Marry-Me Christmas

“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.”