Marry-Me Christmas (2 page)

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

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

“And those special cherry chocolate chunk ones?”

“About a hundred and fifty.”

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

“That’s what people say, ma’am.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But what?”

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

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

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

He was back. Flynn MacGregor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And she was on her way out of Riverbend.

Finally.

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

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

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

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

“Aunt Ginny, I don’t think he needs—”

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

“You don’t seriously believe—”

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

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

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

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

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

Whoa. She was staring.

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

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

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

“You already said that,” he said.

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

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

“I do? Why?”

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

Way to make a first impression, Sam.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“More what?” Sam prompted.

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s that?”

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

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

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

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

Her story.

“Are you ready
now?
” he asked.

“Completely.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He arched a brow. “Pecs? CC?”

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

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

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

“And your grandmother? Is she still alive?”

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

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

“You can’t.”

Flynn looked up. “Why?”

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

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

“In a minute.”

“But—”

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

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

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

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

“Mrs. Meyers, how can I help you?”

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

“In this weather?”

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

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

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

“Ginny can help you, Mrs. Meyers.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not much of a romantic, are you?”

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

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

“Of course.” He nodded.

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

“How long have you been working here?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Having no life, you mean.”

She bristled. “I enjoy my job.”

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

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

She would.

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

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

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

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

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

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