Just Add Mistletoe: Christmas in Gingerbread, Colorado Read online

  Sabrina takes off with a spring in her step and they start in on a casual conversation, which quickly turns lively, and just as they seem to spark to life, I seem to power down. It’s as if my insides are coated with lead. A selfish part of me wanted to be the one who saved Holiday Pies, and for the life of me I can’t figure out why. It doesn’t matter who saves it—merely that it’s still operational at the end of the day. People’s livelihoods are at stake. I happen to know firsthand that many of the people who work at the factory live right here in Gingerbread. And the last thing Gingerbread needs is for the unemployment rate to increase. Those are my neighbors. They have families, children who will undoubtedly want a long list of presents this Christmas and every one after that, too. Plus, I love the Holidays. I love Graham.

  A breath hitches in my throat as I stare right at him. He must sense a disturbance in the force because he turns my way slightly and our eyes hook over one another. Sabrina slaps the side of his arm and gifts me a dirty look in the process, and I shake all thoughts of loving Graham Holiday right out of my head. I spin on my heels and bump into Holly.

  “I meant I love his family,” I mumble my way past her. My goodness, where is my head? It’s clear I’m delirious from staring at baked goods all morning. My mind is turning into dough.

  “What?” She follows me back to what amounts to the test kitchen of Holiday Pies as I stare at all the potential options that lie ahead. And to think, Sabrina is out there taking all the credit while I roll up my sleeves to break a sweat. “I think all that eggnog you’re sipping on the side has gone to your brain.”

  I shake my head her way. “I’m not in love with Graham.” I bite down so hard over my bottom lip, I’m positive it’s about to split. I try my best to refocus my thoughts as I study the neat rows of pies, each awaiting their final culinary destiny.

  “Newsflash, sister”—Holly folds her arms across her chest as if she’s had it with me—“we have about six dozen more gingerbread houses we need constructed and delivered to customers who have already paid for their orders, and you’re busy playing matchmaker with more than a few pie ingredients?” Her affect softens, and the moisture builds in her eyes. Holly has been a lifelong crier. She earned the nickname Crybaby. It was just a fact I was spouting when I called her it all those many years ago. But at the moment, she’s making me want to boo-hoo right along with her.

  “It’s not what you think.” I shake my head, trying my best to uphold my argument, but my chest feels as if a mountain is sitting on it. “I was just talking to Sabrina and—”

  She cuts me off. “You realized you made a mistake.”

  I try my hardest to refute her, but I can’t seem to move past the boulder sitting in my throat.

  My lips press together. “That’s not what I was going to say.”

  “You didn’t have to. Your subconscious did it for you.” A self-satisfied smirk comes to her face as she turns to leave abruptly. “Don’t worry. I’ll spy on the faux lovebirds while you hide out in the kitchen.” She pauses before she heads out of sight. “Good luck with those pies. I already know they’ll turn out great. You’re pouring your whole broken heart into them.”

  “You’re such a sap!” I shout after her, spiking my fists into my hips as I grunt out at the legion of pies I’ve set out to tackle. Holly is right. I don’t have time to play superhero. I have a business to run—an entire village of gingerbread houses to build. But as much as my feet want to turn in another direction, my heart says finish this first.

  So I do. I bake a dozen designer pies as a test run of what I’m hoping will be delicious things to come, and I do it all for Graham Holiday, but I will never tell a soul—not Holly, not Sabrina, and certainly not Graham himself. There are some acts of kindness best kept to yourself.

  I mix and melt, adding ingredient after ingredient, taking the brilliant suggestions my mother prodded me toward to the very next level. No thought is too wild, no idea too out of reach to strive for. It’s as if everything I had was riding on these very pies—as if it were my neck on the line, my final paycheck looming up ahead. At the end of the day, those factory workers, the Holidays are family. They need this more than anyone on this planet needs a gingerbread house delivered today. One by one I set them in the oven and the kitchen lights up with their delicious scents, and something in me comes alive with each hint of something new. While they’re baking, I peer into the café and note that Sabrina and Graham are still chitchatting away, their intermittent laughter seems to be set on a regular timer, and my heart sinks clear to middle earth. It wouldn’t matter even if I did have feelings for Graham. It’s becoming clearer with every cookie they gobble down that Graham Holiday is a very taken man.

  * * *

  On Friday, after an arduous workweek, after three more days of witnessing the atrocity-slash-quasi-blessing in disguise that is Sabrina and Graham’s blossoming relationship, I finally arrive home—correction, I arrive at Graham’s to pick up Noel.

  “Knock, knock,” I say unenthusiastically. It’s my usual spiel, but it’s been far more cheerier than anything I can muster right now. Typically, Graham and I exchange a few lighthearted barbs before Noel and I go on our merry way, but I don’t even have the energy for a single wayward word from that man. It’s all wearing on me, the gingerbread house hustle and bustle, the snarky comments from Holly about the biggest mistake I’ve ever made in my life—to hear her say it, you’d think I gave an entire gaggle of children to a complete stranger—and, of course, Graham himself. Yes, his presence is finally eroding me on the inside. Now that’s something I’ll freely admit.

  The door swings open, and there he is, larger than life. His dark hair is slicked back, and his dimples are ironically neatly in place and doing what they do best, dimpling at me. He’s wearing his long dark winter coat, and those rugged boots I find so alarmingly attractive on him are still firmly on his feet. The warm scent of his cologne feels like a titillating invitation, and I blush just thinking about it. I hate that my biological response to him overrides my need to detest him properly.

  “Heading out on a hot date with Sabrina?” I can’t even muster the energy to frame that properly with sarcasm. It sounded more like a pathetic fact, and pathetically, it probably is. That is what I wanted, isn’t it?

  He takes a step down the porch and locks the house up behind him before turning back to me with a grin.

  “You would actually be the girl of the hour. Noel’s still at the lot. Why don’t you come with me? Rumor has it, you still don’t have a tree up.”

  I make a face, but something inside me purrs at the thought of being the girl of the hour. “I don’t have a tree for the same reason you don’t have a tree. Noel will chew it to matchsticks by morning. She’s already barreled through my closet, and I don’t have a single set of matching high heels left. And purses? She ate the Coach purse my mother gifted me last Christmas. All of it—gone. And don’t get me started on what she does with the laundry she gets ahold of. I’m going to need a whole new wardrobe once she gets out of puppyhood. By the way—how long does puppyhood last, anyway? Six weeks? Seven?” I’m secretly hoping for less.

  Graham tips his head back and belts out a laugh. Just the sight of this beautiful man with a smile on his face sends my heart thumping a little too fast.

  “Try two years.” His lids hood low as he looks to me, and my stomach bursts with heat. “But it’s nothing you’ll need to worry about. I’ve got a whole closet of Italian leather waiting for her back in Manhattan. Your shoes will be safe soon enough.”

  “You wish,” I say as we head to his truck, and I pile myself inside.

  The engine roars to life, and we head out toward the tree lot. It’s nice like this with Graham, a spate of silence while watching the evergreens painted with snow as they melt by in a blur. I’ve always secretly felt that Gingerbread is one of the most romantic settings in the world. I might be a great matchmaker, but I’ve always known Gingerbread has played a big role in each and
every love story that’s ever unfolded here. It’s simply magical here. Gingerbread spells love out with the crisp clean air, the powdered sugar covered trees, the beauty of its sparkling blue lake.

  The tree lot is just around the bend, and my insides twist at the thought of what little help I’ve been to my brother.

  “A part of me dreads seeing Nick.” I glance to Graham as the streetlights wash him an ethereal blue. Even in this strange light, Graham is unnaturally gorgeous. It’s a wonder there’s not an entire mob of Gingerbread women beating down his door. But I guess if Sabrina is his official plus one, she’s put the word out on the street that he’s forever off-limits. Once Sabrina decides she wants something, either fate or her daddy makes sure she gets it. I’m beginning to think they’re one in the same.

  “Why’s that? You owe him money?” He gives a quick wink my way.

  “No, it’s nothing like that. I just feel like I’m slacking off as far as putting in time at the lot this year. I’m usually a regular, and this year I’m more of a ghost of Christmas past.” And with all the responsibility at the bakery, I’ll most likely never be a regular at the tree lot again.

  “Ghost of Christmas past. Clever. I see what you did there.” He takes in a breath, and I can’t help but note the fact his chest looks expansively enormous. Graham must live at the gym back home. I don’t remember him being so stunningly fit. It’s as if he turned into this beefcake of a man while I wasn’t looking. His body has always been fit and lean, but nothing like this. Graham Holiday has never played fair. “But I wouldn’t worry about it. You’re busy. You’ve got a life of your own. We’ve got a kid now for Pete’s sake.” He glances my way and blesses me with that killer grin for a moment.

  “Yeah, a kid that Nick is watching most of the time.” It’s as if I’m determined to make myself feel bad today. It’s true, though. I miss Noel fiercely while I’m doing time at the bakery. A part of me wants to ask Graham to bring her down a couple times a day just so I can get a quick squeeze in, but another, wiser part of me knows that too much Graham Holiday wouldn’t be a good thing. It’s bad enough I’m spending far too much time with him as it is. The more time I spend with him, the more I dislike Sabrina.

  “Don’t feel bad over that. Nick has practically begged me to leave Noel with him for a few hours each day, if not longer. She’s a hit with the kids, the reindeer have adopted her as one of their own, and she sells more trees than all the employees combined. I’m about to start charging him. So if he gives you a hard time, remind him that you’re doing him a favor.”

  A tiny laugh brews in my chest as we pull into the lot. “I will. Don’t tell Savanah, but I think Noel is vying for the role of favorite niece as far as my brother goes.”

  We share a quick laugh as we head out into the bitter cold. The sun—or more to the point, the idea of the sun—just set, and the sky is that strange violet shade of gray that I love so much on a cold winter’s night. It always feels magical to look up to see a purple velvet sky, and for some reason, tonight’s sky, peppered with its crushed diamond stars, looks far more magical than any of the others.

  “Wow,” I gasp as I stare straight up. “Now that’s a beautiful sight.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” he whispers it low and husky, and when I glance down, I find it’s me Graham is staring at. My cheeks heat far hotter than any of those stars, and I do the only thing I can think of—walk right past him.

  The lot is lush with trees and brimming with people milling around with hot cocoa and cookies as they inspect each tree as a prospect to decorate their home with. We spot Nick near the cash register, and I bravely head straight for him.

  Nick glances up just as he closes out an order and steps over with that affable smile he’s famous for. My favorite attribute of my brother’s personality has always been his easygoing attitude, but my guilt still has me standing on edge.

  “I’m so sorry I haven’t been here to help with the lot!” I blurt as if the confession were necessary, and judging by how light I suddenly feel, it’s apparent it was. “I feel terrible knowing you needed me, and I couldn’t be here. Please don’t be angry.” I lunge at my brother with a hug and note the fact he holds the scent of a very ripe evergreen. He hugs me right back, and I pull away to assess the damage, but he doesn’t look upset in the least.

  “Why would I be angry? Holly and Tom just brought Savanah by and picked out a tree. She told me about all those pies you baked this week. And then you donated them to the homeless shelter? Are you gunning for citizen of the year? Because I’m up for that, too, you know.” He offers a mock sock to my arm and laughs. “Don’t sweat a thing, sis. I know you’re pulling out your hair this time of year at the bakery. Whatever you need, I’m here for you.”

  “Great.” Graham rolls back on his heels, a smug smile cresting his lips. “She needs a tree. Tonight’s the night it’s getting done.”

  Nick glances at his old friend up and down for a moment. “Make sure the tree is the only thing that’s getting done. What are the two of you thinking, sharing a dog?” He casts a look my way that suggests I should know better. For as much as Holly would like to see Graham and me together, I’m pretty sure my brother would love for us to be twelve states apart at any given time. And I happen to share his sentiment. My insides cinch at the thought, and for the life of me I can’t figure out why. “One of you is going to be on the losing end of that deal.” He gives Nick a light shove to the chest. “And it better not be my sister.”

  “It will be.” Graham doesn’t miss a beat with those dimples of his still digging in deep. “Come on, Sprig.” He waves me over as we head to the forest of trees just behind the tent. “Let’s make it a big one. It’s on him!”

  Nick ticks his head for me to follow, and I do.

  “Hey—where’s Noel?” I ask, struggling to keep up with them.

  “I’ve got the guys in charge of the reindeer keeping an eye on her. She’ll be fine.” Nick nods to the bevy of evergreens in our way. “Get a good one. Last time I’m floating you a freebie.”

  “Ha! You wish!” A laugh bounces in my chest, and I huff and puff my way into the powdery night and find Graham out by the fifteen footers. “Hey—nitwit! Some of us don’t have a vaulted ceiling!” I cry with glee as I scoop up a handful of snow and pelt him with it.

  “Who are you calling a nitwit?” He pelts a snow bomb my way, and it splatters over my shoulder. A fireball of laughter erupts from my throat, and suddenly I feel sixteen again, doing exactly this with exactly him. Graham and I have had more than our fair share of snowball fights growing up. Long after everyone else gave up, the two of us would carry on for hours. It was as exhausting as it was exhilarating.

  “I’m only repeating what I heard your mother say about you.” I scoop up a pile of snow, and before I can form a proper sphere, he has an entire arsenal of snow globes ready to detonate freely over my person. “Don’t you dare!” I run screaming and laughing into the woods where the lights from the tree lot fade to shadows and that velvet night sky seems to stretch down and kiss the snowy ground.

  Graham pelts me over the back, and I belt out a shrieking laugh that curls up into the heavens. I head for a pile of snow just behind the lot and throw my hands in the air, exhausted. It’s quickly becoming clear I’m not sixteen anymore. This body is ready to surrender defeat, and I haven’t even pegged him properly in the face.

  “I give! Uncle!” I shout, collapsing in the fluffy white mass before turning over and flailing my limbs in and out in an attempt to make a snow angel.

  Graham falls next to me and pulls me onto his lap before shoving what amounts to a snow pie right in my face.

  “ARRGGHH!” I let out a cry that goes on for days. “Do you always have to have the last word? Last misdeed?” I ask as I do my best to wipe myself clean before my eyelids freeze shut. That was a classic Graham Holiday move, and I should have seen it coming the second he pulled me over. What did I think he was going to do? Cradle me with romanti
c intentions? I’m pretty sure he’s saving all the romantic moves for Sabrina, and my blood begins to boil—over the pie in the face, not Sabrina. I’m not angry over the fact he wants to cuddle with Sabrina, am I?

  “Why no, I don’t have to have the last word.” He laughs at the thought, and his chest bucks beneath me. “More like the last pie in the face.” His dimples dig in as our eyes hook to one another. “What’s this about you mass producing pies and then donating to the homeless shelter? You trying to singlehandedly give Holiday Pies a bad rap?” He gives my side a light tweak, and it’s only then I realize I’m still sitting on his lap. And seeing that the frozen ground is my only other option, I’m clearly staying put.

  “Not a bad rap.” A ragged breath runs through me. “Just a fair shake at life.” A part of me is begging to spill the truth, but Sabrina’s face keeps popping up in the back of my mind, threatening me not to do it.

  Graham winces a moment. “It’s okay. I know all about it.”

  “You do?” Something in me loosens. I never intended to keep this a secret from him. Who cares whose idea it was? I’m so excited about the designer pies that I want to divulge every delicious ingredient to him.

  “Yes.” He pulls me in a little closer, and his minty breath washes over my cheek. “Sabrina told me all about it. She said she had a brainstorm, and she asked you to test out at least a dozen pies in ways no one in my family would have thought up in a million years. That was really nice of you, Sprig.” He bounces me over his knee as if I were a three-year-old. “I owe you one for that.”

  A dull laugh rattles within me, and that mountain is right back to sitting on my chest. “It sounds like you owe Sabrina one.” I bite down on my bottom lip to keep from telling the truth. I can feel it percolating right beneath the surface, ready to spew out at the slightest nudging in that direction.