Even if it is in the form of your slightly grumpy, too-attractive-for-his-own-good boss. Even if a relationship with said boss isn't the smartest idea in the world. Even if dating your boss has the potential to be messy. I'm going to put myself out there and take a chance. With Nick.

And fine, maybe I'm not taking the world's biggest chance. Maybe it's clear to everyone but me that Nick is interested. Or was interested. He might have changed his mind by now. He might have decided I'm not worth the trouble. Or he might not be interested in the kind of things I'm interested in. Things like going out to dinner. Watching Christmas movies in July. Kissing things.

Dating things. Love things.

All the things. I want all the things with Nick.

The light in his office flickers on. I didn't see him come in, which means he didn't bother to pass my desk on the way to his office. He usually does. It's always annoyed me. Until today, of course. Today it feels like a bad omen. Or rejection. Then again, it probably doesn't feel as bad as having someone tell you they're just going to pretend they never slept with you the morning after sleeping with you.

Like I did to Nick.

I take a deep breath, then I gather up my new Advent calendar and straighten the hem on my dress, a white winter wool paired with a sky-high pair of red heels. Maybe I don't need the heels to go toe to toe with Nick, but they do amazing things for my legs. And they don't hurt my confidence any, that's for sure. Besides, if this goes badly, I can always trip on my way out of his office and have an excuse other than my broken heart for taking the rest of the week off.

"I brought you a Christmas present." I manage to walk into his office without tripping but I nearly stumble over the words once I'm there. I'm not even sure I spoke in a coherent manner, until Nick finally responds.

He glanced up from his computer as I strode into his office with my announcement, a flicker of surprise in his guarded expression. He likely expected me to avoid him. Or perhaps he thinks I'm here to tell him again that I'm not interested in a repeat.

I've been such a jerk.

I want a repeat. Of course I want a repeat.

"Is it a Christmas tie?" he finally asks, computer abandoned as he leans back in his chair to watch me. "Are you continuing the tradition started with my uncle?"

"No." I shake my head and blush a Yuletide of reds. "Not a tie. And definitely not a gift I'd ever have given to your uncle."

Nick is wearing a green tie today. It's a mossy color and looks like it might be wool. It's festive but fashionable and I'm fascinated with the way it makes his eyes even more impossibly green. Like the perfect Christmas tree or a four-leaf clover.

Sucking in a deep breath, I turn around and close his office door, my hand resting against the wood for a moment after it clicks into place. It's early and there are only a handful of employees at their desks, but still. I need all the privacy I can get for this next bit.

When I turn around his eyes flicker from the closed door to my flushed face, one elbow bent on the chair arm, his forefinger tapping against his bottom lip. He's watching me with more interest than he did a moment earlier, if that's possible. Then again, it's not like I've ever shut the door to his office before. Not with me inside it.

"I'm just going to say something," I announce. Then I promptly say nothing. I exhale and twist my neck back and forth as if I'm stretching for some kind of workout.

"Did you want to give that to me?" He nods toward the package in my hand, clearly trying to prod me into some kind of action. His manner is encouraging, not impatient. It bolsters my confidence.

"Um, not yet." I stand a little straighter. Be brave like Rudolph, I remind myself.

"Okay." He relaxes in his chair and watches me. "Did you want to sit?" He nods toward one of the chairs in front of his desk

"No. It's better that I stand for this."

"Oh." He looks wary again, sitting up a little straighter and resting his forearms on the desk, a flash of resignation crossing his face.

"No, it's not like that.” I shake my head. "Last week you asked me to admit that I liked you." He looks a bit wary again, but he doesn't say anything, simply watching me, waiting for me to elaborate. "So that's what I'm doing. I'm admitting it. I like you. I like you a lot."

A hint of a smile plays at his lips and his expression softens enough to bolster my confidence into continuing.

"It's not really practical, liking you. Or logical. It's probably not smart, either. And you're still kind of a jerk at times. And maybe you've changed your mind about liking me, even though you kissed me first and are an amazingly attentive lover." I'm rambling now. Who the hell says words like ‘lover’ to their lover? Gross.

"Holly," Nick interrupts me gently, a definite smile on his face now.

"Yes?" My heart is thumping so loudly I'm sure he can hear it.

"I'm certain you've prepared a speech and I'd really like to hear the rest of it, but I suspect the part where you try to talk yourself out of this is off script."

Err, right. Focus, Holly.

"I wanted you to kiss me too," I continue. "The very first day. Before the first day even, because I'd already seen photos of you on your sister’s social media accounts and I was attracted to you. I started imagining sexy things about you. Kissing you and—" I cut myself off here. He doesn't really need to hear what my other thoughts were. His smile just got bigger though so I think he got the drift. "Then you showed up and I realized my little crush was dangerously out of control because it was like all the air was sucked out of the room when you walked in." Like a punch to the gut. He was more attractive and magnetic in person than I'd been prepared for.

"Huh."

"Huh what?" I place one hand on my hip, cocked to the side in defiance. ‘Huh’ isn't really the response I was going for here. I raise my chin and square my shoulders.

"I thought you hated my guts that first day. I had no idea you were thinking naughty things about me, Miss Winter."

My eyes widen. Oh, Lord. Normally I only get flustered when he calls me Holly. But now it sounds like sex to me when he says Miss Winter too. This is going to complicate my life considerably. Deliciously.

"Well, you made fun of my cupcakes," I reply mulishly. “Also, you're a bit of a jerk. In my fantasies you were nice all of the time."

He barks out a laugh, leaning back in his chair and eyeing me with amusement. "Was I?"

"You were."

"I had fantasies about you too, you know." His eyes darken when he says it and his gaze moves lazily up and down my form, lingering on the straps of my red heels, wrapped around my ankles.

"You did?" I like the sound of this. I like it very much.

"In my fantasies you were never nice. You were very, very naughty."

"I was?" I'm blushing, but I'm not sure why. I'm hardly accountable for what I do in Nick's dirty thoughts. But I could be. I'd like to be. Perhaps we can do some reenacting.

"Permanently banned from Santa's good-girl list," Nick says, rising from his desk and walking around to meet me in front of it.

"That's pretty naughty," I whisper, running his tie between my fingers. Using it to pull him closer.

He obliges and dips his head to mine, one hand cupping the back of my neck and the other brushing softly against my jaw. Then he kisses me. I missed the feel of his lips on mine. Missed the feeling of my body pressed against his. Missed him.

And now he's all mine. Merry Christmas to me.

I smile into the kiss and that makes him smile back, then we're both laughing. And speaking of Christmas…

"Do you want your present now?" I ask him shyly, a small smile on my face as I offer up the slim package.

"Yes. Thank you. What a convenient little dress you're wearing." He bypasses the offered package in my hand and playfully attempts to pull at the tie of my wrap dress.

I sidestep him with what I hope is a stern frown. "No unwrapping me until after work hours, Mr Saint-Croix."

"Mr Saint-Croix?" He smirks, one brow arched. "I could get into that. But I hope this doesn't mean you're going to stop glaring at me and mumbling under your breath about what a Grinch I am. I've come to look forward to it."

"What? I'm always sweet. You're the Grinch!"

"If you say so." He makes a move to get another kiss in, but I slap a palm to his chest to waylay him.

"Open it," I instruct, shoving the present into his hands.

He grins, sitting on the desk edge and fingering the smooth expanse of cheerful holiday gift wrap. We're eye to eye this way and I'm tempted to lean in and kiss him but I know if I do we'll never get to the gift. The skin around his eyes crinkles when he smiles at me and I'm not sure how I resisted him as long as I did.

"Okay, but just for the record, you were the only thing I wanted for Christmas." He says it softly, eyes directly on mine, and my heart nearly stops at the look in his eyes and the earnest tone of his voice.

I'm so done for. I'm in love with my hot boss.

And I couldn't be happier about it.

"Me too," I admit. Then I cave and give him a quick kiss before drawing back before he can distract me. "Open it," I insist, nearly giddy for him to see my silly gift because it's a gift from the heart, which is the very best kind.

He removes the paper to uncover the Advent calendar I've made him. Except it's a more of a dating calendar. A sexy dating calendar, not a chocolate to be found. It's all dirty notes and filthy suggestions for how we can pass a lazy weekend or ten hidden behind tiny numbered doors.

"It's a calendar of some kind…" He looks it over, rightfully confused. "An Advent calendar. With an odd assortment of dates on it."

"There's a door for Valentine’s Day." I point at the door with the hearts. "And one for your birthday. One for a movie night and one for the eleventh day of any month of your choosing, just because. And one for a Wednesday of your choice, but it'll have to be after work hours." I ramble on, pointing out all the tiny doors with their decorative covers.

"After work hours," he repeats back slowly, a knowing smile covering his face. "Miss Winter, did you buy me a dirty Advent calendar?" He draws me closer and kisses my neck.

"Of course not." I pretend to be outraged. "I made it myself."

The End

If You Give a Jerk a Gingerbread

Chapter 1

"Someone's asking for you," Old Pete tells me, ambling into the kitchen of the Busy Bee Inn, where I work.

"For me?" I dust my hands off on my apron, confused. No one ever asks to see me. Unless it's a bride, but the Inn only has one wedding booked this month and it's all sorted out.

Unless it's a bridezilla. Bridezillas are a job hazard when you're a baker. They make me hate wedding cakes when everyone knows that the cake is best part of any wedding. Unless they have a sweets table, then that's the best part. A sweets table with miniature pecan tarts, cake pops decorated like brides and grooms, plates of artfully stacked macarons and—I cut off my runaway thoughts. The ideal dessert table spread is not important right now. And it's unlikely anyone has stopped by without an appointment to ask me about a dessert table. Especially in early December. It's not really bride season.

Though you never can tell. I once had a woman come in to taste wedding cake samples and she wasn't even engaged. You have to admire anyone that dedicated to finding an excuse to eat cake.

"Fella had one of our gingerbread chocolate-chip cookies and wanted to know where we got them. Told him you made them on site. That we have the best gingerbread maker in the world right here in Reindeer Falls."

Well, that is true. I do make the best gingerbread around. And soon, I'll be the undisputed champion of gingerbread because I've been selected to compete in The Great Gingerbread Bake-Off, and I'm going to win it.

The Great Gingerbread Bake-Off is a new show on the Food Network, and they're filming it right here in Reindeer Falls. It's as if this is my destiny.

Or as if the Food Network sent a scout to check out our town and realized it was television gold.

Either way.

I'm gonna win the heck outta that contest.

"English fella, in the parlor," Old Pete tells me, pitching a thumb in the direction of the front room of the Inn.

This English fella is likely the only fella out there because we're not exactly bustling on a random Tuesday afternoon. The Inn is more of a bed-and-breakfast, set in a sprawling old Victorian on the edge of town with a total of eight guest rooms and a very small restaurant. It's a part-time gig for me. I stop in a few days a week to bake desserts for the restaurant and baked goods for the afternoon spread for the overnight guests. And, of course, wedding cakes for any weddings booked at the Inn. In exchange for a modest paycheck I get to use the Inn kitchen whenever I like. They've got an industrial oven here I don't have at home, so it's a good deal for me until my own bakery opens.

Ginger's Bake Shop.

It's been my dream since I was too little to operate an oven without supervision.

And I've got a plan. A real one, a business plan. I've got my eye on the perfect property in town.

All of my bakery dreams are about to come true.

Winning The Great Gingerbread Bake-Off will be the icing on the cinnamon rolls. The topper on the wedding cake. The filling in the gourmet donut. The money.

Because the prize is ten thousand dollars. Which I could really use for Ginger's Bake Shop. I've been saving to make my dream a reality, but that prize money would make it a reality a heck of a lot quicker.

As would the free publicity.

"I'm sure I'll find him." I slide a tray of cookies into the oven and pat Pete on the shoulder as I walk past. "I made a fresh batch of snickerdoodles," I tell him, pointing to a plate piled high with his favorite.

I exit the kitchen without bothering to check my appearance, sure that I'm passable enough for a short chat about cookies with an Inn guest. I'm the baker after all, I'm sure they won't be shocked by an apron smeared with streaks of flour.

Probably an older gentleman hoping to nab my recipe for his wife in the hopes she'll make them when they return home. That's the main clientele of the Inn, as far as I can tell. Older couples or women on a ladies’ trip of some sort or another. Charmed by the town of Reindeer Falls and wooed by the magic of staying in a historic bed-and-breakfast.

So when I enter the parlor, I'm momentarily confused. My eyes bypass the guy with the laptop who looks like he's been transplanted from the nearest Starbucks, in search of anyone who looks like they'd be asking about my gingerbread chocolate-chip cookies. And I come up empty.

There's only one person here and it's laptop guy. I look twice to be sure, in case someone is hiding behind one of the three Christmas trees decorating the parlor. They are not.

He's at a table by the window, tapping away at the laptop. He's cracked it open an inch or so and the scent of winter wafts into the room, mixed with the smell of sugar making its way from the kitchen. As if it could snow at any moment.

He doesn't appear to have noticed my arrival, blindly reaching for another of the cookies resting on a plate beside a steaming cup of tea.

Handsome, I can already see that much. Broad shoulders, long legs bent beneath the table. He's wearing a pair of jeans that mold perfectly to him and a dress shirt, sleeves unbuttoned and rolled to the elbow. His muscular forearm brings that cookie to his mouth where a bite quickly disappears, jaw flexing as he chews.

When he raises a finger to brush away at a crumb clinging to his full bottom lip I know what my version of heaven looks like now.

It's this guy eating one of my cookies.

He looks up when I approach the table and it's like a punch to the gut.

Gorgeous.

He's charismatic. I can see that in one glance. His eyes are warm. Compelling.

He's got presence.

He stands when he sees me, a warm smile covering his face as I approach. As if we're old friends. And something about him does seem familiar, but I've never met this man before.

I'd remember. You'd have to be blind not to remember him.

"Hi, I'm Ginger." I extend a hand in greeting when I reach the table, a hand quickly engulfed in his own larger one. His thumb brushes the back of my hand when we shake and I nearly swoon from the light sweep.

"Ginger the gingerbread maker?" he asks with what is indeed a British accent, something not common in Reindeer Falls. He towers over me by at least a foot. A foot of tall, dark, and handsome. My eyes flicker against my control to that lush bottom lip of his before I respond.

"Ginger the gingerbread maker," I confirm. I've been teased about this a time or twenty.

"Keller," he replies, and his voice... Oh, his voice. It's like a warm embrace. The handshake ends, but he doesn't pull away. Instead he reaches out, swiping his thumb against my cheek. "Flour," he says, brushing it away with a few strokes.

My heart stops and my eyes widen. Because I've finally placed how I know this guy.

"You're Keller James." I breathe the words in a state of shock. Keller James is a celebrity. A celebrity chef. A celebrity chef with his own show on the Food Network.

Which, in my world, is everything.

Plus, I've got a bit of a crush on him from watching his show. I know a show about food doesn't sound sexy, but sister, you've not seen Keller James with a knife.

Okay, yeah, that didn't sound right. But you get the drift. If you've seen Brunch, Biscuits & Tea, you know what I mean. There's something about him on camera that causes your heart to beat a little faster.

In person? He might give me a heart attack.

And suddenly I'm reminded I didn't even bother to glance in a mirror before stepping out of the kitchen. My hair is in a messy bun on the top of my head, a small hair net clasped over the mass. He just swiped flour off of my face in the same manner my mother used to when I was a child.

"I am. Are you a fan of Brunch, Biscuits & Tea?" There's a slight question in his tone, as if he's surprised that I'd know it. As if it isn't one of the top-rated shows on the network. As if it isn't so addictive that I rewatch episodes I've already seen whenever they’re on.

"You must be here for The Great Gingerbread Bake-Off," I reply. Celebrity judges. Oh, my word. No one said anything about celebrity judges.

"Ah, the competition," he replies, shaking his head as if to clear his thoughts. As if he's already forgotten the reason he's in Reindeer Falls. He turns back to the plate with the half-eaten cookie and, snagging it, holds it up between us. "This cookie, Ginger, is outstanding."

Oh. My. Cookie.

That was so sexy the way he added my name when he complimented me. Right?

Maybe I'm reaching.

But the accent. The charisma. His expressive brown eyes. They're the exact shade of Madagascar bourbon vanilla. Rich and deep and tinted in amber.

"It's a candied ginger and sea salt chocolate-chip," I gush. They're one of my signature cookies and I'm really proud of them. I know it's cheesy, but anytime I can incorporate ginger into a recipe it feels like a win. "I'd be happy to share my recipe with you." Ugh. Right. As if this guy wants my recipe. Surely he's just being polite. The British are a polite people. I think. I mean, I have no idea but I'm pretty sure that's right.

"Please, would you sit?" He gestures to the table. "I'd love a word, if you have a moment?"

He'd love a word. With me.

When I move to sit, he pulls the chair out for me, his arm brushing lightly against my shoulder as he slides my chair back in. It's the most erotic thing to happen to me in, well, ever. And yes, I know I should get out more.

After Keller sits he continues his praise of my cookies. The acidity level. The delicate crunch.

Sweet Pillsbury Doughboy, this is my idea of porn. Keller James sitting before me, praising my baking. If my bakery plan falls apart I know what my next venture will be. Bakery porn. It'll be nothing but attractive men eating my cookies. The camera will zoom in as their tongues flicker over their lips, sweeping up every last morsel. They'll probably be shirtless too. I bet I can get subscribers to pay at least four ninety-nine a month for such a service.

"Ginger?"

Keller looks concerned, and I get the impression he might have had to repeat my name to get my attention. I might have zoned out a little with my bakery porn scheme. Fine, I might also have been imagining him shirtless.

"Yes?" I lean forward a little, wondering if it would be rude to ask him to have one of my biscuits, just so I might hear him go on about them in his British accent.

"Is something possibly... burning?"

Oh, my God.

The snickerdoodles.

My eyes widen in horror and I stand up so fast I'm surprised my chair doesn't fall over.

"Excuse me," I manage to blurt out as I stand and then, because my mother didn't raise an animal, I add, "It was nice meeting you!" as I sprint back to the kitchen.

Stuffing my hand into an oven mitt, I yank the offending tray of smoking snickerdoodles from the oven and drop them with a resounding thud onto the stovetop. Then I slump against the kitchen island in mortification.

I just destroyed a sheet of cookies in front of a celebrity chef. Worse—a celebrity chef who will be judging my baking skills in The Great Gingerbread Bake-Off. Groaning, I slap my forehead with the oven mitt. I haven't burned a tray of cookies since I was seven. My mortification knows no bounds.

I hear a soft laugh and look up to find that Keller has followed me to the kitchen. Just great. He's leaning against the doorframe, shirt stretched delightfully across his broad shoulders. Stupid shirt.

"They can't all be winners," he says, seemingly amused by whatever expression is on my face.

I tear my eyes away from him and turn to tug open the window over the sink. It tends to stick, what with the age of the Inn and the windows being original. I've managed to raise the window about an inch when I feel Keller behind me.

"Let me," he says and then slides his palms into the open gap, easily lifting the window wide open with a single push.

He pressed against me when he leaned in to assist with the window. Just barely. Just momentarily. So briefly it should hardly have mattered.

I'm sure it didn't to him.

I, however, am flustered.

Keller James is in my kitchen. All six feet whatever of him. All larger than life. All flashy smiles and disarming charm and goodness help me, the scent of him does something to me. He smells like some combination of cedar and vanilla.

Watching me burn stuff.

I bet Betty Crocker never had these kind of problems in her kitchen.

I turn around to thank him and find that he's still standing entirely too close. To be clear, he's a good two feet away and he's been nothing but respectful.

I'm the creep. I'm the one thinking things I've no right thinking. I've mentally violated the poor guy in six different ways since he said hello when all he's done is ask about my cookies.

Ugh. Creep.

Thankfully he's got no idea. I've got the kind of face that says I'm thinking about the church choir or what's on sale at Target. I do not have the kind of face that says I'm thinking about, well, you know.

Things.

Sex things.

Yeah, fine, okay. Even in my own head I whispered the word “sex.”

I turn my choirgirl face to Keller and smile. "Thanks for your help."

"My pleasure." He flashes a grin that would make even a nun feel things, then while I'm distracted he grabs an oven mitt and a spatula and goes to work dislodging the ruined cookies from the pan.

My mortification knows no end.

Keller James is tidying up my hot mess cookie disaster the day before the start of a baking competition in which I'll be standing before him while he judges me.

I am not off to a great start.

"You don't have to do that," I quickly object, eyes wide as I watch him nearly saw the cookies free from the pan. But he simply shrugs off my objections to his cleaning, as if this is all super normal.

"Just tell me one thing, Ginger the gingerbread maker."

"Sure."

"What am I missing out on?" He flashes a grin in my direction and logically I know it's the same exact grin he uses on television when he's describing the perfect puff pastry for the viewing audience, but it feels decidedly naughty when it's aimed at me in the privacy of my kitchen. Well, the Inn's kitchen.

"Excuse me?" I'm sure I'm blushing. Sure I'm reading way too much into that smile. Sure he cannot be flirting with me.

"What were these meant to be?" he asks, tapping the spatula against the now-empty pan.

Oh. Right. Exactly. He was just asking about the cookies. I exhale the breath I didn't realize I was holding.

"Snickerdoodles." I nod toward a plate on the island, with a haphazard stack of them. Pete never takes cookies in a layer, preferring to eat from whichever side of the plate he's standing nearest until what's left resembles a game in which a tower of blocks are picked at until it all falls down. "But you're in luck. I have more." I push the plate in his direction. He nabs one with a grin and takes a bite, eyes still on mine as he does so.

"They're Pete's favorite," I offer nervously while I wait on Keller's opinion of my snickerdoodle. Then I nearly laugh at the absurdity of it all. My snickerdoodle.

"Pete?" He asks the question with a raised brow and a hint more interest than necessary.

"The owner. You asked him who did the baking for the Inn," I remind him.

"Ah, right, Pete."

"So you're staying here at the Inn? While you're in Reindeer Falls for the bake-off?"

"I am. Perhaps you'll show me around?"

I. What?

"There's no gym," I blurt with a glance at his flat stomach. He must work out, right? No one eats cookies and looks like that just by luck. God, what did I just say? Did I just ogle him and then imply he works out? "Not that you need it," I rush to add. "You're lovely just as you are."

Lovely just as you are. Yeah, I just said that. This day just keeps getting better and better. Keller is staring at me like I'm some kind of mystical forest nymph, taking another bite with a gleam of humor in his eye.

"There's no gym at the Inn," I clarify, since he asked me about showing him around. That was what he meant, surely. "Pete should have explained that when you checked in. Given you a pamphlet of the area. There's a gym a block or so away. And some nice hiking trails."

"Maybe you can show me the hiking trails then," he says as he pops the last bit of cookie into his mouth and dusts the sugar off his hands. I nearly choke because is Keller James suggesting we go hiking together? "I have somewhere I have to be right now, but I'll see you again? Are you here tomorrow?"

I frown, confused. Of course I'll see him again. Tomorrow, at the Gingerbread Bake-Off. And what did he mean by show him the hiking trails? Like, point them out and tell him to enjoy his hike? Or does he want to go hiking with me, like a date?

He laughs while I'm still processing what he's just said, trying to make sense of it all.

"You're cute when you scowl, Ginger. I like it."

And then he's gone. And I'm very, very confused.

Chapter 2

It seems my confusion has no end in sight because the following day I bump into Keller James moments after I arrive at the Reindeer Falls Community Center where The Great Gingerbread Bake-Off is being filmed. And he's not who I thought he was.

I mean, yes, he's Keller James. Tall, dark and handsome. British. Celebrity chef and host of his own show on the Food Network: Brunch, Biscuits & Tea. Yes, he's that Keller James.

But he's not a judge on The Great Gingerbread Bake-Off.

He's a contestant.

Apparently some Grinch at corporate thought having professionals competing against regular folk like myself would make great Christmas television.

I hope Santa has taken note and that person gets the lump of coal they so rightly deserve come Christmas morning.

Professional chefs! I huff in annoyance, for what feels like the millionth time today. I know that technically I'm a professional as well. I am a certified pastry chef, thank you very much. But I'm not a Food Network star.

In addition to Keller there's the guy with the wedding cake show, the lady with the cupcake show and the guy who drives his RV from one bakery to the next across America.

In another twist, the amateur bakers are all somewhat local. Each of us, as our claim to fame, has won a local holiday baking contest of some kind or another. I've been the Saginaw County Gingerbread Grand Champion for three years in a row, in case you're wondering.

Also competing is the winner of the Ann Arbor Gingerbread Festival, the winner of the Holidays in Holland Baking Competition and the Great Lakes Holiday Pie Champ. Local champions is what they're calling us, which should mollify me but has not. I'm just nervous. I'll be fine once we're under way because really, no one knows gingerbread like I do.

I think the real point here is that I thought Keller was flirting with me yesterday when really he was just digging around for gingerbread secrets.

Jerk.

"You can do this, Ginger. You've been training for this your entire life. You've made countless batches of gingerbread, in nearly every variation there is. You've had the basic recipe memorized since you were nine. You started making your own versions when you were ten. You were literally born for this."

Yes, I’m totally giving myself a pep talk in the mirror. Heck, I'd high-five my reflection if I thought it would help.

Then I scrunch my nose at my reflection and try to determine if Keller James was serious when he said my scowl was cute. It's not that I thought he was joking, but did he mean cute like a kitten or cute like he'd consider making out with me? Or was he just messing with me?

Normally I'd think cute like a kitten but he did sorta maybe ask me out so I'm not entirely sure. I exhale so loudly my bangs shift so I reach up to straighten them with my fingertips. I took extra care with my hair today because we won't be wearing hair nets when we film, which makes sense. We're trying to make good television, not pass a health code check.

Still, I pulled my hair into a sleek pony tail after ensuring it was stick-straight. I'd prefer it not be hanging in my face when I'm racing against the clock to finish a challenge, but I want to look good.

I check over my outfit again. I'm wearing a vintage-inspired Christmas dress. The Great Gingerbread Bake-Off producers gave us a few guidelines for what to wear for the first day of filming. No logos, obviously. They suggested plaids or repetitive prints like polka dots. It's mostly up to us, so I went with a cute dress. The top is fitted and black, the bottom is red with black polka dots and it swings when I move. I do so now, watching it sway in the mirror.

I'm adorable.

Like a kitten.

I scowl at myself in the mirror again but decide I don't have time to doubt myself now. It wouldn't be prudent anyway, because I'm already on set.

By which I mean I'm hiding in the community center bathroom. The set is just down the hall though. We're filming inside the community center and the set they've created is incredible. Though I've never been on a set before so I suppose I don't have much to compare it to, but it's really cool. They've created a backdrop that looks like a smaller version of Reindeer Falls—a tiny replica of Main Street draped in garlands and decorated like a winter wonderland. The set pantry is stocked with everything a baker could need, along with big glass jars filled with every conceivable gingerbread decoration a girl could dream of. Gum drops and licorice. Peppermints and candy canes. Chocolate kisses and marshmallows and jelly beans and sprinkles in more varieties than I knew existed. Finally, large stainless-steel tables line the room, the front of each decorated for the camera.

It'd be heavenly minus this competing-against-superstars twist.

"Are you giving yourself a pep talk in the mirror?"

It's my sister Noel. She's entered the bathroom with a cup of coffee in her hand and a smirk on her face.

"You shouldn't be back here." I sigh in exasperation. Noel always does whatever she wants. She's the oldest sister and a bit bossy. I'm the youngest sister and excel at following directions.

"I shouldn't? This is a public restroom."

"You're supposed to be in the audience."

"Okay, I love you, Ginger, but ‘audience’ might be an oversell. There's, like, twenty folding chairs set up for friends and family to watch the taping. Mom's saving my seat if it makes you feel better. And she's got a bouquet of flowers for you like this is your first grade dance recital."

"That's so embarrassing," I groan. But also, I really do like flowers so I'm not really going to complain. I loop the official Great Gingerbread Bake-Off apron over my head and tie it off behind my back. It's minty blue and has an embroidered gingerbread man on the chest, along with my name. "How do I look?" I ask spreading my arms wide.

"Extra Gingery, actually."

"Extra Gingery? What's that supposed to mean?"

"Extra adorable."

Sigh.

"Why were you the only one blessed with natural red highlights?" my sister asks, eyeing my hair. "It's so unfair and the blue of that apron is really bringing them out.”

"Unfair? When I spend too much time in the sun I look like I'm related to Strawberry Shortcake and I'm regularly referred to as adorable. You're the pretty one."

"Hmm, that's true. Maybe you were adopted."

This is a long-running joke so I ignore her. I get the red highlights from my dad. My sisters take after my mom.

"Did you see the other competitors?" I ask her. "What do you think my chances are?"

"What do I think your chances are? Am I supposed to predict the baking prowess of the competition just by looking at them?"

"I don't know." I shrug. I mean, I guess not.

"Anyway, I think they're ready to start filming. They sent me in here to look for you."

"Noel! You should have led with that! Am I late?" I start spinning in circles looking for my phone. "What time is it?"

"You're fine. Let's go."

I follow Noel out of the bathroom and back to the set. I still can't believe this is happening. It's not as if being on a baking show has been my life's ambition, but it's a pretty lucky break they've come to my hometown to film. This is a great opportunity for me.

The Great Gingerbread Bake-Off is scheduled for four episodes. The first three will be filmed this week along with the B-roll. B-roll is supplemental footage that they cut in with the main shot. In a reality show it's basically all the stuff that makes you root for that contestant, such as footage of the contestant doing their day job or interacting with their families. Walking their dog or showing off some bizarre hobby like juggling. This is usually where they nab footage of the contestant speaking directly to the camera while the producer interviews them off camera, questions posed to effectively tug on your heartstrings.

We were each told to clear our entire week for this, but the reality is that eliminations start today. After each challenge someone's gingerbread head will be chopped off. Not literally. I mean at least I don't think so. But who knows what will happen in edits? They might have footage of a gingerbread cookie getting his head chopped off that they'll play along with Christmas music that's been altered to sound more dramatic than it is, building up the suspense about who's going home before they cut to a commercial break.

Whomp whomp. I hate that last commercial break. I'm always so anxious I'll get distracted before the show returns and miss the ending. I swear the dryer buzzer always goes off during that commercial. Or my oven timer. Or I'm so inspired by the episode I'm watching I need to run into my kitchen to see if I have any finely ground almonds on hand.

Anyway, someone is going home today.

Someone I hope very much is not me.

This week we film the elimination episodes and B-roll. Next week is the finale—for whomever makes it. They haven't given us many details on the challenges, just a general idea of what we should expect and the dates we have to be available.

I assume there will be some horrible surprise thrown in at the end too. Something like giving us an hour to make a doghouse from gingerbread. Using one hand, while singing Christmas carols.

That sort of surprise is very popular on the Food Network. It's fine though, because I'm prepared. I know you can't really prepare for a surprise challenge, but I'm ready for the unexpected, is what I mean.

Noel heads back to her folding chair as I scurry to join the other contestants. They're standing in a group as a producer gives some last-minute instructions. I hope I haven't missed anything. I peek over at my parents and give a little wave. Both of my sisters, Noel and Holly, are here, along with my parents, and they're all beaming with pride.

Also, Noel wasn't wrong about the audience. It is just a handful of folding chairs and my family is taking up most of them. I see some other familiar faces. The town mayor is here, and the sheriff. My boss from the Busy Bee Inn, Old Pete. The head of city council and a store owner from Main Street.

This is a real big deal in Reindeer Falls.

The moment the producer is done speaking, a sound tech begins the process of wiring each of us up for filming. It's go time.

I head over to the open pantry they've created along the wall while I wait my turn with the sound tech. I want to take a mental note of what we have available to us, memorize where everything is. It might save me a few seconds later and I've seen enough of these shows to know every second counts. Either that or they're all edited very dramatically to make it seem as though every second counts. But still, it can't hurt.

I'm not alone long though.

Keller joins me the moment I'm alone, a big grin on his stupid gorgeous face.

Trickster.

Go on a hike with me, Ginger. You're cute, Ginger. Tell me about your candied ginger sea salt chocolate-chip cookies, Ginger.

Ugh.

I don't like him. I can't like him.

Still, my heart is racing. There's something about him that I react to, that makes every nerve ending wake up and take notice. Keller James just has it. That undefined something that draws you in. A pull to engage. He exudes confidence and charm as if they're renewable resources with no need to use them sparingly.

He's in dark jeans and a navy sweater. All long-limbed and tall and fit and insanely good-looking. He looks better than the seasonal drink menu at your favorite coffee shop. And so help me, I just want to lean into him so I'll know what it feels like to rest my head on his chest and have his arms wrapped around me. Maybe huff in his scent like a sugar junkie at a candy factory. Tell him all my secrets and give him all my recipes.

What? Ugh, no! See the kind of voodoo powers he has? What am I even thinking? Crazy thoughts, that's what. I'll probably be offering to let him use my oven next. And no, that wasn't even a euphemism for something naughty. I meant it literally. I'm three seconds away from blushing and stepping aside all googly-eyed and giving him carte blanche of all the coveted appliances like the ice cream maker or the blast chiller.

Fine, maybe I'm projecting. We haven't even started yet and I'm already imagining scenarios of how this crush is going to ruin me. And yes, I've probably watched far too many baking and cooking shows in preparation for this contest. But I promise you, none of those contestants had to deal with what I'm dealing with.

Because Keller James wasn't standing in front of any of those contestants looking like a plate of snickerdoodles.

If snickerdoodles were sexy.

You know what I mean. None of those contestants had this kind of distraction.

Although I did once see an episode of Sandwich Shop Showdown in which Keller was judging the semi-final round and there was a grandmother from Portland on that episode and I don't think she was thinking grandmotherly thoughts about Keller. That's all I'm saying.

I feel you, Doris from Portland. I feel you.

Except I have to deal with him at the workstation directly next to mine.

Keller leans against a pantry shelf lined with glass jars of molasses. Mental note, molasses is on a shelf the approximate height of Keller's shoulder. I have to tilt my head back a little to meet his eyes because he's a tall drink of water.

"Hi," I offer, because my conversational skills are scintillating.

"You ran off so quickly earlier I was afraid my eyes had deceived me and I hadn't seen you at all."

He says all that with a smile and in his British accent, which is devastating. On both counts. I want to hang on to every delightfully accented word that comes out of his mouth. Why, oh, why does everything sound better when he says it?

"I'm so glad you're here. This is going to be a lot more fun than I thought it would be."

I blink.

He sounds... flirty?

But not creepy. Flirty as if he's genuinely glad to see me here.

It's the charisma, I decide. Charisma is the thing that makes you believe if you met a celebrity in real life you'd be friends. And that they'd think you're fun. And possibly good in bed. I slap a palm to my forehead before I respond in a last-ditch effort to knock some sense into myself.

"I can't believe you're my competition. This is so unfair." I throw my hands up in the air in disgust. "Ugh, this is just like the tenth grade when Matty Novak got all chummy with me and asked me to make peppermint bark and I thought it was because he had a crush on me but he didn't. He just wanted me to help him out so he had something to give to Jascinda Thomas when he asked her to the winter dance."

"How exactly is this like that?" Keller grins at my outburst, scanning my face in something like astonished amusement.

"It just is!"

"Ginger, I would never ask you to make peppermint bark for another woman," Keller declares solemnly. It's a look he can barely pull off because his lips are twitching to break into a smile.

"You misled me!"

"I did nothing of the sort. I had no idea you were a contestant on this show. You're the one who asked me if I was in town for the competition. You never told me you were also competing. You're the one who misled me, with your distracting candied ginger cookies and nearly burning the Inn down."

"Because I thought you were a celebrity judge. Not a competitor." I barely refrain from adding the word “duh” to the end of that sentence. I don't know what's come over me. I'm not normally so sassy, especially this close to Christmas.

"So you were flirting with me because you thought I was a judge?" Keller's brows rise, his eyes playfully narrowed. "You naughty minx, you." He says the words a bit softer, the hint of a growl in his voice. I nearly swoon at his feet, which will not do.

No. Not happening. Gotta keep my head in the game and the game is gingerbread, not obtaining a date to the winter formal. Eyes on the prize. I will not be distracted by this tall, dark and handsome jerk.

Err, fine, jerk seems extreme. He's been quite friendly, I suppose. Unless he really is trying to get into my recipe box instead of my... well, you know. Tall, dark and handsome... jackal.

"I wasn't flirting. You were flirting." There. That'll show him. That I'm twelve. Way to spar, Ginger.

"Oh, I was definitely flirting," he agrees easily and I'm thrown off kilter again. I expected him to deny it. Or ignore it, not to boldly agree while looking at me the way he looks at me. Like I'm a woman to be flirted with.

"Why?"

"Because you're adorable."

Ughhh. Adorable like a kitten, there it is. Adorable like the youngest sister. Adorable as in he's just friendly flirting, not flirting with intent to get me naked.

Then he winks at me.

And obviously I'm in love with him in that totally normal way you're in love with someone you don't know at all but are sure they could be your perfect match based on the very limited time you've spent together, combined with watching him eat brunch on his Food Network show while visions of an idyllic future dance in your head.

But really, if I give this jerk my gingerbread recipe, what's next? He'd probably want my almond tart recipe. Then he'd want a glass of milk and a plate. And then he'd want to know where I got my adorable vintage Santa Claus plates and then the finale would air and he'd go back to filming Brunch, Biscuits & Tea while I mooned around Reindeer Falls for the rest of my life writing “Mrs Keller James” in notebooks while I remembered him as the great almost-love of my life and he remembered me as that girl who made excellent candied ginger sea salt chocolate-chip cookies.

Or worse, he wouldn't even remember my cookies.

"Besides, from what I tasted yesterday, I'm the one who should be intimidated, Ginger," he says with another slow grin and oh, good lord, Keller James just complimented my baking while flirting with me. I try to swallow and breathe at the same time while thinking of an appropriate response, but luckily the sound technician interrupts before I have to.

Chapter 3

"On your mark, get set, go!"

I'm not even joking. They really do set a timer and then tell us to run while the camera crew gets footage of the eight of us gathering supplies in a frantic rush as we hustle from our workstations to the pantry and back.

Challenge number one is any recipe we want, using—get this—candied ginger. I almost laugh but I don't want to get cocky. I side-eye Keller's station while I make my signature cookies. I have plenty of time for side-eyeing this challenge because I've made these candied ginger and sea salt chocolate-chip cookies so many times I could do so blindfolded.

The first challenge flies by. Likely due to nerves, but also because it's a forty-five-minute challenge. I only need twenty to make a tray of these cookies, though I do have a moment of doubt when I see someone else has managed to bake mini-orange breads with a candied ginger glaze in the allotted time. Bold move.

Keller makes candied ginger pumpkin pancakes and honestly? I swoon a little. Candied ginger pumpkin pancakes are so sexy. No? Fine, maybe it's just me.

There's also a candied ginger apple pie and crystallized ginger gingerbread and ginger spice cookies with a crystallized ginger frosting.

The Holidays in Holland winner makes chocolate-covered pieces of candied ginger and is sent home.

Then we're all asked to change before we begin filming the second challenge because the second challenge will be shown as episode two of this series and via changes of clothing and the magic of separating the challenges into different episodes no one will realize this was filmed in just a couple of days.

Challenge number two is gingerbread cheesecake. We need to have three servings plated and ready for presentation in two hours. Since most cheesecakes take anywhere from an hour to ninety minutes to bake, we really do need to hustle. I imagine everyone will be using the blast chiller to get their cheesecakes cooled quickly enough to remove from the pan for slicing. But who knows, we might all interpret this challenge differently. Someone could very well make a gingerbread cheesecake ice cream or gingerbread cookies with a cheesecake filling. I'm not going to chance such a risky move because the directions were gingerbread cheesecake and I'm not about to take any shortcuts and get sent home during the first episode.

Besides, I know exactly what I'm making. Shortbread crust. Gingerbread cheesecake filling. Then a layer of molasses mousse topping, with hints of cinnamon and nutmeg.

While the gingerbread is baking I’ll make a stabilized vanilla whipped cream from scratch, with a sprinkle of cinnamon added until the whipped cream is delicately freckled with just the hint of color. When I plate the dessert for presentation I'll add a perfect swirl of whipped cream to each serving using a pastry bag and, if time allows, each will also feature a miniature gingerbread man resting against the whipped cream swirl.

This is almost too easy.

I don't even look up until I've got my crusts in the oven. I decided on using miniature individual springform pans instead of one large one because it'll cut down on my baking time and I'll be cutting it close on time as it is. I take a few peeks around the room as I add the filling ingredients to the mixer one by one. Cream cheese, sugar, flour, blend. Sour cream, molasses, vanilla extract, blend. Wait, I'm missing the vanilla. How did I not grab that yet? I dash over to the pantry and grab a bottle and nearly collide with Keller when I whirl back around. It seems he was reaching for the bottle as well because his arm is still outstretched as I teeter on my toes to avoid slamming into him.

Being this close to him though, it still feels like the wind was just knocked out of me.

"Fancy running into you here," he quips. I stare at his lips when he speaks, and is it just my imagination or does he lean in a little bit closer as he says it? Do I?

"Did you want the vanilla or something?" I finally manage to say when my racing heart has calmed enough for me to speak.

"There's another bottle."

There's a ghost of a smile on his face when he says it and his voice is smooth and deep, like salted caramel, and I bet he tastes even better and oh, my word, his lips are awfully close. If I just pressed up onto my toes a little bit—

The slamming of an oven door snaps me out of my trance and reminds me that I'm on set. With cameras rolling. And I very nearly just kissed Keller James. I think another ten seconds under his spell and I might have actually gone for it.

Which is nuts. I've never initiated a first kiss in my life. Much less a first kiss with someone I'm not on a date with. Much, much less with someone I'm competing against on a reality cooking show, with cameras rolling.

Oh, sweet heavenly fruitcake, I've lost my mind.

I'd probably be escorted off set immediately. As my parents watched. And the town mayor. And the sheriff. And my sisters. It'd probably be the first time in the history of the Food Network that a contestant got kicked off for kissing someone. And who could blame them? I didn't sign up for The Bachelor, for heaven's sake.

I have to take a deep breath and remind myself it didn't actually happen. We didn't kiss. There was no kissing. I'm positive I imagined the entire thing. Definitely.

Adding the vanilla to the mixer, I get my mind back in the game where it belongs.

Two hours later I've passed the second round. The celebrity chef with the RV was the second to go. He made a gingerbread cheesecake ice cream—total copout—and his ginger was chopped.

Wait, that doesn't sound right at all. But never mind, the point is I've survived day one without assaulting Keller James with my lips. Err, no. I mean I survived day one without being cut from the competition.

Sigh.

Jingle my bell, he's trouble.

Chapter 4

We're off from filming the following day, which is a relief because I'm a bit overwhelmed and besides, I have plenty to do today. I also need to avoid Keller, so while I'd normally use the Busy Bee Inn kitchen, today I bake batches of blueberry muffins, mini-almond tarts and sugar cookies at home. I'll just drop these off at the Inn via the back door and be on my way.

Do I wash my hair just in case I bump into Keller? Nope. No, I do not. Because I'm going to be in and out of the Busy Bee Inn quicker than Santa himself.

Besides, it's snowing and I'm wearing a hat. There will be no accidentally bumping into Keller James with ensuing flirting that may or may not be happening only in my head.

There. Will. Not.

Ten minutes later I'm stomping the snow off my boots on the back porch of the Busy Bee Inn before I slip inside to drop the basket of baked goods. It's still early. Old Pete is likely making breakfast for the Inn guests.

Except Pete is nowhere to be found when I enter the kitchen. Keller is there, at my stove. He's in a worn pair of jeans and a navy Henley, a dishtowel casually flipped over his shoulder as he flips a pancake on the stove with equal casualness.

As if he belongs here.

In my kitchen.

I mean, fine, it's the Inn's kitchen, but it's more my kitchen than his kitchen and I didn't wash my hair and why is he in here? Making breakfast?

"What are you doing in here?" I ask in favor of hello as I plunk my basket of baked goods on the countertop.

"Making breakfast."

"I can see that. But you're a guest of the Inn and guests of the Inn do not cook their own breakfasts. This isn't an Airbnb. Unless you've bought the Inn and this is now your actual kitchen."

Keller strokes his jaw as if in deep thought. "Buy the Inn? Now that's a great idea. Would I get to see your smiling face every day if I bought the place?"

"Where is Pete?" I ask, ignoring him and his little quip. "Does he know you're back here?" Why is this guy everywhere I turn lately?

"He wanted me to make my winning pancakes from yesterday." Keller winks at me when he says it. Insufferable flirt. "So I told him to take the morning off and I'd take care of breakfast."

"They weren't winning pancakes." I bristle. "They were just pancakes that didn't get you sent home during round one."

"Ginger, you're so spicy this morning. I'm going to call you Ginger Spice."

"Ha ha, very funny. Did Noel tell you?" She's such a menace. Like her name is any less ridiculous than mine or Holly’s. Being the youngest sister is not without its perils, I'm telling ya.

"Tell me what?" He looks up, genuinely confused. "Who's Noel?"

Um, crud. Noel didn't tell him, he was just making a joke and I stumbled right into it. "Nothing," I say hurriedly because I'm terrible at changing the subject smoothly. I'm even worse at changing the subject than I am at lying.

He stares at me for a long beat, spatula in midair and a curious look on his face.

"Wait." A slow smile spreads. "Is Spice your actual middle name?"

I blush a thousand shades of Santa’s suit while shaking my head. "No," I deny, frantically unpacking my basket. "No of course it isn't."

"Yes, it is, and it's delightful. You are delightful, Ginger Spice."

"Whatever, Fergus," I blurt because that's his middle name. Which I only know from looking him up online, and yup, I just stumbled into that too, didn't I? Now he's going to know I've looked him up like a schoolgirl with a crush.

"You know my middle name?" He laughs when he says it as if this pleases him to no end. "So you've looked me up then? Find anything interesting?"

"No. You're very dull."

"You were probably desperate to know if I'm available." He's set the spatula down and is moving closer, as if we're going to have a conversation about this. We're not. Because I was actually desperate to know about that very thing when I looked him up and I'm sure I'm now the actual color of Rudolph’s nose.

"I was not," I stammer out the blatant lie while doing my best to bury my head into my basket. If it was possible, I'd crawl into the basket, like the adorable kitten I am. Also, I couldn't actually find anything about his love life online, minus a photo of him on a red carpet event posing with Daniella Harvey. She's got a show on the Food Network too, but the photo was from a couple of years ago so I'm not so sure they're together. There's actually a real lack of online gossip available about celebrity chefs, as it turns out.

“I am. Available.”

“Good for you.” I manage not to stammer this time.

"I asked around about you."

"You what?" I whip my head up in alarm. "Who? Who would you even ask? You don't even know anyone in Reindeer Falls." Wait, is he joking? He must be joking. I'm such an easy target, I always fall for it when I'm being teased.

"I know people."

"Who? Name one person."

"Pete."

"Pete is seventy-four years old. You expect me to believe you asked him if I was single and ready to mingle?"

Oh, for elf's sake. Did I really just say “single and ready to mingle?”

"Ginger." Keller says my name softly and it sounds flirty. I'm pretty sure it's flirty, but I've been wrong before. Like a few times even. Once in college I thought a classmate was into me and then he asked me for suggestions on what to buy his girlfriend for Christmas. So yeah, I might suck at reading signals.

Beside me Keller braces one arm on the butcher block counter and leans in closer. Close enough that I can feel the heat of his body and his lips are mere inches from mine. "I'm fairly certain that the only thing I'd enjoy more than bantering with you is kissing you."

Okay.

So that was pretty clear, right?

I'm not alone in thinking that was clear? Keller James of Brunch, Biscuits & Tea is interested in kissing me.

"For real?" I ask, because I've got moves for days.

"No?" He pauses, his lips a breath from mine. So close it's nearer a technicality that they're not actually touching.

"Where are my pancakes?" Old Pete ambles into the kitchen and I nearly jump out of my skin as if it's junior year of high school and I've just been caught kissing Tommy Cricklets in his parents basement when I was supposed to be tutoring him in math. To be fair, he passed math and got into college so it's not like they didn't get their money's worth.

Wait. That doesn't sound right.

Anyway, I look like a reindeer caught in the headlights while Keller merely straightens and charms Old Pete with a tall stack of candied ginger pumpkin pancakes. He adds a slab of melting butter to the top, sprinkles it with pecan halves and drizzles warmed maple syrup over the stack as if he's preparing the plate to be filmed for television.

Then he insists on carrying the plate out to the dining room, loading two more on his arm as if he's comfortable with waiting tables. When he returns to the kitchen I'm standing in the exact spot he left me in.

"Are you going to take your coat off, Ginger?"

Right. I'm still in my coat. I'm also still wearing my stupid hat. It's knit and has a giant furry pompom on the top.

"No. I'm not staying." I wonder if the kiss is off the table now? Has the moment passed? Has he forgotten? Should I remind him? Or should I just walk over and climb him like a kitten climbs a Christmas tree?

"Okay, let me just clean up here and we'll go."

"What do you mean we'll go? Where are we going?" And why do I always feel like I'm two steps behind this guy? Did I miss part of the conversation while I was daydreaming?

"Aren't you going to show me the hiking trails?" His face is the picture of innocence.

"I can't. I have things to do today."

"Okay. I'll come with."

"You can't just invite yourself along. What if the thing I have to do today is private? Like an appointment at the lady doctor. Did you think about that?"

"I hadn't, actually. But such a thing can't take more than an hour, surely. I could wait in the waiting room or in the car. Then we'd have the rest of the day for lunch or a hike or maybe a snowball fight in the middle of your charming town square."

He smiles winningly.

I sigh.

He's so tempting. And a distraction. My focus should be on winning the competition and securing the lease space for Ginger's Bake Shop. Not on making out with Keller James. A guy who will be gone just as soon as the Great Gingerbread Bake-Off competition ends.

But he's literally incapable of being rejected, it would seem. Which is fine. If he wants to hang out with me today, game on. He's got no idea what he's in for.

"Sure," I tell him with a big smile. "You can drive."

Chapter 5

"This is quite the vehicle, Gingersnap."

I fight a smile at his calling me Gingersnap, loving it more than I want to admit. Keller James just gave me a nickname and it's about a million times better than the time Santa brought me a bike.

"Thank you, I'm real proud of her." I wave my arms wide and give him a moment to take in the beauty that is my pink minivan. Yup. A bright pink minivan. Then something occurs to me. "You can drive in America, right? You know we drive on the right side of the street here."

"We drive on the right side of the street in Britain too, love. We just use the right side to drive in the opposite direction."

Hmm. That's a fair point.

"I've lived in America for nearly half a decade, Ginger. You're safe in my hands, I assure you."

Safe in his hands. I'd like to be safe in his hands. No, stop. Think pure thoughts. Think about the spirit of the season and how lovely it would be to rub up against Keller in front of a fireplace when he’s naked and I’m naked and yeah, okay, I'm not doing a great job thinking virtuous thoughts.

But he did almost kiss me, right?

Do you ever experience something that you know happened, but then you second-guess yourself about it happening until you're sure you're crazy? I can't be the only one. Also, did I tell him not to kiss me? Is that how that ended? I should ask him, like a grown-up. Except I'm not quite sure how to segue back into that. And it seems like a terribly awkward thing to bring up.

"You want to tell me how you obtained such a treasure? Surely this color isn't mass-produced."

"Oh, no. It's definitely not. This is a custom paint job." I nod toward the minivan with delight because its ridiculousness has always pleased me. "It was my mom's old car. She didn't want to drive a minivan once we were all grown up, so when it came time for her to get a new car she made me a real good deal on this one. I had the back seats removed and a van rack installed for deliveries and then I got this sweet, sweet paint job to freshen her up."

"Ginger’s Mobile Bake Shop" Keller reads the logo on the passenger door as he opens it for me. It's printed on the door in white and it matches my business cards and someday, it'll match the sign at my bakery.

"I use it for deliveries," I tell him once he's slid in behind the wheel. "Until I have a shop of my own, this is the only way for me to reach customers. I'm trying to build a clientele that will support me once I open a retail location. And once I'm open, I'll keep the van for catering and wedding cake deliveries."

"Smart."

"Thanks." I bask in his praise, but I also wonder if he doesn't find all of this a bit silly. Reindeer Falls. My pink van. My dreams of opening a small-town bakery. Me. He's got a freaking show on the Food Network and a bakery by the same name inside of a Vegas casino. They probably move more product there in a single day than I will in an entire month in Reindeer Falls.

But whatever. Comparison is the thief of joy, and this is my dream. Just because my dreams are smaller in nature doesn't make them any less important or valid.

"I don't do a lot of business this way, but it's a start."

"It's a great start. So where's our first stop?" Keller turns the ignition and puts my old pink minivan into reverse.

"Take a left at the end of the drive," I tell him. "Our first stop is the retirement home. They have a standing order whenever I can deliver to them. Then we have an order of cookies to drop at the auto shop and finally the Reindeer Falls animal shelter."

"The animal shelter?"

"Homemade dog biscuits." I shrug. "They're technically not a paying client, but I have a soft spot for dogs and the shelter dogs deserve high-quality treats as much as anyone. Besides, they send every adopted dog home with a bag of my treats and I get a lot of new business that way."

"Clever and compassionate, Ginger. You're proving to be a delightful and unexpected addition to my visit to Reindeer Falls."

His visit. Because that's all it is, I have to remind myself of this. He'll be gone once The Great Gingerbread Bake-Off is complete.

I'll probably never see him again.

I’d hate it if I never saw him again.

* * *

"Are you having fun?"

I smile while Keller spins a few inches in either direction in the chair beside mine. He seems more comfortable than he should. Honestly, I didn't expect him to make it this far. I really thought I'd lose him a couple of stops into today's deliveries, but he's stuck with me all day. Stuck with me, and charmed each and every one of my customers, while sliding seamlessly into my day as if running errands together is something we have always done.

The retirement home stop is my longest. The residents always sway me into a chat and a cup of coffee while I'm there. Often they want to share an old favorite recipe of their own, asking me to make it and bring it to them at my next visit. I always do. Sometimes they just want to offer tips about my baking or tell me they'd prefer walnuts over pecans in my banana nut bread or ask what the going price for a pint of blueberries is. They're a bit of a tough crowd, until you get to know them. Mostly, they just want to talk and be heard and have all their years of experience cooking for their own families to mean something. Besides, they do give some really great tips.

Keller is a big hit with the residents. Apparently Brunch, Biscuits & Tea is a staple program at the Reindeer Falls Retirement Villas and they're all big fans. He takes their tips about his show in stride and has a long discussion about the merits of clotted cream with a resident who spent some years living in London during their youth.

Over at the auto shop Keller is delighted to find it's the very same auto shop that did the custom paint job on my van and that I arranged a trade of services in lieu of payment. I'll have the paint job and retrofit paid off in just eight more cookie deliveries, a fact that seems to delight Keller to no end, a wide grin spreading across his face as his brown eyes light up.

And then finally, at the shelter he was nearly seduced by a dog. A shaggy mutt of some kind who rolled over onto her back to beg for belly scratches, mournful eyes enticing Keller's attention.

It worked. I very nearly did the same right there at the shelter but I caught myself in time.

When I mentioned the next item on today's agenda was a haircut, I thought surely he'd have had enough of running errands with me. Instead, he said something about this day being far more informative than a trip to the lady doctor and walked in and made himself comfortable.

Literally.

First of all, the salon staff are swooning over him. Which I should have seen coming. The only thing the ladies at the Hairway to Heaven love more than a good story is a front-row seat to watching a good story unfold.

Second of all, he's not waiting in the waiting area as he should. He's gotten himself the chair next to mine and now he's watching while I get my hair cut. He convinced Miss Sally to move down a spot so he could sit at her station while Jessie cuts my hair.

Miss Sally is not normally prone to doing favors, but she near tripped over herself to do one for Keller. Damn British accent. She actually offered to bring him a cup of tea after giving him her chair.

He declined, thanking her with such sincerity that she blushed. I don't believe Miss Sally has blushed in two decades, but for Keller? There was blushing.

Chair secured, he sat back with ease, one long leg bent and resting on the footrest, the other sprawled before him, gently rotating the chair to the left and right while he watched and talked and charmed everyone. Including me.

Meanwhile I'm sitting beneath an ugly cape with wet hair. Not sexy wet hair. Wet hair combed stick-straight against my head as Jessie gives me a trim. Split ends are not to be messed with.

But clearly, I didn't think this through. Because he looks like Santa's gift to single women and I look like a package left on the front porch in the snow.

At least my hair's washed now.

"I'm having a lovely time. Thank you for inviting me, Ginger."

"I didn't invite you," I remind him. "You invited yourself."

"Oh, Gingersnap, you little flirt, you." He says it teasingly, his eyes lit up and a smile on his face as if my sassing him is the highlight of his day, and I can't help it, I laugh. I don't know what exactly is going on between us but I'm into it. I'm going to give this British charmer whatever he wants and we both know it. It's only a matter of time.

"So Jessie, how long have you been cutting Ginger's hair?" Keller asks, turning his attention to my stylist.

"Since we were seven," I answer for her.

Keller lifts a brow in question while Jessie groans her disapproval. I can see her reflection in the mirror, throwing her hands up in disbelief that I've brought this up.

"One time. I cut off your hair one time when we were seven! I've been giving you a discount ever since and yet you won't let me live it down."

"Jessie and I grew up together," I tell Keller. "I always wanted to be a baker and she always wanted to be a hairstylist."

"But no one will let you practice cutting hair when you're a kid," Jessie fills in, clearly still disgruntled about this. "Everyone encouraged Ginger's dreams. Gave her an Easy Bake oven and tiny child-sized aprons. They let her stir the bowl and add the chocolate chips. They let her frost cakes and add all the sprinkles she wanted."

"So many sprinkles," I agree with a happy smile. I'm kinda beyond sprinkles now, skill wise, but they always make me nostalgic for the simple days when a variety pack of sprinkles was all you needed to create a masterpiece.

"Yet no one gave me a pair of scissors and encouraged me to practice. Nope." Behind me in the mirror Jessie is wide-eyed and ramping up the defense portion of this story.

"You cut my bangs in half, Jessie. Right before the Christmas pageant." I hold up two fingers in the air and mimic scissors. "Choppity-chop right off."

"You let me." Jessie sighs. "After we agreed it was unfair I never got to practice."

It's true, I did. Because it always seemed terribly unfair, right up until my bangs were on the floor and I had to spend the remainder of the second grade growing them out.

"She was the cutest little elf in the entire Christmas pageant with those ridiculous bangs," Jessie's telling Keller. "I think it helped her embrace her inner elf."

"Real cute." I roll my eyes. "I was so traumatized I haven't had bangs since." It's true. Once I grew them out again I kept them the same length as my hair.

"You two go way back then," Keller observes with a gleam in his eye. "Jessie," he drawls, turning the chair ever so slightly, "tell me about the kind of guy Ginger went for in high school when she wasn't wasting her time pining over Matty Novak."

"Let's not do that," I quickly intercede. I most surely do not need for Jessie to regale Keller with embarrassing stories of boyfriends past. Nada. Not happening.

"Oh, let's!" Jessie's finished with my trim and claps her hands in delight at the idea.

"I will one-star you on Yelp," I threaten.

"Oh, stop. You'll do no such thing."

"Just tell me how to convince this feisty little ginger snap to give me a chance," Keller says. He's talking to Jessie, but he's looking at me as he says it. And the way he looks at me makes my heart skip a beat. As if he's discovering something he likes and he's got all the time in the world for me to get on board.

It sounds like kissing is definitely back on the table.

Chapter 6

"That was delightful," Keller quips as we exit the salon. "Where are we headed to next? Dentist appointment? Oil change? Perhaps a nail salon where you'll try to scare me off by requesting I get a pedicure with you?"

I laugh, because he's being a really good sport. And because he's cute. And because I'm having fun spending an ordinary day with him. "Well, a pedicure sounds lovely, but it's December so it hardly seems practical."

"Nothing about December is practical, Gingersnap. December is when magic takes over. Embrace it."

Magic. It's a bit like a variety pack of sprinkles, isn't it? Something you think you've left behind in childhood, but then December comes and you believe all over again.

We walk down Main Street, our steps slow as we pass cheery window displays and take in the holiday décor. Reindeer Falls is magic in December, that's a fact. Boughs of evergreen are stretched from one side of the street to the other, lights interwoven into the greens that will glow as soon as the sun sets. Wreaths tied with bright red ribbons hang from every old-fashioned lamp post. Jumbo candy canes are fixed to just about anything that's bolted down. Post office boxes, traffic lights, park benches.

It looks like a movie set.

And it feels like magic.

Somehow, without meaning to, I've walked us down to my favorite part of Main Street. The spot where the Cass River curves. A bridge connects Main Street in a perfect straight line from one side of the river to the other. To the left is a covered bridge that is every bit as romantic as it sounds. Exactly the kind of thing you'd expect to see in a small fairy-tale town like Reindeer Falls. It connects a Bavarian-themed lodge to Main Street, the tourists walking across to take in the charms of our downtown.

To the right, a short half-block over, in a little elbow of land where Mill Street becomes Gunzenhausen, is an old service station. Right behind it, the river drops in elevation, just enough for the water to flow down a ramp of rocks, making the tiniest of river falls. It's my favorite spot.

There's a path along the river and in the summer, lots of green space and lush trees and flowers. But it's not summer now, so everything is covered in a light blanket of snow, including the sidewalk leading to the old service station. The one no longer being used as a service station. The one with a big Knight Realty sign propped up in the window. I should keep walking, or turn us around and head back to the car, but I don't.

"What is this place?" Keller asks, clearly understanding there's a reason we left the shoveled sidewalks in favor of crunching over snow to approach a closed building.

"It used to be an auto shop, but the owner needed more space so he moved to the other end of Main, down by the Kroger," I tell him, walking us over to one of the two garage bays. They've got glass doors, so we're able to peek inside. And I know it's silly, but there's always been something about this property that gives me butterflies. Something magical. It's ridiculous, right? An old auto body shop should not make my heart race, yet it does. The possibilities of what it could be form one endless vision board in my head.

"This is my dream location," I admit, looking for a reaction from him from the corner of my eye. "For Ginger's Bake Shop." I wonder if he can see the vision, if he can feel the magic, or if he'll think I'm crazy for wanting to renovate an old garage into a bakery.

"Hmm," Keller hums while taking in the building, peering through the glass service doors. "It's a nice space. Great location."

"It's too big for what I need though. So it doesn't really make sense."

"It's the perfect size for a restaurant though," Keller observes.

"I suppose, but a restaurant has never been my dream. I'd like a few tables, at most. Someplace I could serve a few customers at a time or do wedding cake sampling. But most of my business would be to-go orders, so paying for this much space wouldn't make any business sense."

"It could, if you had a business partner."

"I suppose."

"I'd keep these garage doors, and use these old bays for open-air seating in the summer months," Keller says, clearly seeing all the potential. Clearly feeling the magic I feel here. "I bet you could add patio seating facing the river and add a concession stand pass-through window for an outdoor dog bakery. There's enough parking to accommodate all of this."

"I'd paint the entire building white. Then I'd add a pink and white striped awning over the door and paint the walls inside the bakery pink. I know it's a little cliché, but I've always imagined a pink bakery. And pink bakery boxes tied up with string."

"Sounds perfect."

I shrug. "It's too big. A much bigger project than I could do alone. And I can't see any way to split the space. Besides, the owner isn't interested in leasing me a portion of the building, so it doesn't matter. There's a vacant building near the River Place shops that would make more sense. And that place already has a kitchen and would require a lot less work to open."

"But does it have the magic? This other space?"

It doesn't. But no one else understands that. On paper, the other space makes sense. In my heart, it doesn't quite fit.

"What about you?" I ask. "Did you always dream of being a celebrity chef? Of having your own show on the Food Network?"

"Not hardly, no. I'd always imagined owning a breakfast place," Keller says, stepping back to take in a wider view of the building.

"Not a bakery?" I'm surprised. "But you have a show on the Food Network." I suppose I thought wanting a bakery of your own was some kind of prerequisite to having a show on the Food Network. "And you've got the Brunch, Biscuits & Tea bakery inside the Windsor Hotel in Las Vegas."

He shrugs. "That's more of a business deal. It's not really mine, you know? I've been there a couple of times, for press mostly. But it's not a passion project. Not like this." He nods towards the building. "This feels more real to me than anything I'm doing with the Food Network, as fun as it is." He turns his head to face me, his eyes on mine before he speaks again. "This town, the people. You. It all reminds me of what's really important. Of what I'm missing."

"What are you missing, exactly?"

"Something real."

The way he says that has a thousand tiny reindeer zipping around my stomach. As if he's feeling the same things I'm feeling. Like there could really be something between us, which is ridiculous, isn't it? We barely know each other! People don't really fall in love at first sight, do they? At least not outside of a Hallmark Channel Christmas movie they don't.

"Why are you here, Keller? Hanging out with me? Charming me, flirting with me?"

"Because I like you, Ginger." He brushes a strand of my hair off my face and tucks it behind my ear, the gesture so simple yet intimate.

"Why? I'm not making it easy for you. Surely you could find someone easier." I say it softly because I don't really mean it. I don't want him to find someone easier. I want to know he's feeling as off kilter as I am right now.

"I don't want someone easier. I want you. Besides, you like me too. You feel this between us. I know you do. The energy. The pull. The magic."

"How can you be so sure of that?" I ask, heart racing. Because he's right. But also, how can he be so sure? Confident jackal.

"Let's test it." He whispers the words a heartbeat from my lips. So close.

"How?" I whisper back, even though I think I know exactly what kind of a test he's talking about.

And then he kisses me. Right there outside the old auto shop. It's cold and there are a few snowflakes falling and somewhere a horn honks, but the entire focus of my life at that moment is Keller's lips on mine. He starts softly, a brush of his lips over mine, and just that, the barest chastest kiss, stirs a reaction in me unlike anything I've experienced before. Then he angles his head a fraction and presses more firmly, his lips separating mine, tasting and nipping. His skin is rough against mine, but warm. The kiss is delicious. He's delicious. I'm flushed from my head to my toes, heat rising to my cheeks as his tongue dips into my mouth and caresses my own. He's unhurried, taking his time to explore and rile and tease until I'm breathless and hot and very, very bothered.

"Why did you do that?" I ask when he breaks his lips from mine, our foreheads touching and both of us breathing heavily. On the surface I suppose I'm asking why he kissed me. But what I'm really asking is how I'll ever survive without a million more kisses from him.

"Did you not want me to?" He rubs his thumb along my bottom lip, a tiny caress that affects me nearly as much as his kiss did.

"No, I did," I say, shaking my head. Then I catch myself and nod my head. I probably look as unhinged as I feel. "I did want you to. I very much wanted you to, but..." I sigh, confused. “You're distracting me."

"What am I distracting you from?" He dips his head lower, our foreheads barely touching as he waits for me to respond.

"My life."

"Maybe if I was in your life I wouldn't be distracting you from it."

Well, sure, that sounds logical. Except it's not.

"How would that even work, Keller? Because I like you. I like you more than I should. And maybe you're just playing with me. Maybe you just really like kittens. Maybe I'm simply an adorable diversion while you're in town filming this contest. Maybe you're not Reindeer Falls material." The thought of him not being Reindeer Falls material nearly breaks my heart and I haven't even fully given it to him yet.

"What exactly does that mean, Ginger?"

"It means you're leaving soon." I say it softly. We're still standing close together, and I realize he has one hand on my back, caressing me as if encouraging me to get it all out. "It means you might find Reindeer Falls really charming in December and be bored silly with it by January. Or it could mean that you're just a jerk who travels from town to town seducing women for their best recipes and then leaving them behind brokenhearted. Also, you're British. Are you even allowed to stay? What if the Queen wants you back? You probably make excellent biscuits. The Food Network gave you a television show with the word ‘biscuits’ in the title, which surely means you're good at making them."

There. I think that was the gist of my concerns.

Keller nods his head slowly, seemingly taking all of that into consideration.

"Well. I suppose any of those things could happen," he agrees, which is the best sort of comfort, isn't it? No one wants to hear that their fears are too crazy to be validated. "But what if they don't?" he suggests, dipping his head to mine again. "It’s Christmas, Ginger, and anything is possible at Christmas. Have a little faith in the magic."

Chapter 7

The following day of competition I'm determined to make it through the day without being distracted by my Keller James crush. No way, no how.

I'm distracted before the cameras even start rolling.

Because the magic between Keller and me is off the charts. Err, assuming he meant sexual tension and not like an actual mystical Christmas magic that couples unsuspecting people together for an eternity of true love.

Dang, Christmas magic would be super cool though.

In any case, Christmas lust is definitely real because I've got a raging case of it.

I've never felt this level of chemistry with a man before, not like this. Not this insatiable pull, as if there really is a magic Christmas spell at work. Because I have to admit it's something more than just feeling familiar with him from watching him on TV. There's an intangible thing, some feeling or vibe between us. As if we were always meant to be something to one another.

Normally when you meet someone there's a spark of interest followed by a period of maybes. Maybe this person would be a good fit. Maybe you might work well together as partners. As lovers. Maybe they’re the one, but also maybe not. During the maybes your brain is voicing every objection it can muster up. He's too tall or too short. Too political or too ambivalent. Too interested or not interested enough.

Meeting Keller feels like Goldilocks finding her perfect fit.

Or perhaps I've finally lost my ever-loving mind.

Either way, I'm determined to keep my focus today. So I say a quick hello to him and the rest of the group when I arrive, then separate myself because simply being in the same room as him makes my heart beat in a wonky way while my traitorous eyeballs sneak a peek at him every chance they get. Which will not do, clearly. Eye on the prize, Ginger. Remember what's important, Ginger.

Winning.

Opening my own bakery.

Except...

Except that every Christmas movie ever made would tell me otherwise. They would tell me to remember the reason for the season and all that. Remind me that there's more to life than winning and work. Remind me to stop and smell the gingerbread and think about a potential future of babies and station wagons and happily-ever-afters. Somewhere a cupid dressed in a Santa suit would tell me to believe in the magic and potential of love.

But also, that's not how real life works. I don't want to be that girl who just tosses aside her lifelong ambitions for a man. Every romantic comedy movie ever made tells me that will end in disaster.

It's a real no-win, if I'm taking life advice from movies.

I want it all, obviously. But wanting it all is terrifying. And why am I even thinking about all of this with a man I've just met and shared one kiss with? It's Yuletide insanity. Soon the holidays will be over and Keller will be gone. Off to film another season of Brunch, Biscuits & Tea and oversee his restaurants or sit on judging panels of random Food Network competitions. I need to shake it off and focus. This is temporary. Nothing more.

Dear universe, why must you tease me in this way? I'm trying my best to behave and temptation is continually thrust into my face. It's like encountering a pack of Trooper Girls selling cookies when you're on a diet.

And then, just like that, day two of competition is underway.

"We have a surprise for you today!" The host of The Great Gingerbread Bake-Off claps her hands together in excitement once they've arranged the group of us. They've marked the floor with small taped crosses to tell us exactly where to stand so they can get the best footage. The footage of us being given our surprise.

I was feeling confident about today up until this moment. Just one day standing between me and the finale. Two challenges between me and the prize money. Between me and my bake shop.

“Was” being the key word.

Because in my experience whenever a television host announces a surprise, it's never a good thing. Not for the contestants on the show. It might make good television, and the people viewing might love the twist, but the contestants? If we were filming Love Island they'd be about to add two new love interests to the house. If we were filming Survivor they'd be handing one of us an immunity coconut. If we were filming Big Brother they'd be bringing back the single most disliked contestant on the show, the one everyone voted off because they were awful.

I'm not sure why they use the word “surprise” and act like it's a good thing.

We have a terrible, awful, no-good thing we're about to spring on you, is how they should phrase it.

It's a twist of some kind, clearly.

Freaking television producers think they're so clever.

"If you'll notice," the host continues with a wide camera-friendly smile, "our judges are missing from the set today."

The host of The Great Gingerbread Bake-Off is an actress famous for her role as a grandmother on an old sitcom. I suppose that's why they nabbed her for this gig. She's very grandmotherly. Grandmothers and Christmas are like peanut butter and jelly. Like winter and snowballs. Like Santa and chimneys.

The host pauses dramatically while the camera crew gets what they need. The producer asks us to look surprised. I'm sure in the final edited version of this show the camera will pan over to the empty table where the judges normally sit while we look shocked to see them missing, but in reality we've already seen them today. They're here, so clearly this twist is temporary. Or so I hope.

My guess is they're either about to send us on some kind of scavenger hunt to find the judges, or they've temporarily replaced the judges. If they've replaced the judges, it'll be for a reason. Like giving us a panel of children to impress. That'd be good television. I bet that's it.

I relax. This is way better than a team challenge or being given five minutes to recreate Santa's sleigh out of nothing but a fruitcake, a pack of wafer cookies, and a stick of butter.

I'm exhaling in relief when the first dog trots in, a bright red ribbon tied around his collar, tail wagging in happiness as he scampers across the makeshift set.

He's quickly followed by two others.

Dogs. Yup, that's even better television. And the best part is I can make a gingerbread dog biscuit with my eyes closed, a thought I'll keep to myself because I don't actually want to bake with my eyes closed and I can imagine production thinking that'd be a fun twist. Not today, Scrooge.

I'm not sure how they're going to judge this though. Three paws up? In my experience, most dogs will eat just about anything.

"Meet your guest judges!" the host announces in a tone that indicates she thinks this is a jolly great idea. "As you can see, we're doing something different for your next challenge. Today you'll be creating a gingerbread dog treat! And the folks at the Reindeer Falls Animal Rescue have sent over a few volunteers to join our judging panel today!”

It turns out the dogs will be judging us in conjunction with our actual judges, who have returned to their spots at the judging table. So we need to make a dog biscuit that appeals to both the dogs and the judges.

And then we're off, everyone scrambling to the pantry to collect ingredients.

Meanwhile, one of the dogs is chewing on a cable of some kind and another has just knocked over one of the gingerbread set decorations. The third appears to be working on getting himself adopted by one of the camera crew as he's plopped himself at his feet and rolled onto his back, exposing his belly. The dog, not the cameraman.

I shake my head while I collect ingredients, pausing with a frown of concentration while I contemplate which of my dog biscuits I should make.

"It could be worse. They could have sent cats."

It’s Keller. I huff in his direction.

"This is serious, Keller."

"Not that serious, really. Quite literally just dog biscuits, Gingersnap."

My heart does a little jig in my chest when he calls me Gingersnap and I have to fight off the giant smile that is threatening to overtake my face. Charming jackal.

Arms loaded with ingredients, I race back to my station. Ten minutes later I've got my human-consumable dog biscuits in the oven. I'm making a peanut butter gingersnap. I've made these before and they're delicious. There's also nothing in them that the dogs can't have.

Needless to say, I survive the round. Hmm, that was a bit vain, wasn't it? But I have been donating homemade dog treats to the shelter for well over a year. If I'd gone home during this round it'd have been pretty humiliating. Besides, one of the dogs the shelter sent over was Hank, and I happen to know he's partial to my peanut butter gingersnaps.

Anyway, five of us are left for the fourth round, which might be the trickiest yet.

Gingerbread pie.

Chapter 8

I know, I know. You think gingerbread pie sounds real simple but the Great Lakes Holiday Pie Champ is still in the running and surely she's not going home during the pie round. Can you imagine the humiliation? Besides her, it's me, Keller, the celebrity chef with her own cupcake show and the local champion from Ann Arbor.

And only three of us will advance to the final.

They've given us a break while production sets up to film the gingerbread pie episode. We all change clothes during the break to give the illusion that this is being filmed on a different day. I'm just stepping out of the women's changing room—also known as the women's bathroom at the community center—when I see Keller approaching. I've changed into another vintage-inspired holiday dress. This one is a pale blue wool with elbow-length sleeves and white appliquéd snowflakes on the circle skirt. Of course I don't dress like this in my own kitchen, but perhaps I should because honestly it feels good. Impractical, but good.

Lots of good things are impractical though.

Like crushing on a certain celebrity chef with a British accent.

Anyway, maybe this will be my thing at Ginger's Bake Shop. I'll wear a cute vintage dress underneath my apron as part of my branding. Wouldn't that be adorable? Vintage dresses and sneakers ’cause I'm not crazy enough to romanticize the idea of baking in heels. I've got my limits.

"Ginger," Keller drawls in his lovely British accent as he approaches, phone in his hand. I mean, I know logically Ginger sounds much the same in either an American or British accent, but trust me, it's super sexy when Keller says it. It comes out like “Ginnnggeerrr” with an undertone of “let's have sex.” I promise you, that's exactly how he pronounces it. "You look smashing."

"Smashing?" I start to giggle because surely he's pulling my leg. "That cannot be a word British people still use, Mr James."

"It is, I just used it. And call me Mr James again. I'm into it." This is accompanied by a wink that makes me weak-kneed and a cheeky smile that makes me question if I'm dehydrated because I'm close to swooning like a heroine in a Regency romance novel.

We stand there a moment while I stare at him like an infatuated teenager at a high school dance as he smiles at me like I'm someone worth his smiles. They're nice smiles too. It must be that celebrity charisma again. Everyone must feel this way when he looks at them, which is why he got his own show on the Food Network. Trust me, I've watched many a marathon of Brunch, Biscuits & Tea because he's hard to turn away from, even in reruns. Even when I've already watched him bake a perfect lemon sugar crêpe or an artisan raspberry ricotta muffin and recreated the recipes myself, I watch it again.

He's captivating.

Or they've got a really great editor on Brunch, Biscuits & Tea and they edit the episodes with some kind of voodoo I can't turn away from.

Either or.

Reindeer Falls High School holds their dances in this very community center, by the way. But there wasn't enough charisma or special effects in the world to make my high-school boyfriend Jordan Redman this delicious.

"Can I get your number?"

"My number?" I repeat dumbly, because what is even happening? How is this my life right now? My apron, the one with the Great Gingerbread Bake-Off logo, is dangling from my hands. I'd been about to slip it on over my dress when I was distracted by Keller using his British accent to form words, something that should be illegal in every country except for Great Britain, as surely they've built an immunity to how sexy their own accent is.

I'd be unsure if I even heard him correctly, but he is holding his phone in his hand, looking at me expectantly. And he did kiss me yesterday, so I suppose asking for my number isn't a total leap of my imagination.

"Your mobile?" he clarifies when I blink like a deer in the headlights. "Phone? Surely you have one. If not, I'd be happy to obtain one for you so that I might call you on it." He adds a flirty smile and I'm quite certain I need to drink more water because the dehydration is definitely making me lightheaded.

Dehydration or Christmas magic, take your pick.

"Why would you need to do that? Call me, I mean. Are we arranging a phone tree for the contestants?" I glance down the hallway to where the other contestants are mingling along with a few cameramen. I know full well he's not organizing a phone tree but I'm stalling, trying to understand the end goal. We're filming the finale of The Great Gingerbread Bake-Off next week—assuming we both make it through this round. He can't possibly be intending to hang out in Reindeer Falls any longer than that.

Can he?

Does he intend to stay in town in order to seduce me with offers of sleigh rides and fireside roasted chestnuts? ’Cause he doesn't need to try that hard. Honestly, I'd show him all the best places to make out in this very building if we weren't about to film.

"A phone tree?"

"You know, when you have a group list so you can message everyone and confirm that it's your turn to bring the donuts. That sort of thing?"

"Production provides the donuts, actually." He smiles as if I'm so adorably amusing. "So no." He shakes his head slowly, a small smile playing at his lips. "I'd like your number for personal use. So that I might call you and converse. And then perhaps entice you into doing something with me."

"Like a date?" I say it slowly, doubt clearly weighing my tone. Am I having an out-of-body experience or is Keller James really asking for my phone number? In order to take me to dinner?

He laughs. "Yes, exactly like that. Surely you're familiar with the concept?"

I mean, sorta. Sure, I date, but I can't remember the last time a man asked for my phone number in person. I meet guys on dating apps, like a civilized millennial.

"I don't know," I mumble. Not because I'm being coy, but because he's leaving in just a few days, isn't he? "Aren't you leaving soon?" I question, scarcely able to believe what I'm hearing. Scarcely able to believe I might have more time with Keller. "For somewhere that is not here?" I wave a hand in the air as if to indicate the entirety of the world, because I'm not really sure where he lives when he's not here.

"No." He shakes his head. "I like it here so I'm going to stay a while. If that's all right with you." He says it quietly, earnestly, his eyes searching my face as if my answer is important to him. As if I'm the entirety of the draw of Reindeer Falls.

"You're going to stay a while," I repeat like a parrot. He's going to stay in Reindeer Falls for the holidays? For me? "At the Busy Bee Inn?"

"At the Busy Bee Inn, yes. For the time being," he adds. Whatever that means.

"Do you have a place to live?" I question, worrying my lower lip between my teeth. "When you're not in Reindeer Falls?" Maybe he's a couch-surfer. Maybe he's one of those guys so afraid of commitment he doesn't have an apartment lease and just lives out of hotels while he's filming shows for the Food Network and then lands on friends’ couches until they get sick of him. I mean, he seems super charming and put-together right now, but he'd seem a lot less charming if he left all my toss pillows strewn about my living room.

Then again, I'd never make him sleep on the couch.

"I do," he replies slowly, a smile tugging at his lips as if he's amused with my insinuation that he might be homeless. "Does that make me a more viable suitor?"

"Viable suitor?" I start laughing again. "Stop Regency-romancing me," I gasp between giggles.

He moves forward a few inches until I'm nearly pressed between him and the wall, then he leans down and I think he's going to kiss me. Right here in the hallway in full view of the other contestants and the camera crew and a production aide who is taking a really slow walk past us in a sad attempt at pretending not to eavesdrop.

"Do you think I kiss just anyone, Gingersnap?" Keller murmurs only loud enough for me to hear. "The way I kissed you yesterday?"

"I hope not," I manage to squeak out with the limited air left in my lungs. His lips are so close to mine I'm not sure I can hold myself accountable to my vow to stay focused.

"Trust the magic," he says, and presses his cell into my hands.

Chapter 9

I give Keller my phone number, obviously. I've already given him my kisses, so playing hard to get about a phone number seems silly. And by the time we begin filming the next episode an hour later I've got visions of sugar plums and true love dancing in my head. I keep peeking glances at him, fighting the smile that wants to overtake my face.

He's staying in Reindeer Falls, at least for a little bit. Maybe... maybe we could make something work? Maybe something more will develop between us and then we'll find a way to make a long-distance relationship work?

It could happen. Anything can, if I believe in the magic long enough to let it. Now I sound like Keller, I think with a smile. Also, I hope we're both talking about a theoretical magic and not a magical Christmas gnome that grants wishes.

Not that I don't believe in a little Christmas magic. Of course I do. It's the gnomes I don't trust, obviously.

"We're giving you one hour to create the ultimate gingerbread pie!" the host of The Great Gingerbread Bake-Off announces. It's actually the third time she's announced it. They had issues with the sound equipment so we're a few takes into filming this challenge. Which is helpful, actually. It gives me more time to think about what I want to bake before the clock starts ticking.

Should I make something a little unexpected? Like a pear-ginger pie? I can make a gorgeous latticework crust, but the timing will be tight. Do I make a ginger cream pie, in which I only have to bake the crust itself? Or will the judges think that too easy?

Apple-ginger pie? Too average.

Ginger-honey pumpkin pie? Too convoluted.

Gingerbread cookie pie? Too pedestrian.

I need the perfect ginger-based pie. One even Goldilocks herself would approve of.

The sound issues continue so they tell us to take five while they attempt to sort them out again. Keller drifts over to me with his charismatic smile and all thoughts of gingerbread flee my head. His dark hair is falling across his forehead and my fingers are itching to brush it aside. Or dig in and feel it between my fingers.

I've got it bad.

"Know what you're making?" he asks, seemingly unaware of all the dirty possibilities playing across my mind right now.

"Do you?" I retort, since no, I really don't.

"Gingersnap pie crust with a butterscotch cream filling," he answers easily.

"You're a little obsessed with gingersnap," I observe with a small grin. I find it charming, obviously. Does that make me some kind of egomaniac, to assume he's making a gingersnap recipe in honor of his nickname for me?

"More than a little," he replies, eyes dropping to my lips and back with a slow flirtatious glance.

"I think I'm going to make a pear-ginger pie with fresh cinnamon whipped cream."

"Ambitious, with the time given."

"Yeah." I worry at my bottom lip, pulling it between my teeth. Maybe I should go with a simpler option? Also, I'm not sure how it's possible but talking about baking with Keller feels like some kind of weird foreplay.

"You can do it," he assures me, voice low and sexy and rumbly.

"Of course I can," I agree, but now I'm staring at his lips and I think I might sound a little breathless. When the director announces they're ready to begin filming again, I jump. As if I'm a guilty teenager and was almost caught kissing Jordan Redman in the stairwell.

But I'm not a teenager. I'm a grown woman and I almost kissed Keller James. On set. With my parents in the audience. And my sisters. They're going to tease me about this so mercilessly.

The fourth attempt at filming goes off without a hitch and then the five remaining contestants are scrambling for the pantry, gathering ingredients faster than Santa’s elves. I'm going to make the pear-ginger pie, but with a caramelized filling. The caramelized filling will only take ten minutes on the stovetop versus the amount of time I'd need to bake a pear filling in the oven. Then I'll cover it with a gorgeous braided lattice crust and bake it until it's golden brown. Plenty of time.

I eye the other contestants while I work. The Great Lakes Holiday Pie Champ looks far too smug for my liking. The woman from Ann Arbor appears to be baking a ginger-apple pie. She didn't pre-cook the apples though so I think she'll be in trouble because those apples won't be tender enough with the amount of time we have. I can't tell what the cupcake celebrity chef is baking for this round from my station but she doesn't seem under any stress.

Keller is totally at ease. He's already slid his gingersnap pie crust into the oven and moved on to the butterscotch cream filling. He winks at me when I peek a glance in his direction. I blush and turn my attention back to my own workstation. My jackal is an incorrigible flirt.

The remaining minutes fly by. This is it. This pie is the final obstacle separating me from the finale and the chance to compete for the title of Great Gingerbread Bake-Off Champion and the ten-thousand-dollar prize.

Baking can be tricky, even for an experienced baker. My crust could crack or the filling could ooze all over the plate. Things that would be okay if I didn't need to plate three perfect, camera-ready slices. So far so good though. My pie looks perfect as it sits at my workstation cooling, but the real test will be when I slice into it, which I'll do at the very last moment. I want all the setting time I can get. Eye on the clock, I grab the mixing bowl I put into the freezer fifteen minutes ago in preparation for making whipped cream. I'll add the tiniest hint of cinnamon for both the taste and the gorgeous speckled color it'll provide. And the colder the cream the easier it is to whip. I picked up the chilled bowl trick years ago back when I was twelve and watching the Food Network for fun.

When we reach the two-minute warning I slice into my pie and... it's perfect. I swiftly plate three slices and top them with a perfect dollop of whipped cream just as the clock runs out and the show hostess cries out, "Time’s up!"

Next up we film the segment where the judges taste each of our submissions while we all stand and politely listen to their critiques. I've always hated this portion of baking contests because clearly the contestants are meant to play along as if they weren't just given seventeen minutes and no butter to complete a challenge. But playing along is part of the gig, I guess, ’cause we all do it.

Two eliminations this round. The first to go is the celebrity chef with the Food Network show featuring her cupcake shop. Next off is the Ann Arbor Gingerbread Festival champion.

I nearly slump against my work station in relief when it's over.

I've made it through.

I'm a finalist on The Great Gingerbread Bake-Off. I've got a one in three chance of winning this competition and the prize money, which means Ginger's Bake Shop is within my grasp. It's so close I can taste it.

It tastes like sugar and spice and everything nice, in case you're wondering.

I can nearly taste Keller James too, because I intend to kiss him again the first chance I get. Which might seem counterintuitive because he's my competition for the grand prize. It's me versus Keller and the Great Lakes Holiday Pie Champion, so I should be thinking about ways to best him, not ways to kiss him, but the heart wants what the heart wants. Besides, Keller being in the finale means he'll need to stay in town for a bit longer, so my heart is feeling very optimistic.

Kissing the competition seems dicey, doesn't it? I've never been a dicey girl, either. But I kinda like this new naughty elf version of myself.

Chapter 10

Keller texts me that very night. It's a bit late. I've already turned off the lights and I'm snuggled beneath a blanket on my sofa watching old episodes of Brunch, Biscuits & Tea with only the lighting of my Christmas tree to light the room.

Yeah, yeah, I've got it bad.

Keller: Gingersnap, you awake?

Ginger: Yes...

Keller: I've got something you might be interested in.

Yeah, he does. He's about to proposition me for a booty call, right? For sure that's what's about to happen. Or a torrid sext exchange. I hold my breath while I tap out a reply, typing and deleting a few times, unsure how flirty I should be. “Show it to me, big boy” is the most clever response I can think of, which isn't saying much. Clearly my naughty elf persona needs work.

Ginger: Oh, yeah?

Keller: Hold on. I'll send a pic.

Oh, my Santa Claus. He's going to send me a dick picture. Then he'll probably want me to send him a naughty picture in return. I glance down at my pajamas in horror. They're my favorite, a waffle knit covered in reindeer. I've had them since college and they definitely don't belong in a sexy selfie. Not that I've ever sent a sexy selfie before, not that kind anyway. What am I supposed to do? Just rip off my top and then pose naked in front of my Christmas tree while holding the camera at some kind of bizarre angle to make my boobs look good? Dang it, I'm not really sure how I feel about this. I should have spent the evening researching how to behave like a naughty elf instead of watching a bunch of Brunch, Biscuits & Tea episodes I've been hoarding on my DVR.

Except, wait.

What is this? Did he just send me... a picture of baked goods?

Keller: I was thinking of you so I made gingerbread scones with a lemon drizzle.

Ginger: Get over here.

Keller: This late? Gingersnap, I'm not sure you respect my virtue...

Gah, this jackal.

Ginger: Of course I do!

Keller: Glad to hear it, for I am a gentleman and I would never dare make assumptions of your character.

Ginger: STOP REGENCY-ROMANCING ME AND BRING ME A SCONE.

Keller: So spicy tonight, Gingersnap. Open your door.

Oh, my word. He's here? I scramble off the couch and fling open the door, my heart beating in nerves and excitement. And there he is. Keller on my doorstep holding a baking container I know he's nabbed from the Busy Bee Inn.

"Hey." Keller smiles, and just seeing his smile and hearing his voice makes me light up. "Aren't you something?" he adds, running his gaze over me from head to toe. Right. I forgot about the reindeer pajamas. I'm sure the fuzzy reindeer socks aren't helping the visual any.

"Sorry." I shrug. "I'm adorable. Chronically adorable. I don't even own any sexy pajamas that I could slip into to seduce you. I own a red bra, but I don't have any matching underwear so it'd be a red bra and these flannel reindeer pajama bottoms, which no-one really wants to see together, I don't think. Or I could put on the red bra and a pair of cotton underwear with candy canes printed all over them. But they don't really match."

"Uh-huh." Keller nods, a small smile playing at his lips. "Can I come in?"

Oh, goodness me. I've left him standing on my doorstep in the cold while I blabbed on about my underwear. Also of note, I've let all the cold air into the house and I'm not wearing a bra, red or otherwise, under my knit pajamas.

"Yes! Please," I add, stepping aside so Keller can enter before closing the door tightly behind him. And just like that, we're alone. Unattended. No cameras. No Pete to bust in and interrupt. No nosy production assistants trying to eavesdrop. Just me and Keller. In my house. Where sex things could happen.

I feel totally awkward.

How do naughty elves do it? They'd probably just start ripping their reindeer pajamas off in the entryway without a single word. Or shove him against the wall and kiss him, scones smashed into smithereens between them. Instead I ask Keller if I can take his coat. I'll probably offer him tea next.

"Would you like some tea?"

Yup. There it is.

"I'd love some tea, Gingersnap. Though I do hope you have a kettle. I always cringe in horror when you Americans use the microwave to heat water for tea." He makes a play at shuddering as I take the container of scones from his hand. They're still warm and I relax a bit. Keller's just here for a biscuit and tea. I'm probably imagining all the torrid sex stuff. I mean really, he never once insinuated anything filthy. That was all me. In my own head. He's literally brought me scones, which isn't exactly a seduction technique, I don't think.

Keller follows me to the kitchen and watches as I fill my tea kettle with water and put it on to boil. More accurately, he pokes around my kitchen, which I understand. I'd poke around his kitchen if I had the chance too. I love seeing what people use the most. Which are their favorite bowls and mixing spoons. If they use cast-iron baking dishes or glass. Nonstick skillets or stainless steel. If they've got a warming drawer or an ice maker. All of it fascinates me.

"This house is a rental, so this isn't my dream kitchen, but it's cozy and it does the job."

"What would your dream kitchen have? This one is pretty great," he adds with a glance around my tidy but effective space. I've got an eclectic mix of high-end and vintage. The open shelves are filled with stacks of vintage mixing bowls, with an assortment of Christmas mixed in. Santa mugs, reindeer salt and pepper shakers, an old wooden sign advertising twenty-five-cent cups of hot chocolate.

"A great big farmhouse sink. I don't even care if it's cliché, I've always wanted one."

"It'd be cast-iron, not stainless," Keller fills in, pulling a couple of Christmas mugs off my shelf.

"Yes! A single bowl, big enough to bathe babies in."

Gah. Why did I bring up babies? I'm trying to seduce him, not make him think I'm trying to lock him down for diaper duty. A naughty elf would want a farmhouse sink to clean sex toys, not babies. Actually a naughty elf would never have brought up a farmhouse sink in the first place. I do my best not to sigh as I ask him if he wants to see the rest of my house. I've got to get him out of my adorable kitchen.

Except when we walk into my family room I forget I've left Brunch, Biscuits & Tea playing on the television. Keller starts laughing the moment he sees himself on screen. Great. Now I look like a stalker. With all the threat of a tiny kitten that shows up on your doorstep and refuses to leave.

"Um..." I stumble for something to say as I grab the remote. "This must have just come on. I've got the Food Network on all the time, I hardly even notice what's playing anymore!" I jab at the remote until the television turns off. Now it's even darker in here, because the only lighting remaining is my tree and the light filtering in from the kitchen.

"Gingersnap." Keller closes the distance between us and takes the remote out of my hand, tossing it onto the couch. He keeps my hand in his though, tugging me another inch closer. "I think you've got a bit of a crush on me."

I mean, duh.

"I find it charming. You're adorable."

Ugh. Is this the part where he rejects me? Tells me he thinks of me like an adorable little sister? I don't think so.

"I'm not adorable," I announce, and then I give him a little shove so that he topples back onto the couch. "I'm a vixen. Ignore the pajamas. Think of me as a naughty elf," I instruct as I straddle him on the couch.

He looks surprised for a brief moment but then he's smiling again. But I'm undeterred, so I slide one hand under his shirt, searching for his belt buckle at the same time as I grab a handful of his hair in the other hand and then lean in and kiss him.

"I'm not adorable. Let's hate-fuck."

Keller pauses, pulling back far enough to look at my face, his own expression one of confusion. "Hate-fuck? Do you dislike me, Ginger?"

"No! I've got an insane crush on you just like you said. Okay? But I know I probably remind you of your best friend's little sister and you think I'm too adorable to sleep with. But I'm not. I'm quite naughty." I pause here, not wanting to oversell or lie. "Reasonably naughty," I amend.

"Ginger." Keller stills my hand on his belt, waiting until he's got my full attention. "I've never had a single sisterly thought about you."

"Oh."

"It's true I find you adorable. But as it turns out, I find your brand of adorable very, very sexy."

"Oh," I say again, but this time with a bit more hope in my tone.

"And I've got more than a crush on you, Gingersnap. So I'm not sure a hate-fuck would be remotely possible."

"Right," I agree, wiggling a bit on his lap. This seems like a lot of talking when I think we're both in agreement that we should be naked.

"Was that... something you're interested in?" He's still holding my hand hostage, but he's rubbing reassuring circles against my skin so I feel somewhat okay that he's stopped me from taking off his pants.

"Um, I mean..." I pause. "I was mostly just trying to seduce you. Plus I've never done that before so it seemed like something I could check off my bucket list."

"Hmm," Keller murmurs in my ear as he presses a trail of kisses against my neck. "So what kind of things have you done then, you naughty elf?"

"You know, the regular kinds of things."

"The regular kinds?"

"Yup. All the regular stuff."

"Hmm," he murmurs again, but he releases my hand and makes no objection when I go back to unbuckling his belt. His own hand slides up and down my thigh as he captures my lips with his own and kisses me nearly senseless.

The kettle, however, is a cockblocking jerk because it chooses this moment to start whistling. Loudly. I groan in dismay as I disentangle myself from Keller's arms and stand and dash into the kitchen, silently cursing my tea kettle. Also, not for nothing, but if we'd microwaved a couple of mugs of water we wouldn't have even heard the microwave ding and we could be having sex right now. Instead, now I've actually got to serve tea. Right? I pull two teabags out of the vintage sugar canister I keep them in with a sigh.

"What are you doing?" Keller is behind me, arms sliding around my waist as he bends to nip at my earlobe with his teeth.

"Making tea?" I answer, but I phrase it as more of a question because honestly I'm not sure what I'm supposed to be doing right now.

"Really?" His answer comes out as a laugh, his breath warm against my neck as he kisses the delicate spot just behind my ear.

"You said you wanted tea! With properly boiled water." Now I'm flustered. His lips and hands are all kinds of distracting. "I don't know what I'm doing, actually," I add, turning to face him. And then his lips are back on mine and it feels like they were always meant to be there. Tasting, touching, exploring. Has a kiss ever felt this good? Has an embrace ever felt this right? Reindeer pajamas be damned, everything about this moment is perfect.

And then it doesn't matter that I'm wearing old reindeer pajamas because ninety seconds later they're in a heap on my bedroom floor.

Chapter 11

He's perfect. He doesn't even make fun of my fuzzy reindeer socks. Or my underwear covered in tiny gingerbread men. I'd actually forgotten I was even wearing those. I'm not sure he notices either, to be honest. He's too busy caressing every inch of me as if I'm the sexiest vixen he's ever met.

"Ginger, please tell me your entire collection of panties look like these."

Okay, so maybe he has noticed.

"Only the Christmas ones," I manage to squeak out. It's hard to focus when he's asking me questions between flicking my nipples with his tongue and sliding his hand between my legs.

"Christmas has always been my favorite of the holidays," he tells me as he slides the gingerbread men over my hips.

"Mine too, mine too." Naked Christmas is my new favorite holiday. I've got Keller's pants undone but they're still on. I can feel his erection straining to free itself of the denim but somehow he doesn't seem to feel the same urgency that his dick and I do because I'm the only one doing any work to get his pants off.

"These are in my way," I mutter, as I do my best to shove the pants down his hips. My arms aren't nearly long enough to make any real progress.

"Are they?" Keller kisses his way back up my ribcage, a smile on his lips at my distress. "Are you always in such a hurry, Gingersnap?" Then he sucks one of my nipples between his lips and I sorta forget what I was complaining about.

We make out like teenagers with no fear of being caught. As if everything is new, every touch thrilling and electrifying and undiscovered. And it feels that way, with Keller. Somehow both comforting and familiar, but exciting and new. As if we were always meant to end up in this moment. Like everything else between us, there's an element of kismet. Sexually we fall into place in a way that's both comforting and hotter than anything I've ever experienced.

"You're in charge, naughty elf." Keller winks as he rolls us over so I'm on top. "Have your way with me."

"I'm in charge?" I blink at him, confused for a moment at this change of pace.

"You're not afraid of taking the lead, are you? I thought a naughty vixen such as yourself would enjoy the challenge."

"Of course not," I assure him. And I'm not, not with Keller. Besides, I quite like the view from here, the moonlight spilling in from the window, illuminating his face enough for me to enjoy the way he's looking at me. The sparkle of his eyes as he takes me in, the swipe of his tongue across his bottom lip. This feels perfect, not an ounce of awkwardness or shyness between us. So I grin as I tug his pants free, tossing them to my bedroom floor, his belt buckle making a clank when it hits the ground. "I'm going to buy you Christmas boxers," I tell him as I divest him of his plain black pair, raking my fingernails lightly across his abdomen. "A dozen ridiculously adorable pairs."

"I'll wear them all year if it pleases you." He's even more agreeable than usual with my hand wrapped around the length of him. I like the idea of him wearing ridiculous boxers I've picked out. I like the idea that he's thinking about all year even better. But I like the size of him in my hand most of all. I straddle his hips, hand still wrapped around him, running my palm up and down his length.

"You have no idea how beautiful you are, do you?" Keller looks at me with such reverence my heart nearly skips a beat. He reaches up and runs a lock of my hair around his fingers. "You've seduced me since the moment we met."

"That's what you were thinking when you wiped flour off my face? That I was seductive?" I grin at him, not entirely sure he's serious. "Or was it burning a perfectly good tray of snickerdoodles like a baking novice that got you all hot and bothered?"

"It was the flour," he clarifies with a slow grin. "When I swiped the flour off your face, I wanted to bend down to naughty elf height and kiss you."

I grin. I'm not the tallest girl and he is a very tall cup of tea, so the description fits.

"Why didn't you?" I lean forward, bracing one hand on the bed beside his head, the other still wrapped firmly around him. "Why didn't you kiss me that day?" I ask, my lips brushing against his in a teasing whisper.

"We'd only just met. Thought it might have been a bit creepy to kiss you mere moments after we exchanged names."

"I was mentally thinking very dirty thoughts about you the entire time," I admit.

"You were not." He smiles, as if I'm joking or trying to flatter him.

"Oh, I was." I nod my head earnestly. "You told me my cookie was outstanding and I immediately pictured you naked." He laughs, his chest shaking. I squeeze him harder in my hand, stroking from root to tip, twisting with my wrist at the tip and rubbing my thumb across the head of him.

"Is the reality living up to your fantasies?" His voice is strained, gruff. His hands move to circle my waist, as if to assist in moving me to a position more advantageous for both of us.

"It's better." I run my gaze appreciatively over his body. "So much better. But you said I was in charge. That I could have my wicked way with you," I remind him with a pointed look at his hands.

"You can't expect me not to touch you," he objects. Then he runs his hands up and down my sides, thumbs skimming the undersides of my breasts as he does. Hmm. Being a naughty elf is hard. So many decisions. I bite my lip while I debate the merits of restraining his hands versus the merits of letting him touch me.

We can save the Christmas ribbon for another day, I decide.

"What did you see in me that day? That made you want to kiss me while I was covered in flour and flustered by your presence at the Busy Bee Inn?"

"I thought you were beautiful, straight away. Then you started talking and I was captivated with your passion. The way you carried on about candied ginger"—he grins—"it was delightful." He pauses here to run his hands over my hips, sliding them up my back to draw me closer. "I thought you were intelligent and charming and vivacious and I knew instantly that I wanted to spend more time with you."

"Kissing time?" I raise an eyebrow in question.

"Kissing time. Errand time. Baking time. Whatever time I can get."

I grab a condom and remind him I'm still in charge as I maneuver it out of the package and slide it over the length of him. Then I rise onto my knees just far enough to position him exactly where we both want him. He wraps his hands around my waist to steady me while I lower myself, slowly, easing onto him as I stretch to accommodate. Full. So full. He drags me forward for a kiss when I'm finally settled, the feel of his tongue against mine in perfect tandem with the rise and fall of my hips as I move over him. My own hands slide up his chest to wrap around his shoulders, clinging to him.

His wicked hands slide across my skin as if they've explored me a thousand times before and know every curve and dip and hollow that will drive me mad. He’s whispering filthy things in his British accent that have me blushing even as I ride him with abandoned enthusiasm.

"Show me how you touch yourself," he demands, taking my hand and placing my fingers over my clit.

My eyes widen for a moment. I’m a bit shocked at the request, even considering my position straddling him. Then he groans, a small murmur from his throat as his eyes drop to my fingers. He swallows, as if the sight is causing him some great erotic distress. And seeing the look on his face, I don't want to deny him. I don't want to deny him a single thing.

I rub two fingers over myself while he watches. My fingers circle with firm strokes, growing more frenetic with each sigh and grunt that Keller emits as he gets closer to his release while I get closer to mine, tightening around him, fingers moving and thighs shaking from the exertion. And then I'm there. I nearly black out from the release. Tightening around him, I sag forward, head on his shoulder as I attempt to catch my breath and regain control of myself. He takes over, thrusting from below in a few short jerks until he's found his own release, my name on his lips as he does. Then he rolls us over, still joined so that he's on top. The weight of him should be suffocating but instead it feels like a security blanket, warm and reassuring and comforting.

"Good job taking the lead, Gingersnap," he murmurs into my ear, lips warm and soft against my earlobe. The light brush is enough to make me excited all over again.

Am I afraid of taking charge in bed? No.

Am I afraid of falling hopelessly, irrevocably in love with this guy?

Yes. Terrifyingly, yes.

* * *

In the morning, Keller makes me breakfast in bed. Of course he does. It’s a perfect fluffy omelet using a variety of ingredients he scrounged up in my fridge, and it’s the most delicious omelet I've ever had, not even because I’m eating it in bed with him. He also brings me tea in a Santa mug. We eat off the same plate, legs huddled under my blankets, and it’s almost as enjoyable as the night prior.

Just almost. I'm not a crazy person.

We spend the morning lounging on my couch while watching Christmas movies on Hallmark. I've always sort of fantasized about falling in love at Christmas, but also I thought it impractical. And unlikely. And super ridiculous.

Except now I think it's happening to me and the joke is on me because it's even better than every one of these silly movies put together.

Keller helps me bake for the Busy Bee Inn on Saturday. We test out some gingerbread recipes in anticipation of the final challenge on The Great Gingerbread Bake-Off next week. We bake snickerdoodles for Old Pete and Keller tests a new recipe for red velvet waffles with a cream-cheese glaze on the Inn guests.

On Sunday I take him to dinner with my parents.

Yup, my parents. And they love him. He tells my mother naming me Ginger Spice was an inspired choice and she beams in pleasure. He compliments my father on the holiday light display at their house and honestly, there's no faster way to my dad's heart.

It's as if I'm living my own Christmas romance movie. But with sex. Really great, mind-blowing sex. Don't you hate it when someone says they had mind-blowing sex? Like what does that even mean? Let's just say we check a whole lot of things off my naughty bucket list and I'm a very, very happy girl.

Chapter 12

"I'm in love." I sigh happily and take another sip of my grasshopper mint mocha while strolling down Main Street with my sister Noel. It's a beautiful day. The sun is shining, the air is crisp, there's a hint of snow in the air and I, Ginger Spice Winter, am in love.

"With who?" Noel seems real unimpressed with my declaration. She's not even looking at me, instead peering at a window display as if it's more interesting than me finding my soulmate. My Christmas soulmate.

"With Keller," I deadpan. "Who else would I be referring to?" I add, a bit of sarcasm to my tone. "Did you think I picked up some random guy last night and fell in love? Honestly." I grunt a little at the end of that sentence to indicate how ridiculous I find her lack of support.

"Keller? The guy you've been referring to as a jackal since you met him last week? The guy you're competing against for ten thousand dollars of prize money? The guy leaving Reindeer Falls as soon as The Great Gingerbread Bake-Off is done filming?" Noel says all this with a bit of an attitude if I'm being honest. She could use a little Christmas spirit.

But sure, fine, yes, I might have thought Keller was a jackal at first. But only for like a minute. And yes, we only meet last week. But that is hardly the point. The point is, Noel is behaving like a lump of coal.

"Yes. Keller!" I refrain from calling her a heartless shrew because I've got the Christmas spirit in me even if she doesn't. "And he's going to stay a while."

He did say something like that, right? I'm going to stay a while, is what he said. Which, now that I'm recalling it, doesn't sound like a binding agreement of any kind.

"What does ‘a while’ mean?" Now I've got Noel's attention. She's abandoned her window to level me with a big-sister look of skepticism.

"I don't know, Noel." I wave a hand dismissively as if it's irrelevant. "A while. He said to trust the magic."

Oh, snap. I should have left that part out. I cringe, I can't even hide it. She's gonna be all over that magic bit.

"The magic?" Noel's eyes widen and her lips part. "Did you get out your love globe and ask it for dating advice?"

I took apart a Magic 8-Ball and a snow globe when I was twelve and reassembled them into something I called the love globe. I tried to convince my sisters it held magical powers and only worked in the month of December.

It didn't go over real well.

"Not real magic, Noel. Don't be such a cynic. He just meant holiday magic." At least I'm pretty sure that's what he meant. I don't know him that well yet. Maybe he's a part-time magician or something. Or maybe he actually believes in magical snow globes.

Hmm.

Whatever, not a deal-breaker.

"Ginger, are you serious right now?"

"Pretty serious." I nod excitedly. "He's the one." I smile and twirl in a circle. I'm wearing a red coat and it swirls in perfect harmony with my heart. I come to a stop to find Noel looking even less impressed with me than she was a moment ago.

"I can't deal with you right now, Ginger. I have actual real-life problems."

"Like what?" I wrinkle my nose at her because I'm not sure what problem she could possibly have that she didn't have the last time I saw her a mere week ago.

"I slept with Santa Claus last night, for starters."

"You did not." I gasp. Mostly because Noel doesn't have a boyfriend. Also because I don't think she's into kinky roleplay so the visual of what she just said is a bit much to take in. Then again, if she is into kinky roleplay, I really don't want to know.

"I did," she moans. "I really did. His suit is still lying on my bedroom floor."

"His red suit?" Hmm, maybe I do want to know just a little bit more.

"Obviously the red suit, Ginger!" Noel throws up her hands in dismay. "Does Santa own any another suit?"

"Snap, Noel! This is serious." I say this as earnestly as I can, which given the circumstances is saying a lot.

"I know." She crosses her arms and huffs, staring across the street at I don't know what. Then she bites her lip and shakes her head as if she's replaying something in her head.

"Question though," I interrupt her pondering. "How is he gonna make the rounds on Christmas Eve without his suit? He can't slide down chimneys in his underwear. Everyone knows he needs the suit to make the entire thing work." I have to blink a few times, but I manage to get this much out without breaking into the giggles.

"I hate you." Noel snaps to attention long enough to glare at me before she turns on her heel and heads to the next store, paying no attention if I'm following or not.

"You should at least hang it up, don't you think?" I ask, running after her. Because of course I'm nowhere near done with this conversation. This is the best conversation I've ever had with my sister. In the entirety of my life. "What if Santa doesn't get it back in time to have it pressed? He can't pull an all-nighter delivering presents in a wrinkled suit as if he's on the sleigh ride of shame, Noel! Think of the children!" This time I break, and I start laughing. I laugh so hard I have to clutch my stomach and bend over so I don't pee.

"You're a terrible person, Ginger. I hope you get a stocking full of coal."

"Well," I sigh as I stand up straight again, shrugging, "I probably will now that you've got an in with Santa."

"You're my least favorite sister. I wish Holly was here. She'd be supportive."

"That's doubtful. You weren't very supportive about her hot boss problem. You teased her shamelessly."

"So did you!" Noel reminds me, clearly aghast that I've omitted my share of the blame.

"Oh, I absolutely did," I quickly agree. "As the youngest sister I have to take every chance I can get to tease either of you. I'm so rarely not the target myself."

"Well, I guess this is your lucky week, Ginger Spice," Noel says drily. She knows I hate being called Ginger Spice but I'm so happy right now it doesn't even bother me.

"Keller calls me Gingersnap," I tell her with a big goofy grin on my face. "Isn't that adorable?"

"Don't make me gag," Noel groans. This one-night stand with Santa really has her distracted.

"So what are you gonna do about Santa Claus?"

"I haven't the slightest idea." She shrugs. "But isn't that your British chef coming out of the old auto shop?" We've reached the section of Main Street where the Cass River curves underneath, the spot where the old auto shop sits, tucked into the curve of the river on one side with Main Street access on the other. My dream bakery location. Noel nods her head across the street and sure enough, that's Keller. Keller, shaking hands with Sean Knight of Knight Realty.

"Yeah, that's him," I agree, a bit confused. What is he doing with Sean?

We spent the last three days together, until this morning when he got a phone call and ran off.

He said he had a meeting. Not sure what kind of meeting he could have in Reindeer Falls, but I didn't ask and he didn't offer more information than that. He kissed me like he loved me, smiled, and took off.

Which was fine because I had plans to shop with Noel this morning. I wanted her to distract me from the Great Gingerbread Bake-Off finale, which we’re filming today. So I didn't really think twice about Keller running off, too distracted by all the magic swirling around. By the competition and the holidays and my naive heart.

Now, as I watch Keller get into his car while Sean slaps an “under contract” sign over the Knight Realty sign in the window of the old auto shop, my breath catches. Not in a good way.

Did that rascal just steal my dream location?

"I gave that jerk my gingerbread," I mutter. Shocked.

Chapter 13

Keller is already at the community center when I arrive. After I saw him stealing the location for my dream bake shop I left Noel so I could go home and change four times before I saw him at today's finale of The Great Gingerbread Bake-Off. I needed the perfect outfit that said “you're a jerk.” Unfortunately, such an outfit doesn't exist so I settled on a fitted black pencil skirt and a green silk blouse. Sure, the skirt might not be the most practical thing to bake in, but it makes my butt look amazing and that's almost the same thing.

Errr, okay, that's not the same thing at all, but if you've ever needed someone to know how badly they've blown it, you'd understand. The adorable vintage dress I planned on wearing just would not do. I don't want to look adorable today, I want to look like regret. Like the sexiest baker he's ever seen. Which is probably not saying much because baking doesn't really lend itself to sexpot status. No one is baking in sexy lingerie. Or at least they shouldn't be. It's really not safe. Probably not very hygienic either.

Anywho. I look great. That's the point.

Keller's being wired up by the sound technician when I arrive. He shoots me a heart-melting grin and I nearly cave. I nearly skip across the room to his side and fall into his arms, but no. No. I remind myself of the competition and where my focus should be. Where it should have been all along.

Wasn't this my worry from the start? That'd I'd lose my focus? Take my eye off the prize? Give a jerk all my gingerbread secrets?

It was, so I ignore his charming smile and grab my apron. Resolute. I shall be resolute in my focus. I will persevere. I am woman, hear me roar. Blah blah.

However...

"You're a cheating jackal," is what I say the moment Keller is finished with the sound technician and makes his way over to me.

"What?" Keller looks confused, as if he wasn't cavorting with a realtor at my dream bakery location only hours earlier.

"I knew it. I knew you were a jackal but I was distracted by your face."

"My face?" Keller’s smile hovers as if he's unsure if he should smile or frown. As if he's got no idea what the heck is happening.

"Yes! Your stupid attractive face! It's a distraction. You're a distraction, just as I predicted."

"Ginger." He pauses as if he's unsure how to phrase whatever he wants to say next. Then he reaches up and removes the microphone attached to his collar before he continues. "Are you attempting to pick a fight with me as some kind of bizarre foreplay? Are you still hung up on that hate-fuck? Because I'm not really sure what's going on right now."

"No! I'm doing no such thing!" I don't think. Have I got this wrong? Am I overreacting? Gah, he's confusing me. Again. Standing here looking all befuddled and handsome and the opposite of hate-fuckable. Maybe I imagined the entire thing? But no, I'm not entirely crazy. I saw him standing outside the old auto shop, shaking hands with the listing agent. After I'd shown him the property and told him all my dreams for it.

The sound technician comes scurrying over to replace the microphone Keller just displaced, the show producer hot on his heels. "Everything okay here?" he asks.

Keller snaps, "Yes," as I snap, "No."

"Okay, okay. I like the tension here," the producer says, head bouncing back and forth between us with interest. "Network will love this." He grins as both Keller and I turn to glare at him in unison. We're both pulled to our stations before we can say another word, each of us sneaking covert glances at the other. Or maybe not that covert since we both keep catching the other one looking.

We start filming almost immediately. The show host announces the challenge and it's almost exactly what I expect. We have ninety minutes to create a gingerbread house, the television twist being they want something non-traditional. So don't present the classic four-sided house with a chimney that looks like it came pre-made from a box. I imagine the judges will taste the submissions as well, but the gist of this challenge is going to be presentation and creativity. I know what I'm making before the hostess has finished talking. A gingerbread chapel, with white clapboard siding made out of royal icing and a black licorice roof. A holiday wreath will hang over the open double doors and evergreen trees will be scattered around the perimeter.

The moment they announce the clock is running the three of us hit the pantry for supplies, each of us intent on getting our gingerbread baked and cooling as quickly as possible. Assembly and decorating will take the bulk of everyone's time.

"I saw you this morning," I tell Keller quietly once my trays are in the oven. I'm back at the pantry grabbing the confectioners’ sugar for my royal icing and perusing the available candies for decorating. And the more I think about it all the more curious I am. The more I want to hear what he has to say.

"Ah, okay." Keller nods as if it all makes sense to him now and then he gives me one of his lazy grins as he leans against a shelf as if he's got all the time in the world to stand here and flirt with me.

"Okay? That's it? You don't have anything else to say?"

"I'm going to show you instead," he quips and then he winks at me and walks away.

What the ever-loving Jiminy Christmas was that supposed to mean? I head back to my mixer, sugar in hand, and even more questions zipping around my brain. What's he going to show me?

Unfortunately, I've got zero time to think about it because I've got a lot to do. I start by cutting ropes of licorice into tiny tile-sized pieces for my roof while making quick glances around the room to see what Keller and Jenny are working on. Jenny is the Great Lakes Holiday Pie Champion and the third contestant in the finale. Shamefully, I haven't paid her that much attention up to this point. I was pretty focused on the celebrity contenders and Keller, to be honest. And possibly I've never taken pies that seriously, which is very bakeist of me.

Anyway, Keller seems to have everything under control at his station while Jenny is hustling at hers, busily rolling what looks like a slab of fondant. Hmm, I wonder what she's going to do with that? But I don't have the time to ponder it or second-guess myself because the clock is ticking. A great big digital clock they've attached to the wall. One of the camera guys makes a big show out of zooming in on it every so often as the hostess calls out the time remaining.

I sneak another glance at Keller. Why does he have to be so glanceable?

I need an intervention. Shaking my head, I glance at the clock again and then put my head down and get to work assembling my gingerbread chapel, using an extra-stiff royal icing to ensure it holds. I'll add a light layer of icing to the roof so the licorice roof tiles stick and I'll assemble my three-dimensional evergreen trees using the icing as well, so they won't topple. I lose myself in the work, time flying by, interrupted only when the host reminds us of how little time is left.

I don't look up again until time is called. And when I do, I falter.

I thought Keller was my big competition, but Jenny's built an ark. A gingerbread ark. Complete with an entire host of animals made out of fondant.

What the elf?

I've lost. We haven't even gotten to the judging yet and I can already see that I've lost. My gingerbread chapel is perfect. It's the best one I've ever made. It's sturdy and tall. My roof shingles are perfectly symmetrical and my siding would pass the toughest of building inspections. I've done incredible work for a ninety-minute challenge.

But Jenny has built a freaking ark.

Even if by some miraculous mistake I was named the winner I'd have to object.

"Well done," I tell her, meaning it from the bottom of my heart. It truly is well done. I'm not the greatest gingerbread baker this time around and I'm not going to win the prize money. But it's okay. It has to be okay because I'm never giving up on my dream, contest or not. Location or not. Prize money or not.

While production scurries around arranging the cameras for judging I peek over to see what Keller's created. I can't imagine he's done anything that will beat Jenny's gingerbread ark, but I'm still curious about what he's made.

And it's like a punch to the gut. Because he's created a gingerbread replica of the old auto shop. The one he apparently nabbed out from underneath me.

Except.

Except he's remodeled it.

I drift over to his workstation, not caring about the producer or the cameras or anything I'm supposed to be doing at the moment. It's definitely the old auto shop. He's even included the river that curves around the building, made out of what looks like a pound of tiny blue sprinkles. He's remodeled the gingerbread replica exactly as we talked about when I showed it to him. With one change.

My bake shop is exactly as I envisioned it on the right side of the building, with a pink and white striped awning over the tiny gingerbread doorway. Above the doorway is a sign trimmed in matching pink, with black letters neatly spelling out ‘Ginger's Bake Shop.’

But the old auto shop was always too large to be just a bake shop, and it still is, in gingerbread form. I never had any vision for what I could do with the rest of the space, but it appears Keller has. On the left side is a black and white awning over another tiny gingerbread doorway. Above it hangs a sign that reads ‘Gingersnap's.’

"What is Gingersnap's?" I ask, when I can finally tear my eyes away from his creation. A creation that most definitely will not win him The Great Gingerbread Bake-Off because it wasn't made to compete. It was made for me, of that much I'm sure. Because it won't make sense to anyone but the two of us. This is what he's showing me.

"A breakfast place. I've always wanted to open one."

A breakfast restaurant. I run that through my mind. Not a competing bakery, a companion restaurant. A perfect combination.

"You want to open a restaurant in Reindeer Falls?" I ask, not daring to believe, even though he told me to. Believe in the magic, he said. This is the magic. We're the magic. Love is the magic.

"Only if you'll do it with me, Gingersnap." He says it more earnestly than a man on bended knee proposing. "Let's play bake shop forever."

"Yes," I breathe.

I'm going to give my heart to Keller James, because he already has it. And I know he's worth it. I know he'll never give it away.

Chapter 14

The producer of The Great Gingerbread Bake-Off was beside himself. As was an executive from the Food Network I hadn't even realized was on set. I actually sort of forgot I was on set, truth be told.

Until the clapping started.

Keller and I were kissing like a couple of idiots in a Christmas movie. Except we were still on set, filming a baking show with the cameras rolling.

So yeah, they got all of that on film.

They got a whole lot of stuff on film, as it turned out.

When The Great Gingerbread Bake-Off airs the week of Christmas, it’s heavily edited to showcase our budding romance. Listen, I'm not going to deny there were some lingering glances and yes, I absolutely kissed him. But the editing makes those lingering glances longer than they really were. And they’ve added music. And a kissing gingerbread cartoon graphic thing that they run across the bottom of the screen.

When the first episode airs I turn redder than Rudolph's nose with a bad cold.

"You're adorable when you blush, Gingersnap." Keller grins, amused by the entire thing. I want to argue that I'm not adorable but I am, so it's not an argument I can win.

Truthfully I’m a bit mortified, but the internet loves it.

We still lose. Jenny's gingerbread ark wins the first season of The Great Gingerbread Bake-Off, rightfully so.

But it turns out the network loves us even more than the internet does because we’re offered a contract to co-host season two of the Great Gingerbread Bake-Off. We have chemistry, they say. We have magic and they want to see more of it. We’re also in discussions about filming the renovations of the old garage. The network wants to turn our remodel into a show, which isn’t the worst idea. The money would certainly help as would the exposure for our new businesses.

Keller thinks we should do it and I agree. Meanwhile the two of us are in discussions of a different sort. The forever sort.

I don't need to consult my love globe to know what my answer will be, but I do anyway and it’s official:

Yes-definitely.

The End.

The One Night Stand Before Christmas

Chapter 1

I wake up, blinking against the sunlight flickering in through the windows as I take in the carnage from last night.

On the floor, red pants trimmed with fake white fur. A matching jacket, with the equally hideous fake white fur lining the cuffs and hem. A wide black belt tossed on top of it.

And, of course, the matching hat.

I sort of hoped it wasn’t true. That I’d had too much to drink and was remembering the night prior through an alcohol-tinted lens.

Except all I had was an overabundance of hot cocoa.

And Santa. I had him too.

Yup.

I just had a one-night stand with Santa Claus.

That’s one hell of a way to get on the naughty list.

Chapter 2

“Are you single? I have a grandson and he needs a wife.”

If I had a dollar for every time I’ve been offered someone’s son or grandson or brother I’d probably have like… thirty or forty dollars. Still, they mean well so I just roll with it.

Besides, I love my job so much I don’t even mind when they try to pimp me out to their grandsons. Much. I don’t mind much.

“Why does he need a wife?” I ask. I’m curious to hear what she has to say because older folks tend to say whatever the heck they want and most of the time it’s pretty entertaining.

“Every man needs a wife,” she replies, her tone implying this is fact and something I should already know. “He works too hard, and what’s the point if you don’t have a family to provide for? It’s time he moved back to Reindeer Falls and settled down. He’s coming home for Christmas and I need to marry him off before the new year so he doesn’t go back to the city.”

I raise an eyebrow while trying not to laugh. “That’s not much of a sales pitch, Mrs Carrington. Besides, if he needs a wife no one will want him. All the good ladies like a man capable of taking care of himself.”

“Oh, he takes excellent care of himself. It’s why he’s still single. Too damn good-looking for his own good, that one. Takes after his granddaddy, rest his soul.”

“Perhaps he’s not the marrying kind,” I offer.

“No man is, until he meets the woman he can’t live without. Mr Carrington was a scoundrel in his day. Then he met me and the man damn near tripped over himself wooing me.”

Ah, the days of wooing. I don’t bother to tell her those days are over. Wooing in today’s age is waiting until the third text message to send a dick pic. “Well then, I hope your grandson finds someone.”

“Oh, he will. I’ll make sure of it. He can’t run around getting the milk for free forever. Boy’s gotta buy the cow sometime.”

If I was drinking coffee, I’d have spit it across the room.

“Mrs Carrington!” I sputter around a hybrid cough-laugh.

“He’s got a good job,” she adds hopefully, a twinkle in her eye that tells me she knows exactly how inappropriate she is.

“Go find yourself a seat,” I instruct, doing my best to be firm and professional. It’s Canasta Day at the community center, which is why Mrs Carrington is here. To play cards and socialize, not to find a wife for her grandson. At least I hope that’s why she’s signed up for canasta. I wouldn’t entirely put it past her to have signed up as some elaborate plot to hand-select her future granddaughter-in-law. Mrs Carrington is a hoot. “Find a seat now or I’m going to write you up for impertinence,” I add as a joke.

“Impertinence!” Mrs Carrington laughs in delight. “No one has called me impertinent in some time. I like you.”

“I like you too, Mrs Carrington. But you need to let your grandson find his own wife.”

“All right, all right.” Mrs Carrington makes a show of waving her hands about as if she’s put out by this, but she’s smiling. “Can’t blame a lady for trying,” she adds.

“No, ma’am,” I agree. Then I spy Mr Owens peeking in our direction. And it’s not the first time, either. Mr Owens is somewhat new to town. He moved here to be closer to his grandchildren after his wife died a few years ago. “Looks like there’s a seat open next to Mr Owens,” I say, looking pointedly at the empty seat and then back to Mrs Carrington. Matchmaking is fair game, and there’s nothing like the holidays to make you believe anything is possible and it’s never too late.

For Mrs Carrington, that is.

As far as my own love life, forgive a girl for being a cynic, but I’ve learned a thing or two over the years. Which is: he’s never the catch Grandma thinks he is. Never ever.

* * *

Once everyone is settled playing canasta I head back to my office down the hall. I’m a program supervisor for the city of Reindeer Falls, overseeing the adult programs, which includes everything from the softball leagues to the senior programs. Except we don’t call them senior programs anymore. Active adults is the preferred term now, in case you didn’t know. Older adults want to be appreciated for the place they’re at in life. Retired, but still full of vitality and energy. Our active adult programs are aimed to service the members of our community who aren’t anywhere near ready to leave their homes for a retirement village but perhaps need a bit of community. A place to meet and play cards or volunteer. That’s all coordinated through me.

My co-worker Jillian supervises the youth programs, which covers everything from youth sports to summer camps to the crowning of the annual Candy Cane Princess each winter.

Her office is directly next to mine.

And it sounds like trouble is brewing in Reindeer Falls.

Luckily I always have commiseration cookies on hand due to my sister being a baker, so I grab the tin filled with her latest offerings and head over to find out what’s happening.

“What’s going on?” I ask, setting my coffee on the edge of Jillian’s desk before flopping into a stuffed armchair located in the corner of Jillian’s office. I pry open the tin without waiting on a response.

Jillian doesn’t disappoint.

“The Hobby Reindeer Championships,” she says, swiveling in her desk chair to face me, grabbing the tin from my hands the moment I’ve plucked one out for myself. “Ohhh, what’d Ginger make for us this time?”

“I think they’re ginger scones,” I say before taking a bite. “Yup,” I add around a mouthful of scone. “She’s been on a scone kick ever since her Keller James crush went into overdrive.” The Food Network is filming a gingerbread-baking competition in Reindeer Falls and my sister Ginger is in the finals. Also in the finals—Keller James, a celebrity chef from Britain she’s got a massive thing for. I’m pretty sure those two are making out like teenagers every time the camera stops rolling. And the feeling is mutual based on the way he looks at her. I’m happy for my sister, of course I am. Both of my sisters. Because the other one is currently on a business trip with her boss whom she claims to hate but we all know she’s secretly in love with.

Happy, happy, happy.

“Can we focus on the Hobby Reindeer Championships? Tell me everything. Beginning with what a Hobby Reindeer Championship is.” I get comfortable in the chair, preparing for an entertaining story because with Jillian, they often are.

“Okay, so, you know when you were a kid and you had a stick horse?”

“Um, no.” I shake my head in the negative before reaching for my coffee and taking a sip.

“Yes, you do.” She’s nearly aghast that I have no idea what she’s talking about. “You know, it was a stuffed horse head on a long wooden stick? Like a broomstick with a horse head? Surely you had one! Though now that I’m saying it out loud it does sound weird…” She trails off here, her face scrunched up while she mulls over the wonders of childhood.

“Right, okay. I remember those. We used to gallop around the house with them pretending we were cowgirls.”

“Right!” Jillian’s eyes light up. “So last summer I saw this documentary about hobbyhorse girls.”

“Hobbyhorse girls?” I repeat, not sure I have a clue where this is going.

“Exactly.” Jillian nods excitedly. “For years they were a secret society in Finland. For years,” she says again, stressing the importance of the words. “These young girls invented a form of hobbyhorse dressage in which they would prance and gallop like horses and enter competitions, but it was all very hush-hush.”

“Okay.” I draw the word out, even more confused than I was a moment before.

“It’s a really big deal in Finland. They make their own hobbyhorses, enter into jumping competitions, go to hobbyhorse conventions.” Jillian pauses to stuff a bite of scone into her mouth before adding, “You should watch the documentary. It was really uplifting.”

“Jillian?”

“Yeah?”

“What does that have to do with the Hobby Reindeer Championships?” I prod, even though I have an idea exactly what it has to do with the Hobby Reindeer Championships.

“Oh! Right. So I saw the documentary and decided I’d adapt it for Reindeer Falls. So I’ve got all the kids in the after-school program making reindeer on a stick for the competition next week.”

“Right, right.” I nod along as if this is the most logical idea Jillian’s ever come up with. “As one does. So what is the problem exactly?”

“Oh. Well, I realized I have no idea how to judge a reindeer trot.” Jillian shrugs and then grabs another scone from the tin with a big smile.

“Riveting crisis, Jillian,” I deadpan.

“I know. But I’ll figure something out.”

“I know you will. I have faith in you.” I roll my eyes as I stand, ready to take myself and my cookie tin back to my own office.

“Thanks, boo. But I do have one other teeny-tiny problem I could really use your help with.” Jillian looks at me beseechingly, her hands clasped together and tucked under her chin as she leans forward in her chair and does her best impression of puppy-dog eyes.

I groan.

Chapter 3

Ugh, where is this guy? I bounce my knee nervously while glancing at the door. Pictures with Santa start in twenty minutes and Santa is missing. Or rather, the guy coming to put on the Santa suit is missing. But at the moment, it’s the same thing.

I’ve got a room full of kids and no Santa.

If Jillian’s brother bails on this gig I will kill him. And her. It turns out her work crisis has nothing to do with planning an event in which the kids are going to prance around the community center gymnasium on stick reindeer while jumping over obstacles she bought online. Obstacles meant for dog agility training, but whatever. Apparently one has to make do with what they can find until hobby reindeering takes off.

That’s a direct quote, bless her heart.

Anyway.

No. Her crisis was that her boyfriend surprised her by planning a weekend trip, not realizing it was the same weekend as the fundraiser pictures with Santa at the library. An event that Jillian arranges as it falls under youth services. An event I’m now overseeing because Jillian’s skiing with her boyfriend.

So here I am. Ho-ho-helping.

All I have to do is get Santa into the Santa suit and ensure none of the children knee him in the balls. That’s the gist anyway. It’s a bigger problem than you’d think. As is finding someone to put on the Santa suit. All the professional Santas get snapped up by the big payers—the River Place Shops, the Christmas-themed hotel with an indoor water park. Heck, Otto’s Christmas Mart keeps three full-time Santas on staff year-round. Besides which, Jillian blew most of her budget on the hobby reindeer supplies so she wouldn’t have been able to afford a premium Santa even if she had been able to book one.

Hence, she’s booked a second-rate Santa. Her brother.

“Teddy’s a flirt,” she said. “He’s currently unemployed and living in our parents’ basement, so save yourself the hassle.”

Noted. At least she’s not trying to set me up.

She promised him fifty bucks to show up, which is more than I got, now that I’m thinking about it. But I don’t mind helping. I really don’t. As long as her brother shows up to put on the Santa suit.

I’m giving him another ten minutes before I place an emergency call to my dad and beg him to fill in. He’d probably be happy to do it, as I’m sure Mom’s got him on wrapping duty. He hates wrapping presents. If he doesn’t line up the pattern perfectly she makes him redo it. Then he suggests gift bags and then she tells him gift bags are for quitters and, well, things can get a little tense this time of year.

I’m just about to call when a man I’ve never seen before enters the library. He’s carrying a couple of books and headed toward the return bin, but then he sees me and pauses, something like recognition crossing his features. Granted, I’m standing in the lobby and I’m staring right at him, but he’s giving me that look that you give to strangers you’re meeting up with. Anyway, I think I’ve got my Santa. Finally.

“Teddy?” I ask, fighting the urge to look pointedly at my watch as a not-so-subtle reminder that we’re on a schedule.

He dumps the books into the return slot and then closes the distance between us with a slow stride, like a guy with no job and no use for time constraints. He’s good-looking. Of course he is. Men who come with a warning always are.

Crap.

He’s the kind of good-looking that makes my heart rate speed up. And he’s got sexy eyes. Yeah, yeah, I know that sounds dumb, but you know the type? They light up when he talks and they smolder when they look at you. He’s tall with wide shoulders and narrow hips. Strong jaw and perfectly symmetrical features. He’s the kind of attractive that you know is going to age really well.

And yeah, I want to punch myself in the face for even thinking sexy things about Jillian’s brother.

He stares a moment longer before shrugging and saying, “Sure,” with a small laugh as his eyes trail over mine. Heavy-lidded brown eyes the color of a swirl of caramel in a pecan pie, which has always been my favorite of the pies. “And you are?”

What a dick. Who says “sure” in response to “hello”? This time I make a show of checking my watch before I respond. “I’m Noel. And you’re late.”

“Ahh, you’re Noel. From the community center.” He says this as if it’s all clicking into place for him. As if he’s just remembering he was meant to do something at the library besides drop off books.

Super bright, this one.

And I bet those books were overdue.

I refrain from grunting as I tell him to follow me and spin on my heel, talking as we walk, reminding him of what Jillian has surely already explained to him. Santa. Kids. Pictures. It’s not hard. We should have this wrapped up in a couple hours and then he’s free to go.

When we reach the office he’s smiling. “So you need me to put on a Santa suit and play Santa?”

“Yeah, that’s the general idea.” I’m not sure why he’s so seemingly amused by this. He’s almost acting like he’s doing me a favor when really he’s doing the favor for Jillian. And the fifty bucks.

“You’re not what I expected,” he finally replies.

“Put this on,” I respond, shoving the Santa suit into his hands. When he simply grins and starts unbuttoning his pants I take it upon myself to step into the hallway because it’s pretty clear he’s got no relationship with modesty. It’s also clear why Jillian sent the Santa padding along with the costume because her brother does not have the body to play Santa. Unless it was a male stripper version of Santa—that he could definitely do, I think with a peek through the open door. “What were you expecting?” I find myself asking against my better judgment.

“You were described to me as sweet,” he answers, laughter in his voice.

“I am—” I start to object but I cut myself off with a shake of my head. I don’t care what this guy thinks. Jillian warned me he was a flirt. I need to stop engaging with him. A guy like Teddy is the last thing I need. Call me crazy, but I find employment and a place of your own really attractive in a man.

“You’re feisty,” he calls out from inside the room. I wrinkle my nose, reminding myself I don’t care what he thinks. “Sexy,” he adds, and my jaw drops open. Okay, maybe I care a teeny-tiny bit. I wonder if he’s joking though. I’m wearing jeans and a green turtleneck sweater. He must be joking, unless he’s got a turtleneck fetish.

“Well, you’re exactly what I expected.” I lean against the opposite wall to force myself to stop spying on him through the open doorway.

“How’s that?” He steps out of the office, still buttoning the Santa jacket over the stomach padding. He should look ridiculous—red pants, wide black belt slung over his shoulder and a half-buttoned matching jacket—but he doesn’t. In fact I’m having decidedly un-ridiculous thoughts about him as I watch his hands moving the length of the coat. When he finishes, he winks at me and I blush at having been caught staring.

Maybe I have a Santa fetish? Eww. Is that even a thing?

“You’re an even bigger shameless flirt than I was warned about.”

“Were you? That’s unexpected.” He smiles, appearing more amused than offended.

I shake off the weird sexual tension between us and push past him into the office to grab the beard wig and the hat. Beard wig is the correct terminology, right? Jillian left some boob tape to ensure it stays put. Body tape. I’m sure it’s called body tape. I think? Still, I laugh ’cause we all know the only thing you use body tape for is to ensure a low-cut top doesn’t stray where it shouldn’t.

“You’re going to tape that to my face?” Teddy asks, a look of disbelief crossing his face, eyebrows raised in question when I tear off a strip and attach it to the back of the beard wig.

“Don’t be a baby. It peels right off. Trust me, women go through far worse in the name of beauty.”

“All right, sure.” He waves his arms wide, as if in surrender, and perches against the edge of the desk. “Do with me what you like,” he says. But the way it comes out has my body responding in ways I’d prefer it not to. He says it like an invitation, which I suppose technically it was.

I step forward and attach the mustache portion above his lip, pressing it in place with my fingertips. My thumb inadvertently brushes his lower lip as I do so. I suck in a small breath at the contact, more affected than I have any reasonable right to be. Am I this hard up that I’m attracted to a Santa I met ten minutes ago?

Ugh.

He smells like he just ate a peppermint with an undertone of something else, like a simmering pot of cloves and cinnamon and lust.

And he thinks I’m sexy. I don’t think anyone’s ever referred to me that way before. Maybe it’s happened in bed, but never in the middle of a random day when I’m not even trying.

I scoot in between his spread legs, peeling another strip of tape to attach the bottom half of the beard to his face. There’s an elastic portion that secures it around his head as well—the tape is just a precaution in case any of the little ones get grabby. He looks truly ridiculous now, but damned if I’m not still drawn to him like a moth to a flame. Like snow to December. Like Santa to a chimney. Like a thirsty woman with an overactive imagination in the presences of one of those make-your-own-soda machines with the fancy touchscreen that allows you to make the soda combination of your dreams, like a peach-flavored Sprite or a raspberry Fanta.

Just like that.

“Why did you refer to me as sexy?” I find myself asking. I’ve still got the tape pressed between my fingers but I’m afraid to touch him again. Afraid I’m in some kind of sexy-Santa-induced trance.

“What? Santa isn’t allowed to find turtlenecks sexy?”

Yeah, that wakes me up. I’m the dowdy equipment manager to his sexy quarterback. Abort flirtation immediately before his cheerleader girlfriend shows up and laughs at me.

That might have triggered a bad high school memory. Shake it off, girl.

He’s teasing me. He’s a tease. A flirt. Jillian warned me. Out-of-my-league attractive is what he is. I slap the beard wig on his face with a little more force than necessary and step back, flushed.

“Uh, the kids are waiting,” I stammer as I turn and head for the door.

“Noel.” He says my name in a way that makes me stop and turn back, waiting for him to continue. “It was the way you glared at me the moment we met. Your bossy no-nonsense attitude. How you contradicted every idea I thought I had of you. Sexy as hell.”

I blink. And before I can process that he’s stood, placed the Santa hat on his head and moved to the office door where he pauses with one hand on the doorjamb, leaning in so close I think he might kiss me. He doesn’t. Instead he lowers his voice to a murmur. “Now let’s go ho-ho-ho it up, shall we?”

Chapter 4

Teddy’s an excellent Santa. First-string Santa material, actually. He engages with the kids, makes them laugh for the pictures and he’s so good with the criers they’re giving him hugs and smiling by the time they’ve collected their candy cane, waving bye-bye with chubby mittened hands as their mothers bundle them back into their winter coats. The mothers don’t seem to mind him either. He charms them too, but I notice he isn’t looking at any of them the way he looked at me in the office. He’s charming with everyone but respectful. The added flirtation seems reserved especially for me, a fact that warms me from my head to my toes and all the best bits in between.

“You should line up a few more Santa gigs this week. Everyone in town is looking for a good Santa,” I tell him on the way back to the library office. The event ran longer than I planned, both because Teddy was a chattier Santa than I expected and because we had a huge line of kids. Seems there were a lot of parents in Reindeer Falls hoping their kid would tell Santa what they were hoping to find in their stockings come Christmas morning.

“Uh, I’ll keep that in mind.” Teddy looks like he’s fighting a grin. “I was thinking I’d take a bit of time off this month, but it’s good to know I’ve got options.”

He’s removed the Santa hat and beard as we approached the office, ripping the mustache off with a quick rip, like removing a Band-Aid.

“It’s good money,” I add, a little annoyed with his attitude. He’s being a little selective for someone without a job. “The A-list Santas are paid more than I am.”

“A-list Santas? Did you really just say that?” His eyes twinkle in amusement and I wonder yet again how it’s possible for someone to look attractive in a Santa suit, complete with a fake Santa pot belly.

“We’re in Reindeer Falls. Of course I just said that. There are more full-time Santas employed in Reindeer Falls than anywhere else in the world.”

“Is that so?” He smiles at me and it feels like seduction. I’m not sure how he’s not confusing every woman he comes in contact with, with those smiles. Come hither, they say. Ugh, shameless flirt, I remind myself. It’s second nature for him. Hell, I just watched him charm a bunch of kids—in a non-creepy way—like it was nothing. This is just who he is.

“It is,” I confirm. “Reindeer Falls fun fact.”

He nods. “I’ve been away too long. I’ve forgotten all the fun facts.”

“What is it that you do, normally? When you’re not taking time off,” I add. Which is rather polite of me, I think. Or passive-aggressive. Take your pick.

He gives me a sideways glance before answering. “Investment banking.”

“Investment banking,” I repeat, unsure of what to make of that. When Jillian said he was unemployed I imagined… actually I’m not sure what I imagined. A drummer probably. How cliché of me. “Is it hard to find a job in investment banking?”

“Not really, no. But I’ve been self-employed for some time now.”

Hmph, that’s a nice spin for unemployment.

“Okay, well, this is prime season in Reindeer Falls and the A-list Santas are very well paid. I can put in a good word for you with a few people if you like. One Santa goes down with the flu and everyone in town is scrambling for a decent replacement.”

“You’d do that for me, Noel?”

“Sure,” I answer, unsure if he’s amused or touched by my offer. But then he’s reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and I nearly forget how to breathe. His fingertip brushes my earlobe and it’s all I can do not to visibly shudder. I’m not imagining this either. He’s standing all of six inches from me, way, way past an appropriately friendly distance. He’s in kissing range, for sure. And his body language is more than friendly. Definite vibes happening.

He leans in a fraction farther and I think he’s going to kiss me, but he doesn’t.

A beat, and I’m sure we’re both thinking about it, but I’m waiting on him to pull the kiss trigger.

“Noel, would you have dinner with me?” he asks instead.

You know, the thing is, maybe Jillian is wrong about her brother? I mean, I don’t have a brother myself but I’m sure if I did I’d think he was undateable too.

Gah, no!

What is wrong with me? Why am I attracted to the one guy I was warned away from? Do I have a bad-boy complex I was previously unaware of? Then again, would it be so terrible to have a little fling with a bad boy? It’s not like I have anything else on my Christmas list. And it’s not like he’s that bad. He’s not even in a band.

It’s just dinner, Noel. Way to jump the gun. But still, bad idea.

“Err”—I force myself to look away before I’m seduced by his come-hither sexy eyes and make bad choices—“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not hungry.” That was a solid excuse. Awkward, but solid.

“Hot chocolate then.” He hasn’t moved. He’s still standing close enough that if I moved my head back and he just bent his a little bit our lips would damn near be touching. “Come on, Noel. I’ve been a good sport today, haven’t I? Have a drink with me.”

Well. I run that over in my head.

Hot chocolate is the least threatening of all the drinks, isn’t it? Nothing bad has ever come from having a hot chocolate with someone, probably in the entire history of hot chocolate.

“We’ll have to bring the Santa costume,” I say in place of yes.

“Kinky.” He winks, but playfully. Smiling as he steps through the office door and starts unbuttoning the Santa jacket.

I roll my eyes. “It belongs to the community center. Jillian will kill me if I misplace it.”

“Can’t have that,” he agrees.

* * *

“There’s a coffee shop just across the street,” I suggest as we step outside of the library. There’s a light dusting of snow falling and Teddy is carrying the Santa suit under his arm. There’s Christmas music playing from a sound system wired along Main Street. Believe it or not, the town doesn’t play Christmas music year-round on Main Street. November first to December thirty-first only. So even though I live in a Christmas-themed town, it really does feel extra-special this time of year. The snow doesn’t hurt either.

I live in a small house, just a couple of blocks from the library, so I left my car at home and walked earlier today. That’s part of the charm of living downtown in a small town. You can walk everywhere, even with a little snow. We don’t need cars now either, the library being just a block off of Main Street.

“The North Pole Café?”

“Yup.” They serve drinks in old-fashioned Santa mugs year-round. It’s the best.

“Do you think Santa has a job during his off time?” Teddy asks while we walk, our feet crunching over a layer of snow packed down onto the sidewalks. There’s nothing better than that sound, in my opinion.

“Like a side hustle?” I’m smiling when I ask it, because I love ridiculous theoretical conversations.

“Yeah. Three hundred and sixty-four days off seems excessive.”

“Does he really have three hundred sixty-four days off though? I imagine it’s a full-time gig, overseeing the toy-making and keeping track of everyone on the naughty list.”

“Is the naughty list something you’re familiar with, Noel?”

He’s just opened the door for me at the café. I turn to face him, sure there’s a slight blush on my face but hopeful my cheeks are already red from our brief walk.

“You don’t think I’m naughty list material?”

“I’ve heard you’re the headmistress of the nice list.”

Hmm, headmistress. That has a nice ring to it, even if it’s leader of the good girls.

“Wow, I had no idea I had a reputation,” I tease back.

“Small towns, everyone is always talking.”

When we get to the counter, Teddy insists on paying, which is nice. He also insists on adding a couple of sandwiches and two frosted sugar cookies to the order, “just in case you decide you’re hungry.”

Of course I’m hungry. I haven’t eaten since I left my house hours ago.

Which means he’s sort of manipulated me into having dinner, but he’s so charming about it I don’t even mind. Secretly… I’m sort of thrilled. What’s not to like about him, exactly? He’s handsome and charming and there’s something between us that’s just easy. I’m drawn to him and spending time with him is fun. Teddy is fun. And what’s better than having a casual dinner with a man who interests you and who adds dessert without being asked? With a man who referred to you as sexy?

Not much is better than that, my friends.

We grab a table and settle in like a couple of writers with charged laptops and deadlines. Which is to say, our behinds don’t leave those seats for far too long.

“So you’re staying in town for a while?” I ask. I shouldn’t ask. It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. Not to me. We’re not doing anything, he and I.

“The rest of the month.” He nods his head slightly, a long pause while he looks at me. “Or maybe longer.”

Good Lord, he’s a flirt. I swallow and remind myself of this fact because the way he just looked at me when he said that has caused a dozen tiny reindeer to practice their Christmas Eve flight pattern in my stomach.

“I’d forgotten how charming Reindeer Falls is,” he adds when I don’t say anything, but he’s still looking at me with that thoughtfully sexy look he has down pat.

I grip the Santa mug filled with hot cocoa between my fingers before taking a sip, a dab of whipped cream sticking to my upper lip. I swipe it away the moment I set the mug back on the table.

“Very charming,” I finally agree. “If you’re into that sort of thing.”

“Who’s not into charm?” He flashes a smile at me that would seduce a nun and I’m not sure we’re talking about the same kind of charm.

“What do you like most about living here?” he asks once he’s taken a sip of his own hot chocolate. He wipes away his whipped cream mustache with his tongue. That isn’t distracting at all.

“Everything,” I answer, honestly. “There’s no place like home, you know?”

“Yeah.” He nods, his expression thoughtful, but encouraging me to go on.

“My family is here. I like the size of the town. I like being able to walk to places when I want to. I love the people. I love my job. I love the European architectural flair on Main Street and the way the entire city comes alive at Christmas. I know all the Christmas-themed things might be too much for some people to deal with year-round, but I love it. It’s a bit like living inside of a magical snow globe filled with hope all the time.”

“That’s—”

I interrupt before he has a chance to finish. “Super dorky?”

“No. It’s lovely.”

“Well. I also like that Detroit is only ninety minutes away. So if I want to go to a hockey game or an art museum or catch a flight to Belize, I can. Easy-peasy.”

“Easy-peasy.” Teddy smiles at that description.

“If you could hop on a plane right now and go anywhere, where would you go?”

“That depends,” he replies, easing back in his chair with a small smile on this face like he’s got all the time in the world to play this game and he wants to know all the rules.

“Money is no object,” I clarify. “An unlimited budget and you’ve got nowhere you have to be.” I reach up to give the hair tie in my hair a tug, ensuring my messy bun hasn’t fallen out as it’s prone to do.

“Would you be with me on this hypothetical trip?”

“Sure.” I roll my eyes, playing along, but I’m smiling too. I like being on the hypothetical trip.

“I wouldn’t mind seeing you in Belize.”

“Why is that?”

“I’m hoping you’d be wearing a wetsuit.”

“A wetsuit,” I reply with a laugh, unsure what the heck he’s talking about or if I should be offended. He’s imagining me in a wetsuit? Not a teeny-tiny string bikini? “Why a wetsuit?”

“Because it’d drive me crazy. It’d be like a tropical version of your turtleneck.” His gaze drops to the shirt in question before he meets my eyes again. “Theoretically prim and proper, but secretly sexy as hell underneath.”

Okay, yeah. He’s really good at flirting. I squirm a little in my seat, wearing my turtleneck and sipping hot cocoa and believing I might actually be sexy to him just as I am. That’s effective flirting. A-game. Major-league. Executive-level. First-class flirting.

Chapter 5

Listen. I’m not exactly sure how it happens but the next thing I know Teddy’s inside my house and we’re making out like teenagers pressed against the front door.

Okay, okay. I know exactly how it happened. He offered to walk me home after our coffee-shop dinner. The snow was starting to come down in big fluffy flakes and we used the Santa suit like umbrellas, each of us with a piece of it over our heads to protect us from getting wet as we walked the couple of blocks to my house. The air was chilly, but not torturously so. Crisp. The kind of weather that made you feel invigorated as opposed to miserable. The sky was dark and clear, holiday lights twinkling and Christmas music playing.

It felt like being on the set of a romantic holiday movie.

Which always makes me feel a certain sort of way.

Annoyed, if I’m being honest. No one ever makes out in those movies! If you’re really lucky they share one chaste kiss and you then have to use your own imagination to fill in the rest. And sometimes I didn’t want to use my imagination. Like right now, with Teddy. I wanted something not suitable for television with Teddy.

So somewhere along that very short walk I decided to invite him inside. Sure, Jillian warned me off him, but that was more of a suggestion than a request. Right? Besides, it’s just one night. Also, I deserved a Christmas bonus for taking care of the Santa thing today.

Wait, that didn’t sound right. Well, whatever. Teddy didn’t seem averse to giving me a Christmas bonus and honestly that was all that really mattered here.

So I unlocked my front door and while he was asking for my phone number I dragged him inside.

Like, literally. I grabbed a fistful of his jacket and tugged him right over the threshold.

Which leads us to right now.

“You really are the most unexpected surprise, Noel.” Teddy is smiling as he’s kissing me. Or maybe I’m kissing him. Whatever, I’m not going to second-guess this. It’s mutual kissing. He’s as into it as I am.

“Don’t tell your sister about this,” I say, pulling my lips away long enough to put in the request as I shrug off my jacket and toe off my boots.

“Okay,” he replies slowly. He seems almost confused by the request and I’m starting to wonder if this was some kind of tricky setup. Jillian knows how tired I am of people trying to set me up, so maybe she told me this wasn’t a setup as some kind of reverse psychology trick? Telling me Teddy was unsuitable so I’d drop my guard?

You know what? I don’t want to know.

“Don’t ruin this for yourself, Teddy,” I interrupt when he starts to say more. I roll my eyes but I’m in the process of pulling my turtleneck over my head so he can’t see me. Why are men so stupid? Does he want to talk me out of this? I’ve been in a dry spell more suitable for a convent than for a single woman in her twenties. I really need this to happen. I drop my shirt on the floor.

Teddy’s eyes trail slowly over me, another grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I really like you, Noel.” Again, like earlier he seems a bit surprised by me. As if I’m not matching up to whatever he was told about me.

“I’m sure you do,” I agree. I’m half naked, what’s not to like? But then I add, “I don’t normally do this,” not because I particularly care if he thinks I’m ho-ho-hoing it up with every guy in town. But just because I feel like mentioning it. That’s all. Not at all because I might like him too.

“Yeah, me neither.”

I side-eye him as I toss the Santa suit in the direction of a bench in my living room I keep for the purpose of collecting things.

“I promise you, I’ve never met anyone like you. In all my life.” His eyes trail over me again in that way that he has. That way that feels like he’d still be looking at me even if there were twenty topless women to choose from.

“Take off your boots,” I tell him before I do something really stupid. Like lose all my sensibilities and allow him to walk on my carpet with wet footwear.

“Yes, ma’am.” He gives me a little wink when he says it and I very nearly consider unbuttoning his pants right in the tiny vestibule that makes up my front entryway.

When he’s got them off I take his hand and guide him over to the couch, not bothering to turn on any lights. My Christmas tree is on a timer, set to start sparkling promptly at six o’clock, so it’s already on, illuminating the room with the perfect mood lighting.

I had no idea Christmas was so sexy, but really everything about it is an aphrodisiac. Sparkly lights, snuggle weather, and mistletoe hanging all over the place encouraging kissing.

Maybe it’s not supposed to be sexy, but Teddy is bringing the sexy back to Christmas. He’s putting the X back into X-mas. He’s adding the hung into hanging the stockings. He’s about to Christmas bonus me into next week.

I laugh at my thoughts as I sit on the couch, pulling Teddy down with me. I. Am. Ridiculous.

“Something funny?” he asks, brushing a few strands of my hair away from my face. I had it up today in a topknot but I’m sure yanking a turtleneck over my head didn’t do it any favors.

“Yeah, me,” I answer, but when I don’t offer any further explanation he laughs.

His fingertips are cool against my skin, but soft as he tucks the loose hair behind my ear. The simple skim of his fingertips running along the shell of my ear is heavenly. Who knew my ear was such an erogenous zone? Not me. Then again I never had a thing for Santa before today either so I guess that old saying is true. You really do learn something new every day.

“This bossy librarian updo has been driving me crazy all day,” he murmurs, his voice gruff as his fingers move back to my hair, searching out whatever is holding it in place so he can remove it.

“I’m not a librarian,” I object, but I pull the band out of my hair holding it all in place and let it tumble down all the same. It makes me shiver as the strands hit my bare skin. Teddy groans, the sound a barely audible sigh as he smooths the mess of it over my shoulders. One finger lingers on the strap of my bra, toying it back and forth over the curve of my shoulder.

“But you are bossy.”

“Assertive,” I correct, challengingly, with one brow raised. He laughs, and even his laugh is attractive. He laughs like we’re in on the joke together, the rumble low and sexy.

“There’s nothing wrong with bossy. It’s hot. I like it when a woman knows what she wants.”

“I want your shirt off.”

He smiles and obliges me and once his shirt is gone I start to see the value of unemployment because he’s clearly dedicating some hours to the gym. I place my palms against his chest and explore. He’s warm and solid. Firm and toned with a light smattering of hair. I have a thing for the perfect amount of chest hair on a man and he’s got it. I like the smattering of it across his pectorals and the trail of it from his bellybutton down to the space where it disappears beneath his waistband.

Below my fingers his chest rises and falls with his breathing as I explore and take him in, my eyes moving back to his face when he slides the straps of my bra over my shoulders and unfastens the clasp behind my back. I move my hands long enough to divest myself of the bra completely and when he sinks his teeth into his bottom lip at seeing all of me I shiver.

“Are you cold?”

“Not in the slightest.” I shake my head to back up my statement. He’s running his hands slowly up and down my arms. I’m not sure if it’s an attempt to warm me or just a caress but it feels so good to be touched like this. To be touched by him. I want to feel every inch of him pressed against every inch of me so I lean forward and kiss him again, our chests flush. There is nothing quite like naked kissing. The feeling of skin-to-skin contact. Especially when he has a good chest and even better lips. They’re smooth and warm and he’s got one of those pouty bottom lips usually reserved for models and Photoshop. I’m pretty sure I’ll die when he gets around to sucking a nipple between his perfect lips. I moan out loud at the very idea of it.

His hands are gliding over every inch of me he can reach. Down my back, up my sides. His fingers stop to massage the nape of my neck while we kiss and it all feels so good. So lovely I’m not sure how I’ve survived without it before this moment. Every place he touches me sets my skin humming with want and need and frankly if Santa can’t get this sleigh off the ground tonight I will die.

Not that I expect any issues there because I can feel his sleigh through his pants and it feels real sturdy. Dependable. Like it’s capable of being ridden all night long. I swing a leg across his lap to straddle him, grinding myself against him as if I’m too impatient to wait for actual sex to get off. And honestly, I might be. I’m so turned on it wouldn’t take much for me to orgasm at the moment.

Teddy uses our new position to cup my breasts with his hands, flicking my nipples with his thumbs before pinching one of them. I think it was the left one, that lucky bitch.

My head drops back involuntarily and the words “Oh, holy crap, fuck me,” slip out of my mouth.

“Is that what we’re doing? Thank you for clarifying.”

I’d call him a smartass but he’s still playing with my nipples and then he bends his head and—oh, God, yes, his mouth. I’m not even sure how to qualify the noises coming out of my mouth and I don’t think Teddy can either because he chuckles against my breast and it all feels so freaking good and fun and if I had any remaining doubts about doing this they’re gone now.

Also…

Jobs are so overrated. I would totally make out with him again even if we had to do it in his parents’ basement. Which we wouldn’t, because I have my own place. But the point is I’d be willing to make some compromises.

“You’re so beautiful,” he tells me when his lips have moved back to mine. Soft, sexy kisses, our lips exploring and teasing and tasting every bit of each other we can reach. He trails those lips down my neck and across my collarbone. Sucks an earlobe between his teeth and gives it a gentle tug.

It’s insane how good this is between us. I’m not normally this… uninhibited. I’m normally nervous with someone new. It’s always slightly awkward the first time, in my opinion. Like learning how to ride a new bike and you’re not sure how high to raise the seat or how well the brakes work or if that squeak is a one-off or if it’s something you’re going to have to get used to hearing every single time you want a ride.

That sort of thing.

I can’t recall a time it was ever this good.

This is… seamless. Like a sex dream where it all goes perfectly and you never want to wake up. Maybe it’s all the mistletoe floating in the air—theoretically speaking. Maybe it’s Teddy. I’m enjoying this too much to think too hard about it, so screw it, I won’t. I’m just going to enjoy every moment of it.

“That’s quite the package you’ve got there, Santa.” I roll my hips against him, hoping we can move this into my bedroom. Or we can just stay here and take off our pants. I’m not picky.

“Did you really just make a dirty Santa joke?” His tone is incredulous but he’s laughing. Which is totally normal in the midst of a hookup.

“Err, maybe? Too much?”

“Maybe just a little. Unless you’ve got a genuine Santa fetish you want to disclose at this time.”

“I don’t.” I shake my head vigorously while running my hands across his chest again. Really really nice chest hair.

“Glad to hear it.”

“Would it have been a deal-killer if I had?” I press. Why in the hell am I asking? Now I’m laughing too. At myself.

“I think we could have worked something out.” Teddy manages to say this like he means it, which is rather nice of him.

“Thanks.”

“Do you have any others?”

“Fetishes?” I perk up. I don’t actually, but it’s nice to be asked, isn’t it? Maybe I can develop one. A really good one I can use to establish my street cred on the kink scene in Reindeer Falls.

As if Reindeer Falls has a kink scene.

I start laughing again.

“Bad Christmas jokes,” Teddy clarifies with an amused grin.

“Oh, those. For sure.”

“You’re a lot of fun, Noel.”

“Agreed,” I say with a straight face. “A half-naked woman telling bad Christmas jokes is every man’s fantasy, am I right? Wait, unless…” I drag out the pause, a dramatic frown covering my face. “Unless bad Christmas jokes are your fetish?”

“They are now. Though I’ll admit, I do like the idea of you on Santa’s naughty list.”

“I’m quite naughty.”

“Are you?”

“You’re here, aren’t you?” I rake my nails playfully across his chest with just enough pressure to elicit a small sigh from his lips.

“Fair point.”

Chapter 6

We move things to my bedroom after I ask Teddy if I can see his North Pole. Honestly, I’m not sure why he hasn’t run out the door yet either, but you do what you gotta do to get laid, I suppose.

“You’re really into Christmas,” Teddy observes with a slow glance around my bedroom. I’ve got snowflake sheets on the bed. To be fair, I had no idea I was having company tonight or I’d have changed them. I’ve also got a solid red cover on my duvet and a big white cable-knit blanket across the foot of the bed. And a bedroom tree. Totally normal. It’s just a three-footer, but I like to fall asleep to the tree lights.

“This is nothing. My family is really into the holidays.”

“That sounds nice.”

“Yeah, it is.” My mom might be a little over the top about Christmas but I appreciate all the memories and traditions I have from my childhood.

“Is that how you ended up with the name Noel?”

“Yup.”

“What’s your middle name? Mistletoe?” He’s teasing but he has no idea how close he is.

“No, that’s Holly’s middle name. Mine is Eve.”

“You have a sister named Holly Mistletoe?”

“And another one named Ginger Spice.”

“Stop it.”

“I’d never lie about such a thing.” I laugh.

“I suppose holiday sheets are tame, all things considered,” he agrees, taking another look around my room before hitting the light switch and stretching out beside me on the bed. There’s enough light from the bedroom tree to make him out clearly, but not too much to kill the mood. Bedroom tree for the win.

“How does Santa stay STD-free?” I’m unbuckling his pants as I ask, and I really hope I can get to the punchline without laughing.

“Tell me.”

“He always wraps his package before shoving it down the chimney.” My cheeks hurt from trying to hold back the laugh. Teddy groans but I don’t think it’s because of my bad joke. I think it’s because I’ve got his pants undone and I’m palming him through his briefs.

The next thing I know I’m flipped onto my back and Teddy’s taken over. I guess joke time is over. Hallelujah.

He’s kissing me and sliding my leggings over my hips, which is a really effective way to get me to stop telling bad Christmas jokes. Or saying much of anything at all. I kick them free from my ankles once Teddy’s got them past my knees. My panties follow suit. Then he finishes the job I started by removing his pants, but before I can get my hands on him he’s working his way down. Lips, neck, breast, navel—oh, my, yes.

I’m ridiculously slick already and growing more so with every press of his lips headed south. When he flickers his eyes upward to look at me from between my legs I’m sure I’ll come from a single tease of his tongue. He’s absurdly good-looking. Caramel-brown eyes framed by thick dark lashes. Strong jaw. And those freaking lips. Yes, oh, God, right there. I arch my back and grab the bedsheets in a fist in each hand, and all the tension from my shoulders eases as my legs fall open wider. He takes the opportunity to place one of my knees over his shoulder while pressing my other leg farther into the mattress, which is so freaking hot. Like he wants to make a feast of me and he’s just getting comfortable.

When he smiles at me from between my legs I am done for. He drags his tongue through my core and I roll my hips in response. Then he rims my entrance with a fingertip before pressing it inside and flicking my clit with his thumb. I squeeze my eyes shut on a long exhale before snapping them back open again. The view is too good not to enjoy.

“Talk to me,” he instructs before replacing his thumb with his lips. “Tell me what you like.”

“You’re already doing everything I like,” I respond, but it comes out all funny and breathless. “Keep going.”

He smiles and I immediately add the sensation of Teddy smiling with his lips pressed against my clit to the list of things I like. Then he nips at me with his teeth while sliding a second finger inside of me and I explode. My thighs shake and my back arches while Teddy manipulates his fingers inside of me, dragging the orgasm on for what feels impossibly long, a succession of “oh, oh, ohs” falling from my mouth because full words are more than I’m capable of at present. His thumb is rubbing circles on my clit while he’s pressing kisses on the inside of my thigh and holy Jesus, has it ever been this good? Ever? He’s reading me like I’ve left an instruction manual on the nightstand. Responding to every twist of my hips, every gasp of breath from my lips.

When he’s wrung out every last bit of pleasure from my body he places a final kiss on my abdomen and climbs over me, the weight of his cock heavy against my stomach as he presses his lips against mine, still wet with me.

God, that’s hot.

I reach between us to wrap my hand around the heavy length of him. He’s rock-hard. Thick and hot in my hand and he grunts when I lightly squeeze him with my hand.

I’m going to feel every inch of him. In the very best way.

I run the head of his cock through my wetness while stroking him from root to tip while he whispers filthy things in my ear about how hard I’m making him. I’ve never felt so sexy or desirable in my life. When he grabs a condom and sheathes himself, I’m ready. So, so ready.

“Stop begging, you little minx.” Teddy grins at me between kisses and the way he says it makes me laugh. I don’t think I’ve ever had this much fun in bed before. I’ve never equated naked plus laughing as a good thing before.

Also, yeah, I might have been begging.

I’ve never felt so greedy for someone’s cock, but I’m positively throbbing for it. Wet and achy and needy and I want him right the hell now. I tug his face to mine and kiss him while flexing my hips underneath him, trying to get whatever friction I can wherever I can get it.

Then finally, blessedly, he’s there. Right there where I want him. He nudges the head of his cock just inside of me and I exhale and relax around him because as wet as I am, he’s big. Another inch and I’m rising to meet him even as I’m adjusting to the feel of him. The delicious warm girth of him. Oh, holy help me, he feels so good.

“Keep going,” I breathe into his ear, sliding my hands around to his ass to encourage him to slide deeper. I know he’s holding back, observing my every sigh and blink and moan to see where I’m at. To torture me or drag out the pleasure, I’m not sure.

“Jesus, this is—” He cuts himself off on a hiss as he pushes forward until his pelvis is flush against my own. I love the feel of him on top of me. The way we fit together, the brush of his chest hair against my nipples. The tangle of our legs and the feel of his back under my hands.

When he starts a smooth, slow rhythm I love that even more.

Best Christmas bonus ever.

He hitches one of my legs up, spreading me wider and angling deeper, hooking my knee into the crook of his elbow. Then he drives deep and long, withdrawing until only the tip of him remains joined with me. Again. Again.

I’m a squirming mess of feelings and sensation and holy hell, this guy is like the unicorn of perfect lays.

“Fuck, Noel.” He breathes the words, his forehead pressed to mine as my hips roll up to meet his every thrust.

“I know,” I groan. “It’s so good,” I tell him. “Don’t stop, don’t stop.”

I should be careful what I ask for because he doesn’t stop. He drags me up to the point of orgasm and then pulls back until the reward of release is just out of reach, but the pressure builds each time higher and higher until I’m nearly afraid to come. Afraid it will ruin me forever.

Then, finally—

Oh, God.

It’s like free-fall. Every cell of my body is alight with pleasure and I’m tightening around his cock so hard it’s almost painful, but like the most pleasurable pain you’ve ever felt in your life. My thighs are quivering and the aftershocks go on and on, my pussy pulsing around the hard length of him like it never wants to stop. It feels like there is nothing else in the entire world except Teddy and me in this bed.

Then he rubs his thumb over my clit as he jerks into me with a final thrust, his eyes on mine as he comes with a grunt that’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard in my life. I wrap my arms around his neck, trying to pull him impossibly closer while he’s doing his best to support himself on his forearms so I can breathe. I’m not sure how he has the energy left but he flips us over so I’m on top, our bodies still joined. I sprawl across him with no regard for his ability to breathe.

“That wasn’t terrible,” I observe and below me, he laughs. A gruff exhale, the skin near his eyes crinkling in that way that is unbearably attractive on a man.

He’s beautiful.

It’s another few minutes until we can properly move. He slides me off of him and I feel the loss of him immediately. And I’m sore, in an oddly pleasant way. Swollen and well used. Is that a terrible thing to think?

He gets up and disposes of the condom then comes back to the bed with a damp washcloth and tends to me. Which is weird but hot. Maybe it’s not weird, maybe it’s a normal thing guys do, but it’s never happened to me before. I’d probably object if I wasn’t so drunk on orgasming.

Then he climbs into bed, lying on his back beside me. I’m on my stomach, head on pillow with my arms underneath, facing him. He turns his head towards me, his gaze contemplative.

“Tell me a secret.”

I’m not sure why I ask. It’s more than I need to know, isn’t it? This is just a one-night thing. I don’t need his secrets or anything else. Yet here I am. Asking. I’m not ready to fall asleep yet. I’m not ready for this night to end. And maybe I want to know a little bit more. Just a little.

The mattress moves as Teddy moves to his side, one arm propped beneath his head as he looks at me. “A secret?”

“Something dumb.”

He nods, acknowledging the challenge. “Mechanical pencils freak me out. I want them banned from society.”

“I have to keep the volume on the television on an even number because I think an uneven number is bad luck. But this only applies to the volume on the television and nothing else.”

“Whenever I’m stuck at a stoplight I add up all the numbers on the license plate of the car ahead of me.”

“When I was a kid I always ate the broken animal crackers first so the unbroken ones could live a little longer.”

“That’s pretty dark. Have you been keeping that one to yourself for a long time?” Teddy’s got a hint of a smile on his lips when he asks and he’s running his fingertips over my hip and I never want him to stop touching me.

“I know,” I agree, dragging out the word on a long sigh. “I’m quite twisted.”

“I’ll walk out of my way to avoid stepping on a manhole cover.”

“Very manly.”

“I’ll work on it.”

We play this game until my eyes are drifting closed and then I tell him my silliest secret of all.

“Sometimes I secretly pretend I still believe in Santa.”

“Pfft.” He smiles softly. “Who doesn’t?”

Chapter 7

Rolling over, I groan, keeping my eyes shut against the sunlight filtering in through my blinds. I have a series of thoughts before I even open my eyes.

1. I did a thing last night. With Jillian’s unexpectedly hot brother, Teddy.

2. Jillian’s unexpectedly hot, wildly attractive, good-in-bed brother, Teddy.

3. Jillian’s unemployed flirt of a brother whom she specifically warned me away from, Teddy.

4. The very delicious ache between my thighs reminds me that I don’t really care about Teddy’s employment status. Or who he’s related to. Perhaps I could hire him to be my sex elf, then he’d have a job and I’d have a sex elf.

5. I wonder if it would be asking too much to expect my sex elf to do laundry during the day while I’m at work and possibly also make dinner?

6. Having a sex elf would be really cool but is starting to sound a bit too much like prostitution for me to be entirely comfortable with the idea.

7. Sex elves are notoriously unreliable and best returned after one night.

8. My sex elf—I mean Teddy—is still here and I need to open up my eyes and deal with last night like an adult.

Except when I open my eyes I find I don’t want to. Deal with it, that is. I don’t want to have a conversation about how he’s just rolling through town and crashing in his parents’ basement because he’s a misunderstood creative type.

A creative type in finance. Ugh.

The Teddy I spent last night with is nothing like the Teddy Jillian described and honestly, I’d like to remember this version of Teddy.

He’s sound asleep and gorgeous. He looks so perfectly relaxed and at ease in my bed. Hair tousled from last night but in that perfectly just-fucked way that is so hot on a man. Sprawled on his stomach, arms wrapped around a pillow with his head turned in my direction. Shoulders exposed as the blankets are only drawn halfway up his back. I could lie here studying his physique all morning. I’m tempted to draw my fingertips along the muscles but I refrain lest I wake him. Dark eyelashes fan across his cheeks, his lips slightly parted, still delicious.

The thing is, he looks really peaceful. Like he needs the sleep.

I glance at the clock over his shoulder. It’s later than I thought, much later. I’m supposed to meet my sister Ginger for a bit of Christmas shopping this morning. So really, I don’t have a lot of time to talk to Teddy. Hardly any time at all.

He doesn’t stir as I slide out of bed. Nor when I get dressed more quietly than a teenager preparing a late-night escape out of their bedroom window.

Of course, I’m not going to do that. I’ll use the front door. The window would be much more likely to cause a draft and wake him up. Besides, it’d be really dramatic to use the window when the door is both available and more logical.

I’ve dressed and he hasn’t stirred an inch. I tripped over the Santa costume on my way to brush my teeth but I managed to catch myself, the only casualty a stubbed toe and a lot of silent swearing.

Still asleep.

Hmph.

It’d be annoying if it wasn’t convenient because clearly I’m meant to let him sleep. We all see that, right? It’s the polite thing to do. Pretty sure an advice columnist would advise to let your guest sleep in.

I can’t imagine they’d advise anyone to let their guest sleep in while they made a run for it, but you can’t win them all.

Chapter 8

“I’m in love.”

Good sweet Lord, this is going to be a long morning. This declaration comes from my sister Ginger, twirling in an actual circle as she says it.

“With who?” I ask, mostly to be contrary because that’s my job as her sister. We’ve already gotten coffees to go and now we’re walking along Main Street doing some last-minute Christmas shopping. I know damn well who she’s talking about, but she’s been denying anything is going on between them so I’m not inclined to make this easy for her.

“With who?” Ginger repeats back, and I don’t mistake the sarcasm in her tone. “With Keller. Who else would I be referring to? Did you think I picked up some random guy last night and fell in love? Honestly.” Yup. Full sarcasm.

“Keller?” I’m gonna draw this out just to mess with her. Also because she referred to picking up a random guy like it’s a bad thing. Granted, she doesn’t know that I just did exactly that, but still. It grates. “The guy you’ve been referring to as a jackal since you met him last week? The guy you’re competing against for ten thousand dollars of prize money? The guy leaving Reindeer Falls as soon as The Great Gingerbread Bake-Off is done filming? That Keller?”

She openly glares at me now.

“Yes. Him!” She scowls at me and I know she’s desperately trying to come up with some kind of modified swear word to call me because she hates to swear. I wait patiently, hoping it’ll be a good one. When she was little and Holly or I did something particularly awful to her she’d yell, “Fishsticks!” while stomping her little foot. We could never keep a straight face and she’d end up getting whatever she wanted.

“He’s going to stay for a while,” she finally adds after a long exhale. I’m actively disappointed she didn’t tell me to elf off.

“What does that mean?” We pause in front of the yarn store so I can stare her down and get the full story. I’ll toss some sisterly skepticism her way, but the thing is I’ve seen her with Keller and the guy is totally crazy about her. Only Ginger could get someone to fall in love with her in a week and if I didn’t love her I’d be really, really annoyed by her.

“He said to trust the magic,” she says, nearly doing another twirl right there on the pavement. If she were a Disney cartoon a couple of birds would appear overhead carrying little hearts made out of cranberries or some nonsense. As it is a squirrel runs past and I swear to Santa Claus he makes eye contact with her before running up a tree.

Ginger, for her part, immediately realizes her mistake and turns redder than reasonable for the temperature outside. Then she takes an inexplicably large interest in the shop window. Inexplicable because Ginger can’t knit. She can’t crochet either. The yarn crafts have always eluded her.

“The magic?” I deadpan in response, pretending to be more shocked than I am. When we were kids she tried to convince Holly and me that she had invented a magical love globe. We’ve been giving her shit about it ever since.

“Not real magic, Noel,” Ginger snaps, her chin tilted up in defiance. “Don’t be such a cynic. He just meant holiday magic.” Then she twirls off to the next storefront.

Holiday magic. Hmph. I wonder if I can blame holiday magic for my one-night stand. The one-night stand I left in my house. By himself. Who does that? Seriously, I’m such an asshole.

“I can’t deal with you right now, Ginger. I have actual real-life problems.”

“Like what?” she challenges, clearly disbelieving I’ve got anything going on at the moment.

“I slept with Santa Claus last night, for starters.”

“You did not.” I’ve got her attention now, that’s for sure. She’s staring at me, a mixture of doubt and curiosity on her face as if she’s not sure if I’m messing with her or if I’m serious.

“I did. I really did. His suit is still lying on my living room floor.” And he’s still lying in my bed because I’m a jerk. I panicked.

“His red suit?” Ginger’s face has just lit up. I’m pretty sure I’ve made her entire year with this revelation. I’m not even mad. If I was in her shoes I’d be all over this story like a kitten in a Christmas tree too.

I gnaw on my lip and wonder if Teddy’s still at my place or if he’s woken up and vacated yet. I wonder if anyone else has ever snuck out of their own house after a one-night stand or if I’ve just set the bar for weird one-night stand behavior?

“Serious question though.” Ginger interrupts my thoughts, pausing until I’ve made eye contact with her and raised my brows, indicating she should end the dramatic pause and ask her question. “How is he gonna make the rounds on Christmas Eve without his suit? He can’t slide down chimneys in his underwear. Everyone knows he needs the suit to make the entire thing work.”

My sweet baby sister manages to deliver that entire speech with a straight face, until the end, when she has to bite her lip to keep from laughing.

“I hate you,” I announce, turning on my heel and heading to the next shop. I’ve been done with my Christmas shopping since Thanksgiving like any self-respecting Christmas lover. The only thing I need is a box full of chocolates so I can stuff my feelings down my throat a hundred and sixty calories at a time .

“You should at least hang it up, don’t you think?” Ginger is hustling down the sidewalk to keep up with me so she can keep talking about this. “What if Santa doesn’t get it back in time to have it pressed? He can’t pull an all-nighter delivering presents in a wrinkled suit as if he’s on the sleigh ride of shame, Noel! Think of the children!”

She’s doubled over on the sidewalk, clutching her sides, laughing at me.

“You’re a terrible person, Ginger. I hope you get a stocking full of coal.”

“I probably will.” She stands upright, eyes full of delight. “Now that you’ve got an in with Santa.”

“You’re my least favorite sister. Also, I’m returning your Christmas present since I’ve gifted you with this story that’s so delighting you.”

“Totally fine,” Ginger agrees. “This story is going to delight me more than anything you could have bought me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter.

“So you really had a one-night stand with some guy in a Santa suit last night?”

“Yup.” I nod. “I mean I know who he is. It’s not like I was calling him Santa all night.”

“Good to know.” Ginger nods as if she considered the possibility that I was involved in some kinky Santa fuckery. “Do you like him? Are you going to see him again?”

“I, um…” I pause, unsure how to answer. Am I? Do I? Why did I even bring him up? Why am I still thinking about him? He’s not even staying in Reindeer Falls. He’s not forever material, let alone boyfriend material.

But maybe he’s one-week material. That’s a thing, right?

Ginger and I part ways a few minutes later when we spot her new boyfriend leaving the old auto body shop at the end of Main Street and she takes off to find out what he’s up to. I reluctantly head home, already knowing what I’ll find.

Teddy’s long gone.

Chapter 9

I’m a little melancholy when I walk into work the next morning. It’s the byproduct of having the best sex of your life but not being real sure you handled it properly and also it was with your co-worker’s brother. It all adds up to a bowlful of awkward, to be honest.

But surely he didn’t tell her, right? That’s what we agreed upon. Sorta. I’m sure I mentioned it in passing, which implies some kind of binding agreement including a five-year statute of limitations.

Still, the guilt. Now I feel like I’m keeping something from her. Or lying. I hate lying. Avoiding uncomfortable emotional situations, fine. Lying, icky.

So perhaps I can just avoid Jillian for the rest of the month?

Nah. I’m overthinking this. Jillian said Teddy is only in town temporarily. This will all blow over in a week. Still, I dawdle in my car until exactly one minute before starting time.

I’m in my office all of half a minute before Jillian bursts in.

“I am so sorry!”

I’m confused because she’s the one apologizing, not me. Not that I actually need to apologize for sleeping with her brother. We’re both grown consenting adults. But she took the time to warn me that he’s exactly not my type so sleeping with him feels sorta rude. Like I don’t value her advice. Which I do. It’s just that her brother is insanely sexy and that’ll void good advice every time.

“My brother is such an idiot. I’m so sorry.”

“He’s not that bad,” I object with a small laugh, feeling a twinge of defensiveness for Teddy. He really was nothing like the picture Jillian painted of him.

“Not that bad?” Her eyebrows are in danger of reaching her hairline. “He stood you up on Saturday. After he swore to me that he’d show up.”

“No, he didn’t.” I’m frowning as I shake my head, slowly lowering myself into my chair and tapping my keyboard to spring my computer to life. “He was here. The entire afternoon. He was an excellent Santa, by the way.”

“Uh, that’s not possible.” Jillian’s really riled up and I’m starting to feel uneasy. She’s waving her arms in the air and pacing in my office, which is never a good sign. “The little shit went to Vegas. I didn’t even realize he’d stood you up until I saw his pictures on Instagram the following morning.”

Little shit. My unease is beginning to grow as pieces of a puzzle that don’t go together are trying to arrange themselves in my mind. It also feels like a scarf of humiliation is wrapping itself around my throat. It’s really hot and itchy. Pretty sure it’s made out of synthetic materials like regret and assumption.

“How old is Teddy?” I question, as casually as possible, while my brain searches for any answer that makes sense with what I’m hearing.

“Twenty-three. Too old to be this irresponsible. God, I am so sorry, Noel. I didn’t realize he bailed until after the event was over and by then I was worried you weren’t speaking to me because you didn’t even text me to bitch about him bailing.”

She pauses here, confusion crossing her face as my words about Teddy being a great Santa finally catch up with her. She stops pacing, hand on hip.

“Wait, what do you mean he was here? Who was here?”

Great question.

Knockoff Teddy was at least thirty.

“I have no idea,” I mumble, dropping my head into my hands, slumped over my desk.

“What does that mean exactly?” Jillian grabs my cookie tin—newly filled with cookies via my sister—and pops it open, settling into one of the guest chairs in front of my desk.

“He said he was Teddy.” I frown, remembering. He said that, right? No. I asked him if he was Teddy and he shrugged and said, “Sure.” I’m remembering that shrug in a new light now. What kind of psycho just pretends to be someone they’re not? No wonder he was nearly smirking.

What an asshole. Whoever he is.

But he knew me, didn’t he? He looked at me like I was familiar to him, or like he was expecting to meet me. He said things about me not being what he’d expected. He mentioned me working at the community center, didn’t he? How would he know that if he didn’t know who I was? I riffle through my memories, but they’re all jumbled up.

We’ve never met before. I’m sure of that much. I’d remember that hot asshole.

“Your brother really went to Vegas this weekend?” I question even though I’m sure Jillian isn’t confused. Knockoff Teddy was not her brother.

Jillian hands me her phone, screen up and her brother’s Instagram account on display.

“Yeah,” I muse, scrolling through the last few photos. Her brother is hot. But he’s twenty-three and not my type. And he’s most definitely not Knockoff Teddy. “I wouldn’t have slept with him,” I mumble as I flip her phone over in my hand, ready to hand it back.

“Wait, what?” Jillian snaps to attention, straightening up in the chair so fast she nearly drops the tin of cookies in her haste. “You slept with some random Santa and you don’t even know who it was?”

“It’s looking that way, yeah. And don’t be so harsh. I thought I knew who he was.” I cross my arms across my chest and huff in irritation. “It could have happened to anyone.”

“Err,” Jillian hedges, “that’s doubtful. The chances of banging Santa have got to be super-low. For starters he only gets out once a year.”

“Haha. Jillian’s got jokes.” I roll my eyes before slumping in my chair, defeated.

“Okay, catch me up. Someone who was not my brother showed up and voluntarily put on a Santa suit, then spent the entire afternoon taking pictures with crabby kids before he seduced you in the library office?”

“Um, sorta?” It wasn’t exactly like that. “He asked me to dinner first.”

“Ohh.” Jillian looks interested. She’s abandoned the cookies to wave me on.

“Which I declined. Then he talked me into having hot chocolate with him. And then I lured him back to my house and seduced him.”

“But you never exchanged numbers or real names? Did you call him Santa all night? You’re such a pervert.” Jillian’s expression is a mixture of awe and abhorrence.

“I thought his name was Teddy. And no, we didn’t exchange numbers.” I straighten the stapler on my desk, wondering how I can get her out of my office before she asks any more questions. “Is your office phone ringing? I think I hear it ringing.” I look pointedly toward the door.

“How did it end?” Jillian is not going to be dissuaded. “Did he escape through your chimney while you were sleeping?”

“No.” I staple a couple of Post-Its together. “I used the front door to leave while he was sleeping and he was gone by the time I came home.”

Jillian blinks at me.

I attach a paperclip to my stapled Post-its.

“You snuck out of your own house? What is wrong with you?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You’re not sure if that’s what happened or you’re not sure what’s wrong with you?”

“The latter.”

I gnaw on my lip, more upset than I have a right to be. I’m confused too, because I’m not exactly sure why I care. Knockoff Teddy was just a fling, that’s all. It’s not like I expected or wanted more from him. Hell, I’m the one who ditched him. I’m the one who didn’t even give him a chance to ask for more, or even so much as my number.

But… why is that? Why didn’t I even let him take me to a real dinner when he asked?

Because better safe than sorry, right? Or maybe what I really mean is it’s better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all. Except there’s another saying in twenty-something dating. It’s better to have loved and taken the hell off before he doesn’t call. Okay, fine, that’s not an actual saying.

That’s my fear talking.

I was scared. That’s the truth of the matter. Scared that Teddy felt like something real. Like someone real. So instead of risking my heart and giving him even half a chance, I used him for sex and bolted.

’Tis the season to act like a dick.

But I was right, wasn’t I? He’s not heart-worthy material. What kind of man lets you spend an entire day thinking he’s someone he’s not? Huh? What about that? I want to slide the vindication of my righteousness over my shoulders like a puffy down parka, but it’s not fitting as well as I’d expected. It’s kinda tight, as if I misjudged my size. As if I accidentally picked out a parka in the children’s department. Which I might have, because I acted like a child.

Or maybe… possibly… my love-shielding parka doesn’t fit as well as it once did.

Maybe it doesn’t fit because I’m wearing a thick sweater of regret under it. A heavy cable-knit yarn of what-if.

Maybe I should have taken a chance. Let him take me to dinner. Let him kiss me good night on my doorstep and given him the chance to call and ask me out again. See where it led instead of being so sure I knew where we’d end up. Given him the chance to break my heart, because maybe, just maybe, it is better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all.

“Well, that was quite the Christmas feel-good story, Noel. Thank you.” Jillian stands and brushes the crumbs off of her lap and onto my office floor. Normally this would irritate the hell out of me but I’m so distracted I let it slide.

Distracted because I’d really like to see Knockoff Teddy again.

Too bad I have no idea who he is.

Chapter 10

“I totally fucked up.”

Surprisingly, those words aren’t coming out of my mouth.

My sister Holly asked me to meet her for lunch. I haven’t seen her in over a week because she was out of the country on a business trip with her hot boss. She claims he’s a grade-A+ certified Grinch, but she also texted me while they were on that business trip and told me she slept with him so she’s either a terrible judge of character or she’s got a thing for assholes.

I mean, obviously she was lying to herself. Or confused. I wonder if that’s genetic? It’s slightly mollifying to know I’m not the only screwup in love. The thing is, those Disney movies made it look a lot easier than it is. If I were in a Disney movie, Knockoff Teddy would simply reappear with a glass slipper and I’d be the only girl in Reindeer Falls who wore a size eight in glass slippers and that’d be that.

“With Nick,” Holly continues. “I really messed up, but I fixed it. You can fix this too, Noel.”

“Um, big difference, Holly, you knew where to find Nick. I don’t know where to find Knockoff Teddy.”

I’ve already told her the entire sad, sordid tale.

Wait though.

Knockoff Teddy is kinda like Prince Charming in the Cinderella story. You know, if Cinderella and Prince Charming had had a really sexy tryst before Cindy ran off? And then Cindy realized she was an idiot for running away so she went back and apologized instead of making Prince Charming search the entire kingdom for her.

Except Cinderella knew who Prince Charming was and knew where she could find him on account of attending the ball at his castle.

So this is really nothing like that. The point is, I could search for Knockoff Teddy.

If I could get a picture from Saturday, I could ask around, see if anyone knows who he is. Then I could track him down and apologize and ask him if he wants to kiss again.

“I’ve gotta go,” I announce to Holly, already rising from my seat.

“Uh, where?” Holly looks unimpressed. I can’t really blame her, we met at the North Pole Café for lunch and she’s not even done with her sandwich yet. But now that I realize what I need to do I can’t waste any more time.

“I’m going to find Knockoff Teddy. Wish me luck!”

* * *

The first thing I do is run down to the Reindeer Falls Photo Studio. They’re the photographers we used for photos with Santa at the Library. I just need to get a picture of Knockoff Teddy and show it around. Sure, it’s not ideal that he’s got a fake beard taped to his face in these photos, and a fake Santa belly. And a hat. And the Santa glasses. But surely someone will recognize him under all that. It’s Christmas, after all, and anything is possible at Christmas.

Getting the photo is a bit trickier than I anticipated. Apparently photo studios think it’s weird when tell them you’re there to pick up a photo of Santa and you don’t particularly care which kid is in the photo.

I know, I should have thought that through before going in.

Photo secured, I race over to the library. The photographer was a bust, by the way. He had no idea who Santa was.

Neither does the librarian.

Nor does the butcher, the baker or the candlestick maker. No, really. I ask Tom, the town butcher. And my sister Ginger, the baker. And then I stop by the Jack Frost Candle Company and ask the girl working the register.

No one knows.

It’s possibly the most embarrassing afternoon of my life.

Admittedly the photo isn’t a lot to go on. It’s harder than you’d think to identify someone wearing a disguise. Or maybe it’s exactly as hard as you’d think.

I even circle back to the North Pole Café to ask if they remember me being in over the weekend and if anyone knows who I was with. No and no. That conversation is even more awkward than it sounds.

Finding Knockoff Teddy is going to require a Christmas miracle.

Chapter 11

“I heard you had a nice weekend.”

I look up to find Mrs Carrington grinning at me. It’s bridge day for the seniors’ club at the community center and I, for one, am relieved.

Relieved because surely Mrs Carrington is not about to make a joke about my banging Santa.

Surely.

Unlike everyone else in my life.

Having sisters is both a blessing and a curse. Sure, they’re always there for you. But they’re always there to mock you too.

“Hey, I heard Mr Owens has a buy-one-get-one free coupon for the Honey Jam Café and he’s looking for someone to accompany him to dinner tonight.” I raise my eyebrows suggestively, hoping she bites. I already gave Mr Owens the coupon and suggested it was Mrs Carrington’s favorite restaurant. And pointed out that the coupon expires today.

The Honey Jam Café doesn’t even have a buy-one-get-one free coupon. I went on my own lunch hour and convinced the manager to go along with my scheme, then spent twenty minutes making a fake coupon on my laptop to hand off to Mr Owens.

I’d really hate for all my hard work to go to waste. Besides, it’s never too late to find love, right? Be it the first time, the second time, or the tenth time. There’s no such thing as too much love. And I’m positive there’s a spark there. I think they just need a little shove in the right direction.

And then, who knows? Everyone deserves a happy ending. They might find one with each other.

“A buy-one-get-one-free coupon for the Honey Jam Café?” Mrs Carrington doesn’t look as impressed as I’d expected. I could have sworn it was her favorite restaurant.

“Doesn’t that sound lovely?” I push.

“I suppose it sounds all right,” she hedges. “But I was going to have dinner with my grandson today.”

“Surely he won’t mind rescheduling. The coupon expires today. And it’s a limited-edition coupon.” I nod my head very seriously to make up for the fact that I sound like an idiot. A limited-edition coupon? For fuck’s sake.

“Oh, dear. The expiring limited-edition coupon.” Mrs Carrington places a hand at the base of her throat, eyes widening ever so slightly. She’s got a stack of bracelets on that jangle with the movement. Mrs Carrington is the type of woman who is always put together. Hair styled, makeup applied, her signature stack of bracelets on. She’s also wearing a bright red cardigan today. The perfect Christmassy date outfit.

I nod again, face straight. I deserve an award for not cracking under the pressure.

“Shoot, it’s just that I have the same limited-edition coupon. Expiring today,” she adds with a rueful smile. Like hey, what can she do? She can’t control these make-believe limited-edition expiring coupons any more than I can. “So my grandson will have to come with.”

Gah. She’s gonna ruin this date with Mr Owens before it’s even begun. Why are people so stubborn when you’re only trying to help?

“You can’t bring your grandson on the date, Mrs Carrington. They’re buy-one-get-one free coupons. Besides, three’s a bit of a crowd, don’t you think?”

“I agree. That’s why you’re coming too. So we’ll have four. And we’ll get two tables.” Then she winks at me.

Yeah. I just got played by a grandma.

The surprises just keep coming because not a moment later I turn around and run smack into none other than Knockoff Teddy himself.

Chapter 12

“Teddy?” It’s one of those comical run-ins like you’d see in a movie. I actually turn around and walk straight into him, complete with the ‘oof’ departing my mouth and his hands steadying my forearms so I don’t topple over. “I mean Not Teddy. I mean, um, hi.”

“Noel.” He smiles at me, still holding onto my arms.

“This is my grandson Theo,” Mrs Carrington is saying beside us. “He hasn’t let anyone call him Teddy since he was in grade school.”

Theo… Teddy. I replay our first meeting in my mind. The way he shrugged and said, “Sure,” when I called him Teddy. Because I was close enough and he just decided to roll with it, I suppose.

“Noel can call me Teddy,” he says now, not taking his eyes off of me. And oh, holy hell, why is that making me feel things? Crazy things. Noel can call me Teddy. It’s nothing, really. But somehow… it’s everything. The tone of his voice, the way he’s looking at me, the permission to call him something no one else does.

Ugh, that’s stupid, right? To feel some weird secret thrill over that?

Wait.

Grandson?

“Teddy is your grandson?” I feel the need to repeat it, to clarify beyond all confusion this time, before he gets away from me again.

Yeah, yeah. I know technically I’m the one who ran away the first time. Don’t be a shrew about it.

“Yes, my grandson. The one you’re having dinner with tonight.” Mrs Carrington smiles triumphantly, clearly quite pleased with herself at finally arranging this setup.

Little does she know, we’re just a little past a setup. And now I’m blushing. Like Rudolph’s nose on a foggy night kind of blushing.

“Theo, I hate to leave you on your own for dinner but Noel has set me up on a date with Mr Owens and, well, she’s put in so much effort creating a fake coupon and finagling the entire thing it seems like it’d be a shame to waste all her matchmaking efforts.”

This time I place my fingertips on my cheeks, as if I might be able to judge how red they are by feeling them.

“I did no such thing. Just a gentle nudge,” I mutter, because I’m mostly speaking to myself at this point.

“Isn’t Mr Owens the one who stopped over on Saturday?” Teddy questions. “When you got me out of the house by sending me to the library to return your books?”

Oh, my God. Wait. They’re already a thing? Her and Mr Owens? She’s been playing me this entire time, hasn’t she? I turn an incredulous glare at Mrs Carrington.

“What?” She shrugs, clearly unbothered by her treachery. “So we’ve been out a few times already. Doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate your efforts.” She turns her attention to Teddy. “And you, don’t think I didn’t notice you missed breakfast the following morning. Pictures with Santa ended at seven.”

Teddy laughs, like his grandma teasing him about being out all night is normal banter for them.

“You two run along and have a nice dinner. I think Warren’s got a real coupon for the restaurant at the Bavarian Inn so that’s where we’re headed.” With a pleased smile Mrs Carrington leaves and I’m left with Teddy.

He turns to me, a confused expression on his face.

“Who exactly did you think I was?”

Right. That.

Chapter 13

He seems a little bit incredulous, which is fair. Maybe a hint irritated, which is also fair. We’ve left the community center and gone to the Honey Jam Café for dinner because fake limited-edition coupon or not, who doesn’t want pancakes for dinner?

“I thought you were my co-worker’s brother.” I fidget in my seat while playing with a straw wrapper. “He was supposed to show up to put on the Santa suit and then you walked in looking at me like you knew me.” I stop fidgeting and shoot him a challenging look as I lean back against the booth seat. “Which is a super-reasonable assumption if you think about it.”

“Hmm,” he murmurs, staring at me, a small smile playing at his lips. “At what point did you figure out I wasn’t your co-worker’s brother?” I think he might actually find this snafu amusing.

“On Monday.” I let out a little grunt of a sigh. This is so embarrassing. “When I arrived at work and Jillian rushed into my office apologizing about her brother standing me up for pictures with Santa.”

“Hmm.” Another murmur. He’s rubbing two fingers across his lips while he watches me. “And what is it you thought you knew about me? Based on thinking I was your co-worker’s brother.”

“I thought you were jobless and living in your parents’ basement. And an incorrigible flirt incapable of commitment.”

“Well, that guy sounds charming.”

I nod. Yup. I bet I sound pretty charming right about now too.

“And what is it that you think you know about me based on what you’ve heard about me from my grandmother?”

“Well, your grandmother thinks that you’re the cat’s meow. She also thinks you need a wife.” I raise my brows and give him a little smirk.

“I do.”

“Oh, wow.” I drop the straw wrapper, fascinated by this development. Placing my palms on the table, I lean in, lowering my voice just a tad. “Do you have some kind of weird family inheritance you can only get if you’ve procured a wife and an heir by a certain age? I love that kind of nonsense in a romance novel but I wasn’t sure it still happened in real life. Or ever happened in real life, actually. How much time do you have left? Do you need the money for something really important like keeping your business open through the holidays? Tell. Me. Everything.” I punctuate my last words with the importance they deserve then wiggle my fingers before clasping them together in eager anticipation.

Teddy laughs good-naturedly, a smile covering his face. “Not like that. Obviously.”

“Bummer.”

“Doesn’t everyone want to find their person, Noel? The one they can tell all their secrets to?”

He leans in when he says it, his eyes on mine. His gaze is warm and sexy and intimate. Like he might be inviting me to tell him all my secrets, forever.

The waitress arrives with our pancakes and I distract myself with my fork, digging a hole into the center of the stack so I can eat the best part first. I might also be buying some time while I recover from the whirlwind to my guarded heart.

“So you were just at the library to return your grandmother’s books and I forced you into a Santa suit. Is that the gist of it? Why on earth did you go along with it?”

“I don’t know.” He waves a piece of bacon in the air between us. “Your vibe was really doing it for me and once I started talking to you I didn’t want to leave.”

“My vibe?” I’m dumbfounded. I’m pretty sure my vibe is cantankerous harridan.

“You were sexy as hell standing there tapping your foot as you sighed and looked at your watch every five seconds.”

“Impatience is a turn-on for you?”

“It is when it’s you. So much attitude packed into that sexy turtleneck you were wearing.” I roll my eyes before he can continue. “Besides, once I figured out who you were I thought perhaps my grandma had volunteered me to help out. Since you were so intent on sticking me in that Santa suit and my grandmother had been so intent on singing your praises to me every chance she got.”

“You were a very good sport, all things considered.”

“I really was.”

We’re quiet for a few moments while I stuff pancakes into my mouth as Teddy stares at me from across the table, but with a thoughtful expression instead of being horrified by the amount of maple syrup I’ve swirled into the melting butter crater in the middle of my pancake stack.

I mean, the thing is, he’s already seen me naked so there’s no point worrying about my figure now when there are pancakes to be consumed.

“Listen, I know that you were trying to one-night-stand me—” Teddy starts but I interrupt him before he can finish.

“I wasn’t!” I object, already shaking my head. But I was. I totally tried to one-night-stand him.

“You left your own house in order to avoid me,” he reminds me, brows raised in amused exasperation. “That was…” He trails off as if searching for the right word.

Crazy. Cowardly. Insane. Take your pick.

“Honestly a move I’ve never seen before, you little nutcase.”

I shrug. It wasn’t my finest moment. I think we can all agree.

“But I want more than that.”

“More?” Me too, is what I really want to say. Me too, me too, me too. I want more of him. More of us together. I want to tell him that I’ve never felt the way I feel when I’m around him. But I don’t, because it’s too soon, too crazy. Even crazier than having a one-night stand with a man you just met based on great chemistry and sexy eyes and his insistence that he finds you sexy. Crazier than ditching that same guy in your house like a little coward. So instead I stare at him with my heart beating a mile a minute, wondering where exactly this conversation is going.

“With you.”

The silence hangs between us. I think he’s waiting for me to respond, but my mind is moving faster than an agitated snow globe at the moment. “You want a long-distance relationship with a girl you had a one-night stand with?”

“No.”

Oh. Oh, God. He just wants to vacation-hookup me. Crap. I want more than that. I deserve more than that, even if it is scary. I’ve made so many mistakes in relationships. Picked the wrong guys. Expected too much, or too little. But I want more now. I deserve more.

“I want us to spend the rest of the month getting to know each other. Dating.”

“I’m terrible at dating,” I warn—or object, I’m not even sure which I’m doing, but he should probably know.

“I don’t care.”

“What do you mean?”

“You were terrible at dating before you met me. This is me and you, Noel. And we are going to be good together.” He grins. “Also I’m going to deadbolt the door when we have sleepovers so you can’t run away.”

I bite my lip between my teeth to keep from smiling. “We barely know each other.”

“No one knows anyone before they know them.”

“That was a mouthful.”

“What I mean is, you have to start somewhere, Noel. If you want to know someone, you have to start somewhere. Every day you choose who you want to spend time with. Who you want to know better and who is worthy of your time. I want to invest my time in us.”

Us.

I really like the sound of that.

“What happens when the holidays end and you have to go home?” I’m not sure why I’m even asking, because we’ll figure it out. Here or there, I want to be wherever Teddy is. I want to fill in all the things I don’t know about him with the things I do. And I know I can’t predict the future, I don’t know what will happen. But I know I want to.

“I’ll move to Reindeer Falls. I can work from anywhere.”

“Teddy, that’s insane.” I realize my fork is hanging in midair and I’m not even sure how long it’s been dangling there, a buttery heap of pancakes about to slide off and hit the table. I set the fork down and rub my hands against my thighs. “We barely even know each other. And can you even do that? Just leave your job? Your life in the city?”

“I can, actually. Besides, this is home.” He glances around the café we’re in and then out the window we’re sitting next to. It’s dark outside, so it feels more like midnight even though it’s only five thirty p.m. That’s Michigan in December for you. It’s started to snow, visible beneath the parking lot lights. Swirling gusts of snow blowing sideways that make being inside and warm even cozier than before. “There’s no place like home, right?”

Chapter 14

One Year Later…

Christmas Eve

“The thing is, I don’t think he’s ever going to propose.” I toss my hands up in the air in annoyance. “Mr Of Course I Need a Wife doesn’t actually want one.” I’m referring to my boyfriend, Teddy. My boyfriend who hasn’t proposed yet.

And yeah, yeah, fine. I know it’s only been a year, but when you know you know. And I knew a year ago. Now I’m just impatient.

“Noel, you’ve literally been dating for fifty-three weeks. I don’t think it’s time to panic about Teddy’s commitment level quite yet.” This is from Ginger.

Ginger, who was engaged by Valentine’s Day.

I turn and glare at her with all the disdain you can level on a pregnant woman. She’s due in five months and she’s got the most adorable baby bump you’ve ever seen in your life.

And a husband. She’s got that too. Because after Keller proposed in record time, he married her and knocked her up. Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.

“You don’t get an opinion,” I remind her. “Since you’re blissfully domesticated you’re incapable of being objective.”

“Yup,” Holly agrees with me a moment before stuffing a bite of toast into her mouth and chewing. We’re at a corner table at Gingersnap’s, the restaurant Ginger’s husband opened next door to her bakery. The one he named after Ginger.

Ugh. Totally happy for them. Obviously. Not at all jealous.

“You’re the worst,” Holly agrees when she’s done chewing. “No opinion for you.”

Holly’s got the nerve to say this while eating toast with the same hand displaying her own engagement ring. I drop a pointed gaze to the ring and then back to Holly’s face. She at least has the decency to look chagrined.

“You know that just happened,” she protests, referring to her own engagement. Nick proposed a week ago. The ring was in an Advent calendar he made for her, stuck behind the door of the date of their one-year anniversary.

I know. Gross. Gross in a that-didn’t-happen-to-me-but-I’m-totally-happy-for-you-oh-my-God-how-romantic way.

I sigh, mentally chastising myself. The thing is, I am happy for both of my sisters. I really, really am. I just sorta thought Teddy might propose on our own one-year anniversary. But that date came and went last week.

“All I’m saying is, it feels like it’s been forever.” I know it hasn’t actually been forever. I know that a year is no time at all and I shouldn’t compare my relationship to anyone else’s. Especially not to Ginger and Keller, who moved at warp speed. Ginger and Keller are too ridiculous to even account for. I mean, sure, I might have fallen in love with my one-night stand, but we didn’t actually exchange “I love yous” for like… an entire week. And we weren’t engaged six weeks later.

As crazy as the start of our relationship was, every day since has been pretty normal. We’ve put in the work. Gotten to know each other. And I like him more every day than I did the day before. Truly. He’s my best friend. And he’s also really good in bed.

Ugh, now who’s gross? Me.

I’ve got it really good. I need to shelve my impatience.

“Why are you obsessing over this all of a sudden?” Holly asks, dumping a spot of cream into a freshly poured cup of coffee. She twirls her spoon through and taps it against the side of the cup, then raises her gaze to mine, waiting on an answer.

“I don’t even know.” I slump back in the booth, crossing my arms over my chest. Because I agree with her, it hasn’t been an issue at all, up until the last week. “I think it’s the holidays, you know? I think the holidays have made me engagement-horny.”

“Do you need a Countdown-to-Dickmas calendar? I’d be happy to make you one,” Holly offers, all wide-eyed and innocent.

“No, I get plenty of Dickmas, thank you very much,” I toss back at her. We’re sisters, giving each other grief is our jobs.

“Ugh, you guys. The baby can hear you.” Ginger wrinkles her nose at the two of us disapprovingly while Holly and I groan in unison.

“This place is hopping,” I comment with a glance around Gingersnaps. They managed to get the old auto shop renovated into a restaurant and bakery in just under nine months, and had their dual grand opening two months ago.

“It is.” Ginger beams. All her dreams have come to fruition. She found her dream man and opened her dream bakery. And now she’s got a bun in the oven. Sorry, I couldn’t help myself. We’ve made so many bun-in-the-oven jokes Ginger has banned us from saying any more out loud.

“Doing so well,” Ginger continues. “And the Food Network hasn’t even started airing our show yet. That’ll bring in a load of tourists during the summer and winter seasons in Reindeer Falls.”

In addition to making them the new hosts of The Great Gingerbread Bake-Off, the Food Network also filmed an eight-episode series of Ginger and Keller renovating their auto shop into a bake shop, which I’m sure will do well for them because Ginger and Keller have a ton of chemistry on camera. And off.

Speaking of… Keller appears at our table to check on Ginger. He’s working today—they both are, actually, but Ginger took off early in order to have lunch with Holly and me. He kisses her before he leaves the table because they’re that couple. Kissy kissy. When they leave here they’re probably gonna hold hands and make snow angels together or something equally adorable. Holly reaches past them to grab an extra napkin from the end of the table and gives me a little eye roll with a head nod towards the newlyweds.

“How’s your Grinch?” I ask Holly.

“Deliciously Grinchy,” she responds, a wide grin covering her face. “I honestly cannot believe I ever thought his grumpy office persona was off-putting. Now I find it very sexy.”

“I’m sure you do, you little freak.”

“Whatever. I’m not the one who kissed Santa Claus.”

“Yeah, yeah, that will never get old for you, will it?”

Okay, so I’ll never ever admit this to either of my sisters, but Teddy and I might have had a slightly kinky reenactment of our first night together. Except I was the one in the Santa suit and the Santa suit consisted mostly of strategically placed ribbons, a belt and some furry white cuffs around my wrists.

I’m a really good girlfriend.

Total wife material.

Never mind. I’m not dwelling on that. I’m not.

I part ways with my sisters outside of Gingersnap’s with quick hugs and a chorus of “see you tomorrows.” Our parents are hosting Christmas dinner tomorrow. Tonight I’m celebrating Christmas Eve with Teddy’s family at his grandmother’s house. She’s already made me a stocking with my name on it. I haven’t seen it yet, but she told me about it. You know those really cool needlepoint stockings that grandmas make by hand? One of those. Teddy’s stocking is a teddy bear on account of it being made for him when he was born. Mine has a reindeer on it, because Mrs Carrington said I brought Teddy’s heart back to Reindeer Falls.

Gah, it’s so sappy I can hardly stand it.

By which I mean I love it. I’ve always secretly hoped I’d marry into a family that had a really cool stocking tradition. And honestly, I’m already a part of the family. Teddy and I have dinner with his family at least once a month. Mrs Carrington insisted I start calling her Gram over six months ago. Plus, I have that homemade stocking, which is very nearly as legally binding as an actual marriage certificate. Everyone knows those stockings are no joke.

Teddy’s already at my place when I get home. Truth be told, he very nearly lives with me because he’s over every night. Technically he has a place of his own but he mostly uses it as an office and a closet. He sleeps at my place every night before heading to his place in the morning when I leave for work.

When I walk in, he stands, and I think he shoves something into his pocket but honestly, it might just be my overactive imagination or Teddy checking for his cell phone. It might not be anything important. Before him he’s got a mess of wrapping paper and ribbon on the table. I thought we’d wrapped everything weeks ago.

“What are you doing?” I shrug out of my coat and hang it on a hook near the door, toeing off my boots before I make my way over to the table.

There are a stack of presents wrapped, and a few unwrapped. I spy a puzzle and an art set, not yet wrapped, amongst the pile.

“Picked up a few extra things for my nieces,” he says, wrapping his arms around me.

“Hmm,” I murmur, sinking into his embrace. Loving the warm cuddle after coming in from outside. Loving him. He’s a big softie for those kids. It’s another of the many things I adore about this man.

“Teddy Carrington, are you hiding something from me in your pants?” Gah! I was going to be patient, I really really was.

“I’d never hide anything in my pants from you.” He kisses the top of my head and moves back a few inches, hands moving to his waistband. “Want me to take them off?” he teases, hands on the button, his eyes flashing in amusement. I love his eyes too. He always looks at me like he really sees me. Like he’s paying attention.

“We don’t have time for you to take off your pants,” I say sadly with a glance at the clock.

“I guess you’ll just have to be patient then, won’t you?”

I slow-blink at him. Like… patient for sex or patient for the diamond ring he’s hiding in his pocket?

He laughs like he knows exactly what’s going through my head.

We load the car with a pile of presents and the gingerbread cheesecake I picked up this morning from Ginger’s Bake Shop for tonight’s dessert. It’s in a pink bakery box tied with red and white twine for a little holiday oomph.

Christmas Eve with Teddy’s family is loud and fun and everything I expected. I’ve met most of them, but I’m introduced to a few new faces, uncles and cousins I’d not had a chance to meet before. His grandmother, Mrs Carrington, is the perfect hostess. There’s enough food to feel us all several times over along with a cheery house full of Christmas splendor.

And at the end of it, there’s an engagement.

His grandmother’s.

To Mr Owens. It’s quite romantic actually. He proposes to her in front of the entire family after giving a speech about how much joy she’s brought to him and how happy he is to have her in his life.

She says yes.

Champagne is popped—sparkling cider for the littles—and I’m glad to have been there to witness it.

“I’m quite sure you’re next,” she whispers to me later, as Teddy is warming up the car. He always does that for me, scrapes all the snow and warms the car up before coming back to walk me to the passenger door like a fairy-tale princess.

I’m quite sure I’m next too, because I’m not actually a fairy-tale princess and I’m more than capable of doing the asking.

* * *

“I heard about this thing,” I mention that night in bed. It’s dark and quiet in that way the world only ever is on Christmas.

“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

“So hear me out,” I begin. We’re snuggled under my sheets, flannels with festive Christmas gnomes, and a thick comforter.

“Okay.” Teddy’s lip twitches in the light of my bedroom Christmas tree.

“You’re my favorite person in the whole world.”

“You’re my favorite person in the whole world too.” He flashes a warm smile, twining our fingers together under the blankets.

“Well, as luck would have it, there’s a way we can be legally bound to each other. Forever. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”

Man, I’m really selling this.

“It’s more like a paperwork thing,” I interject, before I scare him off, “versus some kind of weird ritualistic ceremony.”

Err. No. That’s not right either. It actually is a bit of a weird ritualistic ceremony.

“The point is,” I continue, “the paperwork exists with which we could make that happen.”

“Huh, no kidding?”

He says it without a trace of sarcasm, as if this is a genuine revelation to him. I turn to face the ceiling so I can properly side-eye him.

“Ask me to tell you a secret, Noel.”

Ah, our favorite game.

“Tell me a secret. Unless it’s that you’re afraid of legal commitment or have made a previously undisclosed pact with a bunch of buddies from college not to get married until you’re forty.”

“I’m in love with you,” he says, tracing my bottom lip with his finger.

“Not a secret.” I shake my head.

“I wanted to ask you to marry me last Christmas.”

“When we’d known each other a week?” I turn back in his direction, curious.

“Oddly, you had me at ‘put on the Santa suit,’ so yeah.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t want to rush you though all the fun dating stuff, all our firsts as a couple, just because I couldn’t wait to put a ring on it.”

I bite my lip. I did really enjoy all those firsts.

“But if you’re that impatient…” He trails off with the sexiest grin he’s ever had.

“I am.”

“I had a much bigger thing planned, you know. It involved me on one knee and the whole bit.”

“It’s okay, I quite like you horizontally.”

Teddy laughs, and then he produces a ring from I don’t even know where. I think he had it under his pillow the entire time.

“Marry me.”

“Teddy Carrington, the only thing I ever wanted for Christmas was you.”

“So that’s a yes?” he asks, smiling as he slides the ring onto my finger.

“Ask me to tell you a secret.” I’m smiling so big I have to bite my lip to contain it.

“Tell me a secret, Noel.”

“It’s been a yes since last Christmas.”

* * *

I hope you’ve enjoyed Reindeer Falls! If you’d like to read more from me I’d suggest my WRONG series, which are currently in Kindle Unlimited for a LIMITED time. Flip the page for a book description or CLICK HERE to grab it now.

Holiday Recipes

After I published If You Give a Jerk a Gingerbread I got a lot of requests in my reader group asking about the recipes. My friend Kayti McGee graciously helped me create and test a few of the items I imagined Ginger and Keller baking and I’ve included them here. I’ve also included a recipe not mentioned in the book, but now I wish I had! They’re not fancy but ever since I can remember this cookies have been a part of Christmas for me.

Have you met Dr Miller?

I hope you’ve enjoyed Reindeer Falls! If you’re wanting to try something else by me (and you like your romantic comedies a little filthy) I’d suggest my WRONG series, which are currently in Kindle Unlimited for a LIMITED time. Enjoy a peek into the first book below.

* * *

I have a history of picking the wrong guy. Gay? Player? Momma’s boy? Check, check and check.

Now I can’t stop fantasizing about one of the customers at the coffee shop I work at between classes. It’s just a harmless crush, right? It’s not like I ever see this guy outside of the coffee shop. It’s not like I’m going to see him while attempting to get birth control at the student clinic. While wearing a paper gown. While sitting on an exam table. Because he’s the doctor. Shoot. Me.

But what if, for once, the man I’ve had the dirtiest, most scandalous fantasies about turned out to be everything but wrong?

Grab your copy here…

Wrong (Wrong Series #1)

* * *

"Sophie, your favorite customer is here." Everly snaps a towel on my ass and grins at me.

"Everly, shut up! He'll hear you."

Fuck, I'm already blushing. Luke. He comes into the coffee shop every Tuesday morning. It's the highlight of my morning shift at Grind Me, a coffee shop just off campus. I work around my classes at the University of Pennsylvania. The Grind Me location I work at caters mainly to professionals and students living in off-campus apartments.

Luke definitely falls into the professional category. I'm not sure what he does, but he strolls into Grind Me in very expensive-looking suits and sharp ties. Nothing like the college boys in athletic pants and graphic-print tee shirts. He must be ten, fifteen years older than me. It doesn't matter. He's beautiful and I have a bit of a thing for him, which is bad because I have a boyfriend. An age-appropriate boyfriend. But it's just a harmless crush, right?

But Luke… he makes my panties wet just ordering coffee. He's tall, over six feet by my estimate. Thick dark hair, brown eyes and eyelashes any girl would kill for. He's wearing a dark gray suit today with a plum-colored tie. Fucking swoon.

His hands, I'm a little obsessed with them. Long fingers ending in short, impeccably clean nails. They just look… capable. I have a lot of fantasies involving his hands and my body. He's gotta know what he's doing with those hands. I bet he could get me off in minutes—those perfect fingers would know just where to curve while his thumb pressed down on my clit. He could probably make me come one-handed while he finished a phone call on his cell with the other.

I have a lot of fantasies about Luke based on nothing more than pouring him a cup of coffee every Tuesday and ringing him up. Always cash. I have no idea what his last name is. I wouldn't even know his first name if I hadn't listened in to one of his calls while he pulled a twenty from his wallet. "It's Luke, tell Dr. Kallam it's urgent, I'll hold."

Unfortunately, I don't think my fantasies are returned. I don't think he'd even know my name if it wasn't stamped in bold on a pin stuck to the front of my apron.

"Sophie." He always addresses me by name. Good morning, Sophie. I'll have the dark roast, Sophie. I think you have a bit of whipped cream on your nose, Sophie. That stuff splatters, okay? "Sophie?" Oh, shit. Has he been talking to me while I fantasized?

"Sorry! Um, daydreaming." He smirks at me. Bastard. "Large dark roast?"

"Please." He slides a five-dollar bill across the counter. "Have a great day, Sophie." He smiles again as he turns and strolls out of the shop. I watch him walk, free to eye-fuck him without being caught. The door jingles shut behind him but I keep watching until he's out of sight.

"Whew, that was hot." Everly fans herself with a takeout bag. "Sexual tension. Is it warm in here?"

"Stop it."

She loves teasing me. We go through this every week. He must hear her snickering in the background. And she ensures I'm the one who waits on him every time. If she's at the counter when he arrives she immediately finds something else to do so she can step back and watch me ogle him. It's embarrassingly obvious.

"Enough of the mysterious hottie. Are you going to put out and fuck Mike or not? You've made him wait like, a month? That's a long time in horny college-boy time. Plus, you're the oldest virgin on campus. Not even our campus. All the campuses."

"It's not my fault I dated a gay guy for two years." I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and cross my arms across my chest. I'm a little defensive about this.

"Hello? Earth to delusional. You didn't find it odd you were dating a twenty-year-old guy who never tried to stick his dick in you?" Everly dumps beans into the industrial-sized grinder and raises a skeptical eyebrow in my direction. I hand her a stack of one-pound Grind Me bags labeled for individual sale and lean against the opposite counter.

"I thought he respected me, not that he was afraid of vaginas," I tell her, kicking the rubber mat on the floor over an inch. "He let me suck him off." I add this in, hoping it's a valid point in my defense.

Everly snorts. "Yeah, with the lights off."

I bite my lip and look away.

"Oh my God! I was joking. I'm so sorry, Sophie. Shit, seriously? Guys love to watch themselves get sucked. But Scott was probably picturing a dude while his dick was in your mouth, so… Oh, fuck. I’m making this worse." Everly drops the coffee bag under the dispenser. Beans scatter across the counter and drop to the floor while she grabs me into a giant hug. "Lots of guys would love to fuck you, Sophie. I promise. Like Luke. That guy would love to stick it in you, he's just concerned you're jailbait. But you should start with Mike anyway. Tall, dark and handsome looks like he's packing a donkey dick."

"You've got a really charming way with words, Everly. You should write a book or something." I break out of her hug and grab the broom to sweep the coffee beans off the floor.

"Anyway, it's a go with Mike, right? Just get it over with. Mike will do, he's hot. I'd fuck him."

"Everly!"

"I wouldn't do him without a condom though. Safety first. And tell me you made an appointment with the student clinic. You should always have two forms of birth control, because I'm not ready to be a grandmother." Everly hops up onto the back counter and watches me sweep. "You missed a few to your left."

"Everly, you're twenty-one and we're not related. You wouldn't be the grandmother."

"Whatever. Semantics."

"That's not what semantics means. What are you majoring in again?" I glance over as she swipes a muffin from the bakery case and peels the wrapper back.

"I'm majoring in Professor Camden," she replies around a mouthful of muffin. "Which is better than this muffin. Jesus. Who pays for this crap?"

"Not you, clearly," I observe as she tosses the muffin into the trash. "Yes. I have an appointment at the clinic today after shift. I shaved my legs and everything." I pull an elastic from my wrist and gather my long brown hair into a ponytail before bending down to sweep Everly's mess into a dustpan.

"What about your vagina? Did you shave that?" Everly reaches back into the bakery case and extracts a brownie covered in caramel.

"Noooo," I respond slowly. "I don't think the gynecologist will expect me to be bald. Right?"

"Holy fuck. This brownie. Now this is good. Orgasmic good. How much are we charging for these things?" I'm guessing she doesn't care because she doesn't stop talking or check the shelf tag for a price. "Oh my God. Do you want a bite?" I shake my head no and she continues.

"I can't wait for you to have an orgasm. Not a brownie orgasm, a penis orgasm. Which you won't have this weekend unless Mike is really, really talented. Which he's not old enough to be, trust me. But that fucker better make you come with his tongue or fingers before he sticks it in you. ’Cause that is not going to feel great the first time or two. So yeah, Mike might want you bald. I'll hook you up with my girl Leah. Her waxing skills, amaze."

She drops the half-eaten brownie on the counter and pulls her cell phone from her pocket while I’m distracted with a customer. By the time I finish making a medium vanilla hazelnut latte and turn back to Everly, she's finished her phone call and gone back to devouring the brownie.

"You're all set. Thursday. I texted you the address. You're welcome."

"Everly! I never agreed to get waxed."

"Don't be a pussy. The gynecologist is more uncomfortable than a waxing. You're going to love it, trust me. The friction is so much better during sex. God." She smiles. "Plus even in your jeans. I swear you're going to be horny all day Friday with your bare vagina rubbing against your jeans."

I shake my head. "This conversation is so wrong."

"What are you girls talking about? Naked pillow fights at the dorm?"

"Shut up, Jeff." Everly doesn't even look up from her brownie.

"You can't speak to me that way, Everly. I'm your manager, it's insubordination." Jeff is a senior at the university, just like we are. His father owns this little chain of coffee shops and gave Jeff this one to manage.

"You can't sexually harass us either, yet you do. Why don't I conference-call your daddy and we can discuss my sexual harassment lawsuit while you lodge your insubordination complaint?”

"Fine," Jeff mutters. "At least get off the counter. And write down all the food you steal on the stale list. My inventory is always off when you work." He turns around and heads back into his office. It's not really an office, it's a desk he set up in the stock room—complete with an executive chair he picked up at Costco one weekend, dragging it through the back door like he was setting up shop to run a small empire, not manage other college students at a coffee house.

Everly hops off the counter muttering under her breath. "That guy's got a future ahead of him. In middle management, where he'll motivate no one and annoy everyone."

"He's not that bad, Everly." She gives me a look that says she disagrees. "Okay, he is that bad," I agree.

"Truth." She goes back to filling the one-pound bags of coffee and thankfully drops the topic of waxing. I'm not sure I intend to keep that appointment. The one I have later this morning is enough to think about.

Grab your copy here…

Wrong (Wrong Series #1)

Also by Jana Aston

Wrong (Wrong Series #1)

Right (Wrong Series #2)

Fling (Wrong Series #3)

Trust (Wrong Series #4)

* * *

Good Girl (Good Girl Book #1)

Good Time (Good Girl Book #2)

* * *

Sure Thing (Best Laid Plans #1)

Plan B (Best Laid Plans #2)

* * *

Times Square

* * *

The Reindeer Falls Series

The Boss Who Stole Christmas

If You Give A Jerk A Gingerbread

The One Night Stand Before Christmas

The Reindeer Falls Collection

The Reindeer Falls Collection, Volume #1

The Boss Who Stole Christmas (Book 1)

If You Give A Jerk A Gingerbread (Book 2)

The One Night Stand Before Christmas (Book 3)

About the Author

Jana Aston likes cats, big coffee cups and books about billionaires who deflower virgins. She wrote her debut novel while fielding customer service calls about electrical bills, and she's ever grateful for the fictional gynecologist in Wrong that readers embraced so much she was able to make working in her pajamas a reality. Jana’s novels have appeared on the NYT, USA Today and Wall Street Journal bestsellers list, some multiple times. She likes multiples.

If you’re on Facebook, I have a private readers group. I’d love for you to join us… Grind Me Cafe

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