Just Add Mistletoe: Christmas in Gingerbread, Colorado Read online

  “Ugh!” Holly lifts her hands to her ears. She’s about had it with the whole procreation dissertation my mother likes to dole out regularly. “I tell you what. As soon as Tom and I decide to add another child to the family, you’ll be the first to know.”

  Mom gives a silent applause, squealing away with unmitigated glee. Really, it’s embarrassing to witness.

  She spins back to me as her expression changes on a dime. “Oh, Missy, I need a quick favor! I’ve got a client meeting me at the office in five minutes, and I really can’t stress enough how much I need you to cover. I just can’t reschedule the meeting in Cater.” Her eyes plead with me all on their own, and I have never been able to say no to my mother. And sadly, she knows it. She’s been known to wield this knowledge to her benefit each and every time. I’ve covered for her so much at the realty office that I feel like an honorary realtor myself.

  “Okay, but just this once until after Christmas. I’ve got a million gingerbread houses on order.” It’s true. A million and one to be exact. People come as far as Denver to purchase a gingerbread house from Gingerbread. It’s as if the town name lends to the credibility of the delectable, sturdy, yet seldom noshed upon dessert.

  “Great,” she trills just as Holly gifts her a large cup of coffee to go. “I’ll see you girls later. Holly, hold down the fort. Mistletoe Winters, comb your hair and slick some gloss on your lips. Rumor has it, you’re about to meet an out-of-towner with a dashing smile and a big fat wallet. At twenty-six, you’re not getting any younger.” She gives a little wave as she heads for the door. “Toodles!”

  “Toodles,” Holly and I shoot back without the proper enthusiasm.

  Holly smirks my way. “You think it’s a setup?”

  “Are you kidding? When has our mother missed an opportunity not to set me up?”

  I glance at myself in the mirrored wall behind my sister. My nose has a dot of flour on it, and my hair looks as if I’ve just jogged around the frozen lake at the end of town.

  “That looks about right,” I mumble as I head for the door.

  “Hey!” Holly calls after me. “Aren’t you going to comb your hair?”

  “Mr. Right won’t care what I look like on the outside, Holly. It’ll be my quick wit and fudgies I snag him with!” I laugh as I hit the frozen tundra right outside the bakery.

  Whoever is waiting for me at that realty office isn’t getting anywhere near my fudgies.

  * * *

  There is nothing like spending the holiday season in a cozy little town like Gingerbread. The clouds above are filled with their wintery wrath, and the snow on the ground sits fluffy and white, strewn across the entire expanse of Main Street as if someone set out a heavenly white blanket. The shops that line either side of the street are each festooned with wreaths swathed in large red bows. Garland and twinkle lights fill all the shop windows, and there is even a large life-sized Santa standing on the corner where tourists and locals alike stop to take a picture with the plastic man in the red suit. But the real magic happens at night. A couple of years ago, Mayor Todd had the expanse over all of Main Street laced with white lights, and it adds a fairy-tale appeal that makes our small town feel downright enchanting. It’s perfectly romantic, and I suppose that’s why the romantic in me has truly blossomed. This last year alone, I played an intricate part in pairing six different couples together. Six! That’s a record, even for me. Two of which are engaged. Molly and Richard have their wedding slated for June, and Tova and Mark have their sights set on Halloween night because they’re unconventional that way. I guess you can say I have an eye for all things heart-shaped, and I certainly am great at reading people. I pretty much know right off the bat who a person would be best suited with. And even though she’ll deny it to her dying day, it was me that paired Holly with Tom all those eons ago. I knew the second he said he was partial to Italian food, but not necessarily cheese, that only a person as equally as quirky could respond well to that. Case in point, Holly has a dairy allergy and yet loves pasta Bolognese. Match made in marinara heaven.

  I pause a moment as I scowl at the window of the Knit Wit, the knitting shop that Samantha Holiday owns along with Caroline Lindy. Samantha is more or less a silent partner. It’s Caroline who operates as boots on the ground any given day. But neither Samantha nor Caroline is the reason I’m scowling at it. I can’t help it. Every time I look that way, it reminds me of another knit wit, Graham Holiday, Samantha’s son. Graham and my brother, Nick, were best friends growing up, and they spent a vast majority of the time tormenting my sister and me. Boys will be boys, my mother used to say. I try to shake all thoughts of Graham right out of my head. Think about someone too long and they’re liable to materialize right before you. That’s another thing my mother used to say.

  I quickly come upon Mountain Realty at the end of the street and bustle my way through the egregiously heavy glass door. It’s a wonder they have customers at all with that unfriendly fifty-pound greeting. I give a casual wave to Debbie, the receptionist, who currently has the phone cradled to her cheek, her fingers busy gliding across her keyboard. The Mountain Realty office isn’t all that big, with just six micro offices set inside the tiny box-shaped building. But in its defense, the inside has recently been remodeled with slate gray vinyl flooring and a mirrored coffee table set in the entry. The scent of fresh paint still clings in the air, and everything about the marble desktops and oversized leather office chairs screams new, new, new! I stride by a few of the realtors’ offices—Jim, my mother’s mentor, whom I can tell is playing a video game on his laptop from the reflection upon the window behind him—something to do with a spacecraft. And there’s Gail Diamond, my mother’s only real competition in getting that coveted realtor of the year title. Mom told me so herself last week, and to hear her lay it all out, you can tell there is some bad blood brewing under this roof.

  I hit the last office, my mother’s, and stop in my tracks when I spot a man with broad shoulders, a dark head of hair tilted down as he scrolls through his phone. My stomach does that totally adolescent roller coaster thing that I’ve grown to despise over the years. Where does my body get off commandeering my emotions without my permission? I never did think it was fair.

  I clear my throat as I stride right past him and take a seat. Just as I’m about to welcome him to Mountain Realty—where dreams are only a sold sign away!—I stop cold. My muscles freeze solid, and I can’t seem to take my next breath.

  “Oh, it’s just you.” I sag as I stare out at the Adonis before me. Yes, it’s true. Graham Holiday is every bit the ovary popping god who stepped down from Mount Olympus to dwell with us mortals. But he’s also my brother, Nick’s, lifelong best friend who just like my brother imposed enough sisterly torment my way I can’t help but glare at him a little. Graham may be gorgeous, but he full well knows it. That’s the worst trait by far in a human being if you ask me. Okay, so maybe it’s not the worst, but it sure does head the top of the list.

  His bright blue eyes widen with surprise, and that dimpled grin of his beams my way without hesitation.

  “Mistletoe Winters.” He holds out his arms a moment, and just as easy as that smile glided over his face, it glides right back off. “Wow, you’ve really grown up.”

  “Yes, well, a decade will do that to a person.”

  His dimples press in, and just witnessing the sight gives my stomach that blissful free-fall feeling once again. I really do hate biology right about now.

  “It hasn’t been a decade.” He frowns a moment as he scours my features. “You are beautiful,” he whispers, and my mouth falls open, incredulous as if my so-called beauty were the last thing he expected.

  “Pardon me? I’m here as a professional, and I’m assuming you came seeking my mother’s services. I’m her temp, so I’ll have you treat me with a little more respect than you’re used to.”

  “I just meant I hadn’t been in New York that long.” Graham has lived in New York City for what feels like an eternity, alt
hough I’ll be the last to admit it. He just so happens to be a high-powered realtor himself.

  “So, what are you doing here?” I straighten the piles of paperwork over my mother’s desk just to keep my hands busy. My fingers have a panache to want to wrap themselves around Graham’s neck whenever possible. There is no one else on record who can push my buttons the way Graham used to. Well, maybe Sabrina. “Let me guess, you’re here to steal the Mountain Realty playbook in order to sharpen your game? Need a few hints from my mother, big boy? Manhattan real estate must be really rough.”

  “Ha!” he barks out a laugh so loud the windows rattle. “I’m not here to steal any secrets, I promise. Maybe a few hearts.” He gives a little wink, and my insides flip-flop.

  “Well, you’re not stealing this one. Trust me, I’m keeping the old ticker under lock and key. How long are you in town for?” My finger wraps itself around one of my ashen curls over and over like some biological reflex.

  “Around a month.” He leans in, and the scent of his spiced cologne warms me. I can’t help but note how that deep navy jacket really sets off the cobalt color of his eyes. And how relaxed and outdoorsy he looks in those inky jeans and beat-up boots as if he’s trying to convince all of Gingerbread that he’s just one of us hardworking folk, not some high society, running in the big leagues city player. Nick has regaled me with one too many you should see what Graham is doing now stories. Little does good old Graham know that I’m on the inside track as far as his astronomical sales, the unbelievable models he’s mass dating, and let’s not forget the penthouse with a spectacular view of Central Park. I’ll admit, there was a spark of jealousy in me over his ritzy lifestyle a time or two.

  “A month?” I balk. “It must be nice to have retired early. I don’t know too many people who can take an entire month off work and still keep a roof over their heads.”

  A dark chuckle comes from him, and he looks that much more comely. Graham’s good looks have never played fair. “I’m here on business. Sort of. Tanner called a family meeting regarding Holiday Pies. I figured why not spend Christmas in Gingerbread. But I need to be on that next plane out day after Christmas. Duty calls, and it’s not in Gingerbread.”

  “All this way for a family meeting?” I’m shocked to hear this isn’t something that a phone call could have taken care of. Knowing how fancy and technologically advanced Graham most likely is, I’m surprised he didn’t just show up as a hologram. “Is everything okay with Holiday Pies?” Holiday Pies was once just a side business for the family. Margie Holiday, his grandmother who has since passed on, started with just a single oven and used to bake her famous apple and pumpkin pies to give to her neighbors. Word caught on about how good they were, and soon enough everyone in Gingerbread wanted to buy them. Her success grew so fast that the family opened a factory in Cater, and to this day they mass produce those yummy baked sensations and ship them to a bevy of local grocery stores. His family also owns and operates Holiday Orchards, where they grow fruit and produce. The Holidays are one of Gingerbread’s local success stories. They’ve been referred to as the little-family-that-could for years.

  “I have no clue how the pies are doing.” He shakes his head, but those day-glow eyes remain pinned on mine. “Tanner doesn’t share much with me. Personally, I’m shocked he called a meeting. It’s just Mom, Dad, and me. Tanner is something else.” He grunts at the thought of his brother. It’s a well-known fact Tanner and Graham haven’t always gotten along. Graham was closer to Nick than he was his own brother. Tanner, much like his brother, used to be the town playboy, always a different girl next to him at the bar week after week. He’s about as interested in Cupid’s arrow as he is in his brother. “Anyway”—he scratches at the back of his neck, and his left eye shuts tight—“I need a rental that’s furnished. I can’t stay with my parents for a month and hang onto my sanity, and I’m pretty sure I’m not staying with Tanner.”

  “How about Nick?” I volunteer my brother for the effort. “I’m sure he’ll let you crash on his couch until your private jet is ready to whisk you back to the Big Apple.” I couldn’t help but take a swipe at him. Although judging by that blooming grin, it was more of an ego stroke than anything else. And, believe you me, the last thing in the world I want to do is make Graham Holiday gloat over his wild success any more than I have to.

  “Nick’s out. He’s got a bad habit of leaving his dirty socks wherever he pleases, and you know it.” He hooks his brow my way, and I can’t help but concede with a nod. He is so right about the dirty socks. “Besides, I like the idea of a little solitude. It’s a nice break from the big city.”

  Solitude. I grunt at the thought of such a coveting thing. With both the bakery and my brain on overdrive, I could use a little solitude myself.

  I rouse my mother’s computer to life and key in the password. “A month off looking for solitude?” I marvel as I peruse the available listings. “My, aren’t you a highfalutin fool.”

  “Come on.” His lids lower as those dimples of his dig in, and my insides spike with heat. “Don’t tell me you’ve never wanted to leave Gingerbread.”

  “I’ll have you know, I did leave Gingerbread for two solid years. I went to Arizona, but you wouldn’t know that. I doubt you know anything about anyone other than yourself.”

  “You’re right.”

  I glance back over at him, and he’s sporting a goofy grin on his face, same one he used to get just before he pegged me with a zinger.

  He leans forward. “Why don’t you show me around and tell me about everything I’ve missed out on? You’re still the town gossip, aren’t you?”

  And there it is. I take a moment to glare at him. “I’m sad to say that Sabrina Jarrett has stolen the title of town gossip right from under me. But I am the town baker now, and I think that’s a far better fit for me.”

  “Baker?”

  “That’s right. Holly and I opened the Gingerbread Bakery and Café right down the street. We’re not raking in a six-figure income like yourself, but we’re settled, sort of, and we’re really happy about how things have turned out for us.”

  “Seven.” He nods as if I should know what this means.

  “Seven? Let me guess, that’s some cool phrase they say in New York that means something akin to awesome. I’ve always felt the word awesome was a little too West Coast myself.” I can’t help all the stupid things that are coming from my lips. Graham has always inspired me to spew forth the verbal diarrhea. Usually it’s in self-defense, but then, this is Graham. I’m sure things are moving in a defensive direction.

  His brows knit together. “Seven figures—as in income. I wasn’t trying to pat my back. I was merely correcting you. And I’m happy about the bakery. It sounds like you finally found your calling.” He gets that look in his eyes again, and I can feel it coming. “What’s better than watching carbs and cash collide? I’ll stop by sometime and check it out. I’m always up for a good cookie. You said it was a little shop right down the street?”

  My blood hits its boiling point. “I didn’t say it was little. It’s actually quite big—spacious even. Although, I’m pretty sure it’s not nearly as big as that space lab you live in. Penthouse, is it?”

  He tips his head back as if he were amused. “You seem to know a lot about me, Sprig.” Ugh. How I hate that nickname. And even more than that, I detest that he invoked it. I was sort of hoping there was an underlying truce as far as it was concerned. He leans in with that smug look on his face. “Are you keeping tabs?” His left eye comes just shy of winking, and a jolt of rage whips through me. “Let me guess, stalking social media is your favorite pastime.”

  A breath hitches in my throat, and for a moment I contemplate whether I should throw the granite globe or the bottle of water my mother has sitting on her desk at him.

  “I’m not a stalker. And, believe you me, you would be the last person I’d waste my time following. From what I hear, I could get an STD simply by looking you up. No way, no how.” I pull
up the full report on furnished houses in Gingerbread and gasp.

  “What is it?” He drums his fingers over the desk, and it sends my anger skyrocketing. “Let me guess, you’re going to need a vaccination. No need to cyberstalk me, sweetie, when I’m seated right in front of you.”

  “Stop being so incredulous.” I try to refresh the listings, but the same stubborn house is the lone wolf to show up to this house-hunting party. “It looks as if there’s only one home available.”

  “Is it furnished, and will they rent month to month?”

  “Check and check.” And I couldn’t be more distraught.

  “Well, let’s go check it out.” He bounces to his feet, and I gather my purse and head to the door. “Don’t you want to print it out or jot down the address?”

  “No need. I happen to be intimately familiar with the area. I happened to sleep there often.” I shoot him a look that stops him in his tracks. “Do not go there.” Sometimes you need to put a proverbial muzzle on Graham before he unleashes on you. Although, admittedly, I just about walked into that one. “Let’s just say, if you decide to take the place, you’ll have the best neighbor.”

  “Mayor Todd?” He comes in close and wraps an arm around my shoulder as if it belonged there.

  “Nope. Me.” I flash a bitter smile as we walk out the door.

  * * *

  Graham offered to drive us in his rental, and since I arrived on foot from the bakery, I agreed. I was a little surprised to see his fancy rental was a plain old white truck. I was sort of expecting to see a Rolls-Royce Phantom or a Lamborghini Veneno Roadster. There is definitely something homey—and dare I say attractive—about a man who drives a truck, and those are two things I refuse to associate with someone who pretty much amounts to the archnemesis of my childhood.