Marry-Me Christmas

“Well, why wouldn’t it? Where else are people going to go to get their cookies? You’re the only bakery for miles and miles!” Betsy grinned, as if she’d just paid Samantha a huge compliment. Flynn supposed, in her own way, Betsy thought she had, but he could see the sting in Samantha’s eyes. The implication that her success was due solely to a lack of competition, not hard work and expertise. Maybe Betsy still saw Sam as that young kid who burned the muffins.

For a second, his chest constricted with sympathy, then he yanked the emotion back. The first rule in reporting was not to get involved with the story, stay above the fray.

He’d used that as a yardstick to measure every personal decision he’d ever made. After years of sticking to that mantra like tape to a present, Flynn wasn’t about to start caring now. To start putting his heart into the mix. He did not cross those boundaries.

Ever.

He didn’t care if Riverbend had issues with Sam Barnett or vice versa. Didn’t care if her business was going gangbusters or going bust. He’d made a very good living without ever putting his heart into a story, because Flynn MacGregor had learned a long time ago that doing so meant putting his emotions through a meat grinder. He’d rather write about kitchen implements than experience them.

“I’d like to get settled, Miss Williams,” Flynn said. “And find out how to log onto your network.”

“Network?” She frowned, then propped a fist on her ample hip. “I’ll have you know Betsy’s Bed and Breakfast is not a chain.”

“Internet network,” Flynn said. “I wanted to check my e-mail.”

“Oh, that.” She crossed to a side table, to straighten the green-feathered hat on a stuffed cat in an elf costume, then walked back to Flynn. “I don’t have one of those either.”

“Well, then your dial-up connection. That’ll do.”

“Dial-up to what? Anytime we need to talk to somebody, we either walk on down to their house or call ’em on the phone.” Betsy wagged a finger at him. “By the way, local calls are free at Betsy’s Bed and Breakfast, but there is an extra charge for any long distance. The parlor phone is the one set aside for guest usage.”

Flynn pivoted back toward Samantha. “There is an Internet connection in this town, isn’t there?”

“Well, yes, but…” Samantha gave him a smile. “It’s not very reliable, so most people here don’t bother with it.”

He truly had landed in the middle of nowhere. Flynn bit back his impatience, but it surged forward all the same. “What exactly does that mean?”

“Meaning when there’s a storm, like there is now, the Internet is the first to go.”

“What about cable? Satellite?”

“Not here, not yet. Companies look for demand before they start investing the dollars in technology and, well, Riverbend has never been big on embracing that kind of thing.” Samantha shrugged.

“How the hell do you do business out here?”

“Most people still do things the old-fashioned way, I suppose. Face-to-face, with a smile and handshake.”

A headache began to pound in Flynn’s temples. He rubbed at his forehead. He couldn’t miss his deadline. Absolutely could not. It wasn’t just that Food Lovers was holding the Valentine’s Day issue especially for this article, and being late would risk raising Tony’s ire. Flynn had already earned a slot on the ire list.

There was more than his career to consider. In the last few months since that interview that had blown up in his face, Flynn had found himself searching for—

A connection. To a past he thought he’d shut off, closed like a closet door full of memories no one wanted to look at. He’d done everything he could to take care of that past, to assuage his guilt. But suddenly throwing money at it wasn’t enough.

He needed to go in person, even if he wasn’t so sure his shoes on that doorstep would be very welcome. Either way, one glance out the window at the storm that had become a frenzy of white, told him the chances of leaving today—even if his car was fixed—were nil.

Until the storm eased, he’d work. Write up this thing about magic elves baking love cookies, or whatever the secret was, turn it over to his editor, and then he could get back to the meat that fed his paycheck and his constant hunger to find the scoop—scathing restaurant reviews exposing the true underbelly of the food industry.

“How am I supposed to work without an Internet connection?” he said.

“We have electricity,” Betsy said, her voice high and helpful. “You can plug in a computer. That’s good enough, isn’t it?” Upstairs, someone called Betsy’s name, mentioning an emergency. She sighed. “Oh, Lord, not again.” She toodled a wave, then headed up the stairs, while her slippers sang their jarring song.

Flynn turned back to Samantha. “If Scrooge’s ghosts do come visit me, they better bring a connection to civilization. And if they can’t, just put me out of my misery. Because this place is Jingle Hell.”

“He’s awful, Aunt Ginny.” Sam shuddered. “He hates this town, hates me, I think, and even hates Christmas.”

“But he’s easy on the eyes. That kind of evens things out, doesn’t it?” Ginny Weatherby, who had worked at Joyful Creations for nearly twelve years, smiled at her niece. The two of them were in the back of the bakery, cleaning up and putting it to rights after the busy day. The front half of Joyful Creations was dark, silent, the sign in the window turned to Closed, leaving them in relative peace and quiet. “Your grandmother would have agreed.”

“Grandma liked everyone who came through this door.” Sam groaned. “I think he purposely sets out to frustrate me. How am I supposed to give him a good interview? I’m afraid I’ll say something I’ll regret.”

“Oh, you’re smart enough not to do that, Sam. I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

“I don’t want him to find out about Grandma,” Sam said.

Ginny’s gaze softened. “Would it be so bad for people to know?”

Sam toyed with the handle on the sprayer. “I just want people to remember her the way she was, Aunt Ginny.”

“They will, Sam.” She put a hand on her niece’s shoulder. “You need to trust that people of this town are your friends, that they love and care about you, and your grandmother.”

“I’ll think about it,” Sam said. Though she had thought about the same question a hundred times over the past five years, and come back to the same answer. She didn’t want people’s pity. And most of all, she didn’t want them to be hurt when they found out the Joy Barnett they knew and loved was no longer there. “For now, I’m more worried about that Flynn guy. He gets on my last nerve, I swear.”

Ginny loaded the dishwasher and pushed a few buttons. “Give him cookies. That’ll sweeten him up.”

“I did. He wouldn’t eat them.” Sam sprayed disinfectant on the countertops and wiped them down, using the opportunity to work out some of her frustrations.

Aunt Ginny made a face. “Well, then I don’t trust him. Any man who won’t eat a plate of cookies, there’s something wrong. Unless he’s diabetic, then he has an excuse. Did you check for a medical ID bracelet?”

“No. Maybe I should have looked for a jerk bracelet.”

“Have some patience, dear.” She patted her niece’s hand. “This guy could give the shop lots of great publicity.”

“I’m trying to be patient.”

“And you never know, he could be the one.”

Sam rolled her eyes. “Stop trying to fix me up with every man who walks through that door.”

Aunt Ginny took off her apron and hung it on a hook by the door, then crossed to her niece. The gentle twinkle of love shone in her light green eyes. “Your mother wouldn’t want to see you living your life alone, dear, and neither would your grandmother.”

“I’m not alone. I have you.”

Sam would forever be grateful to her Aunt Ginny, who had moved to Riverbend from Florida a few months after Sam took over the bakery. Not much of a baker, she hadn’t exactly stepped into her sister Joy’s shoes, instead becoming the friend and helper Sam needed most. Though making cookies had never been her favorite thing to do, she’d been an enthusiastic supporter of the business, and especially of Sam.

Ginny pursed her lips. “Not the same thing and you know it.”

“It’s good enough for now. You know why I have to pour everything into the business.” Sam went back to wiping, concentrating on creating concentric circles of shine, instead of the thoughts weighing on her. The ones that crept up when she least expected them—reminding her that she had stayed in this shop instead of going to college, getting married, having a family. The part that every so often wondered what if…she didn’t have these responsibilities, these expectations?

But she did, so she kept on wiping, and cleaning.