Marry-Me Christmas (8 page)

“And I didn’t mean to bite your head off. I’m just not used to women who take such an interest in me personally.”

“I’m not, I mean…” She felt her face heat again. Damn. Why did he have to look at her so directly, with those blue X-ray eyes? “What are they interested in?”

“Let me put it this way. They’re not looking for deep, meaningful relationships when they date me.”

“And neither are you?”

He chuckled. “No. That’s not me, at all.”

“Oh.” Disappointment settled in her stomach. She couldn’t have said why. For one, he was here as a reporter, not as a potential boyfriend. For another, Flynn MacGregor was leaving town in a day, maybe two, and he wasn’t the kind who believed in permanence, settling down.

Besides, when did she have time to do either? She couldn’t have a relationship, even if she wanted to. Guilt pricked at her conscience, for even thinking she could. She had priorities. Priorities that did not include a man.

Yet, he was tempting, very much so, especially when he was this close. She could see why women would be attracted to him. He had a curious mix of mystery and charm, of aloofness, yet a hint of vulnerability, as if there was something there, something wounded, that he was trying to cover.

“I’m just not the settling down kind,” Flynn said. “And most of the women I date understand that.” He draped one arm over the back of the bench, then leaned a little closer to Sam. “But I bet you aren’t like that at all, are you? The kind that would understand a guy like me.”

“We may be more alike than you think,” she said quietly.

“You think so?”

She could only nod in response. The noise of the skaters on the pond seemed to disappear, the world becoming just the two of them.

“Maybe you’re right.” His voice was deep, the timbre seeming to reach crevices in Sam’s heart that hadn’t been touched in a long time. And all he’d said was three words.

Geez. She really needed to get out more.

Flynn closed the gap between them. For the first time, Sam noticed how the light blue of his dress shirt seemed to make the blue of his eyes richer, deeper. Her pulse began to race, thudding through her veins. “There’s only one way to find out.”

Sam swallowed hard, her heart beating so loud, she was sure Flynn could hear the pounding. “Find out what?”

“If you would be interested in me.”

He caught a tendril of her hair between his gloved fingers, letting it slip through the leather. “We’ve been dancing around the subject all week.”

“Have we?” she asked, the slight catch of laughter in her voice, a clear giveaway of her nerves. “Or is this…”

“What?” he prompted.

“Nothing,” she said, not wanting to voice her greatest fear, not wanting to break the sweet, yet dangerous tension.

The silence between them stretched one second. Two. Three. Heat filled the few inches separating them, building like a fever. Sam gazed up at Flynn, her breath caught somewhere in her throat, as if her lungs had forgotten their job. He released her hair, then pulled off his glove and cupped her jaw, using the same hand that had slid down her zipper. A hundred times over the last couple of days she had stolen glimpses of his hands, fascinated by the definition of his fingers, the implied power in his grip, and now, now, he was touching her, just as she’d pictured, and she leaned into the touch, into his thumb tracing along her bottom lip, the desire building and building.

Flynn leaned forward. Slow. Tentative. Taking his time. Because he was unsure? Waiting for her response? His gaze never left hers. Then his fingers slipped down to her neck, dancing along the sensitive skin of her throat—

And he kissed her.

F
LYNN HADN’T INTENDED
to kiss Samantha Barnett—he could honestly say in all the years he had covered the restaurant business that he had never kissed anyone that he had interviewed. But something had come over him, and the temptation to taste those lips—to see if his theory about neither of them being interested in the other would hold up—had overwhelmed him.

He knew it wasn’t her grandmother’s cookies; he hadn’t even eaten any of those. And either way, truth be told, he’d wanted to kiss Sam pretty much from minute one. Okay, maybe minute two. And now that he finally had—

The experience had lived up to his every expectation. And then some. Kissing Samantha Barnett was like coming home, only Flynn had never really experienced a home, just dreamed of one. She was soft, and welcoming, warm and giving, and yet, she inspired a passion in him, a craving, for more.

But that would be unwise. He was a bulldog, the one who got the article at all costs, not the puppy cowed by a sweet treat.

So Flynn pulled back. “That, ah, won’t be part of the article.”

“Good.” Sam let out a little laugh. “I definitely don’t need Bakery Owner Kisses Reporter in Exchange for Good PR as part of the headline.” She traced a line along the edge of the painted green bench. “Then what was that? Research?”

He chuckled. When was the last time he’d laughed, really laughed? Hell, if he couldn’t remember, then it had definitely been too long. Sam was intoxicating, in more ways than one, and that was dangerous ground to tread. “No, not part of the research. Though, if there is a line of work that lets me kiss you as part of my job—”

“Sorry, no. I’m not part of anyone’s resume.”

“Pity. And here I was all ready to fill out a job application, too.”

What was he saying? He needed to grab hold of his objectivity, and not let go.

A smile slid across her lips, and something that approached joy ballooned in Flynn’s chest. The feeling was foreign, new. “You’re turning into a joke a minute, Flynn MacGregor. Before you know it, you’ll be appearing on a late night comedy special.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s me. Flynn the comic.” He chuckled. Again. Twice in the space of one minute. That had to be an all-time personal record.

He watched her join him in laughter, and the temptation to kiss her again rose inside him, fast and furious. Flynn jerked his attention away and began to unlace his skates. “I should probably get back to work.”

“All work and no play?”

He looked up at her. “I could say the same for you.”

“Oh, I play. Sometimes.”

“When?” He moved closer to her, ignoring the warning bells in his head reminding him he should be working, not flirting. “Is there a nonbusiness side to Samantha Barnett?”

It was a pure research question. The kind he could use to delve deeper, expose a vulnerable vein. He’d done it a hundred times—

Except this time he found his attention not on how he would write up her answer, or what his next question would be, but on whether her answer would be something that would interest him, too. Something they could do together.

She brushed her bangs out of her face, revealing more of her heart-shaped countenance. “Well, Christmas, for sure. I love this time of year.”

“I think it’s a prerequisite for living in this town.”

“You might learn to love the holiday, too,” she said. “In fact, if you’re looking for something to cultivate your feelings for Christmas, you could go to the Riverbend Winterfest.”

“Winterfest?”

Sam nodded, her eyes shining with excitement, a fever Flynn could almost imagine catching. “The town recently started holding this really big Christmas celebration. C. J. Hamilton does it up big, bringing in all kinds of decorations and moving props. He dresses up as Santa, and his wife is Mrs. Claus. Even Earl gets into the spirit. This year, I hear he’s dressing up as an elf and handing out candy canes to all the kids who come to Santa’s workshop. That alone should be worth the price of admission, which is free anyway. It’s a really fun time.”

What it sounded like was another date. Another temptation. Another opportunity to be alone with Samantha Barnett.

And a bad idea.

“It’s, ah, not really my cup of tea. Besides, I should probably be working on my article.” He slipped off his skates and put his shoes back on, as a visual and physical reminder of getting out of here.

“The Winterfest starts at night. You have plenty of time to do your article and anything else you might want to accomplish today.” She took off her own skates, then met his gaze. He found himself watching her mouth move, fantasizing about kissing her again. And again. “You should reconsider. You’ll be missing something really cool. Trust me, Winterfest is fun for more than just kids. I love going.”

“I’m not much of a Christmas person.”

“Oh. Well, it was just an idea.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“You didn’t.” She tied her skates together, then slid her feet into her boots.

“It’s just…” He paused. “Where I grew up, Christmas wasn’t a big deal.”

Sam smiled. “When I was a kid, Christmas was the biggest day of the year. My family was total Christmas-holics, and after my parents died, my grandmother did Christmas up even bigger, as if to make up for losing my mother and father.” Her smile died on her lips, and her gaze drifted to the skaters rounding the rink. “I miss those days.”

“What happened?”

“My grandmother isn’t there like she used to be.”

Flynn opened his mouth, as if he intended to ask her what she meant by that, then closed it again. Sam regretted saying anything at all. She had done her best to keep her grandmother’s condition private, from everyone in town. Not just to protect Grandma Joy, but to prevent the inevitable questions. The visitors who would stop by to see Joy, and be hurt that she didn’t know them. The pity parties, the people who wanted to help lift the burden from Sam’s shoulders.

No one understood this burden couldn’t be lifted. Her grandmother didn’t remember her. Didn’t know her. No amount of sympathy would ever change that.

So Sam kept the details to herself, told people Joy was happily living a life at a retirement home, and buried herself in her work. Carrying on her family’s legacy, living up to generations of expectations—not from her grandmother, but from this town. There’d been a Barnett behind the stove at Joyful Creations since it had opened, and that’s what customers expected when they walked in the door.

Even if a part of Sam wanted to walk out that door one day and keep on walking. To pretend that she didn’t have those responsibilities waiting for her every morning. To imagine a different life, one that was more—

Complete.

“This Winterfest thing is probably the social event of the year, huh?” Flynn said, drawing Sam out of her thoughts.

“It is. People look forward to it. Myself included.” She laughed. “I spend days baking like crazy before it, to supply the festival’s stand, while a few people work the downtown shop. We get a lot of out-of-towners for Winterfest, so it’s a busy day for all the stores around here.” Sam rose and put a fist on her hip. “It’s a big deal, for those who dare to go. So, do you?”

One corner of Flynn’s mouth curved up. “Are you challenging me?” He took a few steps closer, the distance between them shrinking from feet to inches in an instant. He flipped at the laces on her skates, dangling from her fingers, hanging near her hips. Sam inhaled and her breath caught in her throat, held, waiting, for—

What? For Flynn to make a move? For him to kiss her again?

Oh, how she wished he would, even as another part of her wished he wouldn’t.

He distracted her, awakened her to the possibilities she had laid aside for so long. He had this way of forcing her to open her eyes, to confront issues she’d much rather leave at the door.

“I am,” she said, the two words nearly a breath.

“I should…” Flynn began, his body so close she could feel the heat emanating from his skin, and the answering heat rising inside her. Then the grin widened, and before Sam could second-guess her challenge, it was too late. “Suddenly I can’t think of anything else I should do, but go with you.”

F
LYNN SHOULD HAVE
put the pieces together sooner. He used to be really good at that. Figuring out what parts of the story people held back. And why.

But this time, his objectivity had been compromised. By his attraction to Sam? By the town? By that one assignment going so horribly awry? Whatever it was, Flynn had lost his tight hold on his life, and that had caused him to stop paying attention to the details.

Until now.

Until he’d returned to the bed and breakfast after ice skating, and Betsy Williams had started chatting up a storm, first pointing out a photo on the wall of Sam and her grandmother, then telling tales about the two of them working together, then finally segueing into rumors about the cookies.

“You wouldn’t believe how fast people are eating those cookies up,” Betsy was saying as Flynn helped her carry the dishes out to the dining room table and set up for dinner.

Betsy had pronounced Flynn a “sweet boy” for volunteering, having no idea of his ulterior motive. How many times had he employed a similar tactic? Using a nice gesture as a way to get more information out of someone? Never before had it bothered him. He was doing his job, just as he should. But today, every dish he carried, every fork he laid on the table, while Betsy chattered on, seemed to nag at him, like stones on his back.

“I feel like I’m running
The Dating Game
right in my little B and B,” Betsy went on. “Maybe I should open a wedding chapel next door.” She laughed. “Oh, wouldn’t Sam’s grandmother get such a kick out of this, if she could see what was happening with that bakery.”

“Where is Sam’s grandmother, by the way?”

Betsy shut the door of the dining room hutch and turned back to Flynn, a silver bread platter in her hands. “She didn’t tell you?”

Flynn shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “We didn’t talk much about her.”

“Oh, well, that’s because Sam hardly ever talks about Joy. No one in this town does, either, though they like to speculate, being a small town and all.”

“Why?”

“Well…” Betsy looked around, as if she expected Sam to appear in the dining room at any second. “I don’t know the whole story, but I heard from Estelle, who heard from Carolyn, who heard from Louise, that Joy isn’t really living at a retirement home and playing golf every day.”

A tide rose in Flynn’s chest. This was the missing piece, the nugget he searched for in every story, the one that made headlines, the one that earned his reputation on every article. He could feel it, with an instinct bred from years on the job. “Really? Where is she?”

“No one’s really sure because we never see Joy anymore, and if you ask Sam or Ginny, they just put on a brave face and keep on sticking to that retirement home story. But you know…” Again, Betsy looked around, then returned her attention to Flynn. “Before she ‘retired,’ Joy was getting real forgetful. Doing things like wandering around town in her nightgown, showing up to work at the bakery in the middle of the night, telling Earl, a man she’s known all her life, that she didn’t know him. We just thought she was overworked, you know? That bakery, it’s a handful, I’m sure. I know, because I have this bed and breakfast. It’s a lot for one woman.”

The pieces of the story assembled in Flynn’s head, and he could nearly write the article already, see the bold letters of the headline leaping from the pages. His editor would be crowing with joy when this came across the transom. “You think Joy went to a home for people with Alzheimer’s?”

“Maybe. I mean, where else could she be? And that leaves poor Sam with hardly no family, except for her Aunt Ginny.” Betsy pressed a hand to her heart. She sighed, then looked back at the photo on the wall, taken outside of Joyful Creations. “Well, she does have that shop. That place has been her real family, for a long time. And you know, I think that’s the saddest part of all.”

A couple burst through the bed and breakfast’s doors just then, giggling and feeding each other bites of the special cherry chocolate chunk cookies. The reporter in Flynn knew his job was to pursue that couple—they personified the kind of happily-ever-after that would be perfect for his article—but another part of him was still tuned to Betsy’s words, even as she said something about getting pies in the oven and hurried off to the kitchen.

Flynn pulled his notepad out of his back pocket, and took two steps toward the couple. Then he paused, stopping by the black-and-white photograph of Sam and her grandmother, one photo among the several dozen crowding Betsy’s wall. Even back then, Sam was smiling, beaming, really, with pride, standing beneath the curved banner of the store’s name. And the woman beside her, an older version of Sam, reflected the same joy and pride.

Flynn’s notepad weighed heavy in his palm. He knew where the rest of his story lay. The problem?

Deciding whether it would be worth the price he’d pay to go after it.

“We fell in love, just like that.” The couple beamed and leaned into each other, looking so happy, they could have been an ad for a jewelry store.

Flynn had spent his afternoon tracking down couples who attributed their romances to the legendary cherry chocolate chunk cookies from Joyful Creations. The process had been easy. After talking to the duo at the bed and breakfast, he’d simply asked Betsy for recommendations. One chat led to another and to another. In a small town, just about everyone had a neighbor, a sister, a friend who believed the treats were the reason for their marital bliss.

Every single one of them thanked the legendary Joy Barnett for their bliss. They extolled the virtues of Sam, for carrying on Joy’s legacy, during Joy’s retirement.

Retirement.

There was no retirement, of that Flynn was sure. Every reporter’s instinct he had told him so. Sam was trying to keep the truth the secret.

The question was why.

Finding that out would make for an interesting story. A very interesting story, indeed.

“Did you know the cookies were supposed to make people fall in love?” he asked.

“Well, it wasn’t a
known
fact,” the woman said, “not until the magazine story came out. But now everyone in Riverbend knows. And, all over the country, too.”

“So this was just kind of a coincidence?”

“Not at all. We went out on a date, we had cookies and we fell in love.”

Flynn kept himself from saying anything about the possibility that a sugar high might have led to a hasty infatuation. He just jotted down the quote, thanked the couple for their time and left their small Cape house. The snow had frozen enough to keep from soaking his pants and shoes as he walked through the streets of Riverbend and back to the bakery to meet Sam. He had everything he needed for his article—

Except the story of Sam’s grandmother.

He could, of course, write the article without it. Just turn around, go back to the bed and breakfast, plug in what he had and leave it at that. But it wouldn’t be the article his editor was expecting, nor would it be the kind of article he was known for.

Flynn MacGregor didn’t quit until he got to the real story. He made a lot of enemies that way, but he also made a lot of reader fans, and a hell of a lot of money.

The magazine was called
Food Lovers
because its readers loved to know the real story behind the food. They didn’t just want recipes and tips on choosing a knife; they wanted to know what kind of childhood their favorite chef had, or whether that restaurant failed because the hostess divorced the owner.

And that meant Flynn would find out what happened to Sam’s grandmother. He’d want to know—because his readers would eat it up. Pun intended.

Since Sam had agreed to meet Flynn downtown, he stopped by the pay phone again. His cell still wasn’t having any luck finding a signal, and calling from Betsy’s meant using the public phone in the front parlor—with the carolers hanging on his every word.

So he deposited his change into the public phone, and dialed Mimi’s number. On the other end, three rings, then a distracted, “Hello?”

“Mimi? It’s Flynn.”

The sounds of music, laughing and bubbly conversation carried over the line, nearly drowning out Mimi’s response. “Flynn MacGregor, I can’t believe you didn’t show up at my Christmas party. Didn’t even RSVP. That’s so totally rude.”

“I told you, I had to go out of town on assignment.”

Mimi let out a gust. “Again? You know I can never keep track of your schedule.”

“I don’t expect you to.” But a part of him was disappointed that once again, Mimi hadn’t paid attention. Hadn’t even cared.

Sam wouldn’t do that to someone. Sam would have noticed. Sam would have baked him a box of cookies to take along for the ride, for Pete’s sake.

Where did that come from? He didn’t need a woman like Sam. He liked his life unencumbered. He could come and go as he pleased. No one waiting for him, no one expecting him to make a home, settle down.

“Listen, Flynn, I can’t talk right now. I have, like, fifty people here.” Then Mimi was gone, the congestion of people silenced with a click.

“Everything okay back in Boston?”

Flynn turned. Sam stood behind him, bundled as always in her thick, marshmallowlike jacket. Mimi, who followed every fashion tip espoused by the editors of
Vogue
, would never have worn anything even close. She preferred sleek, impractical coats in a rainbow of colors that accented her attire like diamonds on a necklace. “It’s the same as always,” he said.

“Ready to go to the Winterfest?”

Flynn would have rather taken a dip in Boston Harbor than spend his evening at the town’s homage to all things Christmas. But what else did he have to do? Spending a little more time with Samantha Barnett could only help him fill in those few more details he wanted. Maybe get her to open up, tell him about her grandmother without him having to probe.

Hell, who was he kidding?

The details Flynn was interested in had less to do with his article and more to do with the way she filled out her sweater, the way her smile curved across her face, and the way her laughter seemed to draw him in and make him wonder if maybe he’d been missing out on something for the last thirty years of his life.

Even as he told himself not to get emotionally involved, to hold himself back.

Not to make the same mistake twice.

They headed down the sidewalk, past several shops that were so decorated for Christmas, they could have been advertisements for the holiday. A toy store, a deli, a church. On every light pole hung a red banner advertising the Riverbend Winterfest, while white lights sparkled in the branches of tiny saplings that lined the street. People hurried by them, chattering about Christmas, while children stopped to peer into the windows of the shops, their hands cupped over their eyes to see deeper inside.

Flynn took Sam’s hand. It seemed a natural thing to do, something dozens of other couples were doing. She glanced over at him, a slight look of surprise on her face, but didn’t pull away. His larger palm engulfed hers, yet a tingle of warm electricity sizzled up his arm at her touch.

“This way.” She tugged him down a side street.

When he turned, he saw the park where he’d seen the live reindeer earlier. Only now it had been transformed into a mega-winter wonderland with the atmosphere of a carnival, taken to the nth degree. The grassy area was filled with people, and looked like something straight out of a movie. Hundreds of lighted Christmas displays, featuring every image associated with the holiday that a human being could imagine and hook up to ten gazillion watts, ringed the central gazebo, while little stands from local vendors sold everything from Riverbend T-shirts to hot pretzels.

Sam stopped walking and let out a sigh. “Isn’t it perfect? It’s like every child’s dream of the perfect Christmas day.”

And it was. At one end, by a small shed, Santa Claus held court, with Mrs. Claus by his side. To the right, the live reindeer was in his pen, chomping a carrot. On the roof of the shed, someone had installed a lighted sleigh and eight painted fake reindeer. He bit back a laugh. “You weren’t lying, were you?”

“I told you he was dressing up as an elf.”

Earl Klein, in an oversized elf costume, looking more like the Jolly Green Giant than one of Santa’s helpers, stood to the front of the small shed, handing out candy canes and greeting all the children. Throughout the park, a sound system played a jaunty, tinny selection of Christmas carols, carrying through the air with the scent of hot chocolate and peppermint. Hundreds of people milled around the Winterfest, chatting happily, visiting the petting zoo, greeting old friends, hugging family members.

“People really get into this thing, don’t they?”

“I told you, it’s a big deal.”

“It’s…unbelievable.”

Sam laughed. “No, it’s fun, that’s what it is.”

Everything Sam had promised him was here. The Riverbend Winterfest was, indeed, the perfect Christmas celebration, all in one place.

“Let’s hit the games first. There’s a prize every time.” Sam pointed toward a set of dart games, with stuffed animal prizes dangling from the roof. “How’s your aim?”

He chuckled. “Terrible.”