Читать книгу Marry-Me Christmas - Shirley Jump - Страница 6

CHAPTER ONE

FLYNN MACGREGOR hated Riverbend, Indiana, from the second his Lexus stalled at the single stop light in the quaint town center, right beneath the gaily decorated Christmas swags of pine needles and red bows. The entire snow-dusted town seemed like something out of a movie.

There were people walking to and fro with wrapped gifts, stores bedecked with holiday decorations, and even snowflakes, falling at a slow and steady pace, as if some set decorator was standing in the clouds with a giant shaker.

Okay, so hated might be a strong word. Detested, perhaps. Loathed. Either way, he didn’t want to be here, especially when he’d been forced into the decision.

His editor at Food Lovers magazine had assigned him this story in Riverbend, knowing Flynn, of everyone on staff, could get the job done. Write an incisive, unique piece on the little bakery—a bakery rumored to have cookies that inspired people to fall in love, his editor had said. So here he was, spending the Christmas holiday holed up in the middle of nowhere penning one more of the stories that had made him famous.

Flynn scowled. He couldn’t complain. Those stories had been his bread and butter forever, a very lucrative butter at that. And after that little fiasco in June, he needed to get his edge back, reestablish his position at the top of the writer pack. To do that, he’d do what he always did—suck it up, feign great joy at the festive spirit surrounding him and get to work.

Then he could get back to Boston, back to Mimi, and back to civilization. This town, with its Norman Rockwell looks, had to be as far from civilization as Mars was from Earth. Not that he had anything against quaint, but he lived in a world of iPods, e-mail and high-speed Internet connections. Riverbend looked like the kind of place that thought Bluetooth was a dental disease.

So, here he was, at the Joyful Creations Bakery.

Oh, joy.

He pushed his car to the side of the road, then grabbed his notebook and headed across the street. The crowd in front of the Joyful Creations Bakery blocked most of the plateglass window, but Flynn could see that storefront, too, had not been spared by the town’s festive elves. A trio of lighted wreaths hung in the window, one of them even forming the O in the business’s name.

“Nauseatingly cute,” Flynn muttered under his breath.

He circumvented the line that stretched out the door, around the bakery and all the way to the corner of Larch Street. Ignoring the snow falling from the sky, couples stood together—most of the men looking none too keen on the idea of being dragged off to a bakery purported to be a food love source, while groups of women chatted excitedly about the “romance cookies.”

It took sheer willpower for Flynn not to roll his eyes. The airline magazine that had first broken the story had clearly created an epidemic. By the time this piece hit Food Lovers’ Valentine’s Day issue, the shop would be overrun with the lovelorn. He hoped the owner was prepared for the onslaught. Flynn knew, from personal experience, how a too-fast rocket to success could be as destructive as a too-quick drop to the bottom.

Regardless, he was here to do a job, not offer a business consultation.

He brushed by a woman holding a toddler and entered Joyful Creations. A blast of warm air and holiday music greeted him like he’d jumped into a Christmas bath. The scent of fresh-baked bread, coupled with vanilla, cinnamon and a hint of raspberry, assaulted his senses. The waiting patrons were surely impressed, but Flynn had seen all this and smelled all this before.

“Hey, no cutting,” the woman said.

“I’m not buying anything,” he replied, and kept going. Get in, get the story, get out. Get back to Boston. Hopefully before Mimi even noticed he was gone. If Mimi even noticed he was gone.

“Why would you battle this crowd if you weren’t going to buy anything?” the woman asked, shuffling the kid to the other hip.

“For…” Flynn turned toward the counter where two women were busy filling orders as quickly as they were being shouted over the din. One, gray-haired and petite, the other, tall and blond, curvy, with the kind of hips that said she didn’t spend her days obsessing over having two pieces of celery or one.

Wow. The airline magazine hadn’t run a photo of Samantha Barnett with their story, just one of the cookies. But clearly, she was the owner that the writer had described as “energetic, friendly, youthful.”

“Her,” Flynn said.

“Sam? Good luck with that.” The woman laughed, then turned back to her kid, playing with his nose. Pretending the thing was a button or something. Flynn had no experience with other people’s children and had no intention of starting now, so he moved away.

It took the navigational skills of a fleet admiral to wade through the crowd inside the shop, but a few minutes later, Flynn had managed to reach the glass counter. He stood to the far right, away from the line of paying customers, most of them looking like they’d come straight from placing a personal ad. “Are you Samantha Barnett?”

The blonde looked up. Little tendrils of her hair were beginning to escape her ponytail, as if the first few strands were thinking of making a break for the border. She wore little makeup, just a dash of red lip gloss and a dusting of mascara. He suspected the slight hint of crimson in her cheeks was natural, a flush from the frantic pace of the warm bakery. A long white apron with the words Joyful Creations scrolled across the middle in a curled red script hugged her frame, covering dark denim jeans and a soft green V-neck sweater. “I’m sorry, sir, you’ll have to get into the line.”

“I’m not here to buy anything.”

That made her pause. Stop putting reindeer-shaped cookies into a white box. “Do you have a delivery or some mail for me?”

He shook his head. Vowed to buy a new dress coat, if he looked like a mailman in this one. “I just want to talk to you.”

“Now is not a good time.” She let out a little laugh. “I’m kind of busy.”

“Yeah, well, I’m on a deadline.” He fished a business card out of his pocket and slid it across the glass case. “Flynn MacGregor with Food Lovers magazine. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”

Her face lit up, as so many others before hers had. Everyone had heard of Food Lovers. It was the magazine about the food industry, carried in every grocery store and bookstore, read by thirty million people nationwide. A print mention in its pages was the equivalent of starring in a movie.

Even if Food Lovers magazine’s focus had shifted, ever since Tony Reynolds had taken over as editor a year ago. His insistence on finding the story behind the story, the dish on every chef, restaurant and food business, had given the magazine more of a tabloid feel, but also tripled readership in a matter of months.

At first, Flynn hadn’t minded doing what Tony wanted. But as each story became more and more invasive of people’s personal lives, Flynn’s job had begun to grate on him. More than once he had thought about quitting. But Flynn MacGregor hadn’t gotten to where he was by turning tail just because he butted heads with an editor or ran into a roadblock ot two.

“Wow,” Samantha said, clearly not bothered by Food Lovers’ reputation. “You want to talk to me? What about?”

“Your bakery. Why you got into this business. What makes Joyful Creations special…” As he ran through his usual preinterview spiel, Flynn bit back his impatience. Reminded himself this was his four hundredth interview, but probably her first or second. Flynn could recite the questions without even needing to write them down ahead of time. Heck, he could practically write her answers for her. She got into baking because she loved people, loved food. The best part about being in business in a small town was the customers. Yada-yada-yada.

As for the cookies that made people fall in love, Flynn put no stock in things like that. He’d seen soups that supposedly made women go into labor, cakes that were rumored to jump-start diets, appetizers bandied about as the next best aphrodisiac. None of which had proven to be true, but still, the magazine had run a charming piece in its pages, appealing to its vast readership.

While he was here, he’d track down a few of the couples who owed their happiness to the sugar-and-flour concoctions, then put some kind of cutesy spin on the story. The art department would fancy up the headline with dancing gingerbread men or something, and they’d all walk away thinking Joyful Creations was the best thing to come along since Cupid and his trademark bow.

“That’s pretty much how it works, Miss Barnett,” Flynn finished, wrapping up his sugarcoated version of the article process.

The bakery owner nodded. “Sounds great. Relatively painless.”

“Sam? I hate to interrupt,” another woman cut in, just as Flynn was getting ready to ask his first question, “but I really need to pick up my order. I have a preschool waiting. And you know preschoolers. They want their sugar.”

Samantha Barnett snapped to attention, back to her customer. “Oh, sure, Rachel. Sorry about that. Two dozen, right?”

The other woman, a petite brunette, grinned. “And one extra, for the teacher.”

“Of course.” Samantha smiled, finished putting the reindeer into the box, then tied it with a thin red ribbon and handed the white container across the counter. “Here you go.”

“Will you put it on my tab?”

Samantha waved off the words. “Consider it a Christmas gift to the Bumblebees.”

Not a smart way to run a business, giving away profits like that, but Flynn kept that to himself. He wasn’t her financial consultant. “The interview, Miss Barnett?”

Behind them, the line groaned. Samantha brushed her bangs off her forehead. “Can I meet with you later today? Maybe after the shop closes? I’m swamped right now.”

She had help, didn’t she? On top of that, he had somewhere else he wanted to go before beginning that long drive back to Boston, not endless amounts of time to wait around for preschoolers to get their sugar rush. “And I’m on deadline.”

The next person had slipped into the space vacated by Miss Bumblebee, a tall senior citizen in a flap-eared flannel cap and a Carhartt jacket. He ambled up to the counter, leaned one arm on the glass case and made himself at home, like he was planning on spending an hour or two there. “Hiya, Samantha. Heard about the article in that airline magazine. Congratulations! You really put our town on the map, not that you weren’t a destination from the start, what with those cookies and all.” He leaned forward, cupping a beefy hand around his mouth. “Though I’m not so sure I want all these tourists to stay. They’re causing quite the traffic jam.”

Samantha chuckled. “Thanks, Earl. And sorry I can’t do anything about the traffic. Except fill the orders as fast as I can.” She slid a glance Flynn’s way.

“You give me my interview, Miss Barnett, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

“Give me a few hours, Mr. MacGregor, and I’ll give you whatever you want.”

He knew there was no innuendo in her words, but the male part of him heard one all the same. He cleared his throat and took a step back. “I have to get back on the road. Today. So why don’t you just cooperate with me and we can both be happy?”

“I have customers to wait on, and it looks like now you’re going to have a long wait either way.” She gestured toward the windows with her chin as her hands worked beneath the counter, shoveling muffins into a bag. “You might as well make yourself comfortable.”

Flynn turned and looked through the glass. And saw yet another reason to hate Riverbend.

A blizzard.

By noon, Sam was already so exhausted, she was sure she’d collapse face-first into the double-layer cinnamon streusel. But she pasted a smile on her face, kept handing out cookies and pastries, all while dispensing directions to her staff. She’d called in her seasonal part-timers, and everyone else she could think of, right down to Mary, who did the weekend cleaning, to help keep up with the sudden influx of tourists. It seemed every person in a three-state area had read the article and turned out to see if Joyful Creations would live up to its reputation of bringing love to people who tried Grandma Joy’s Secret Recipe Cherry Chocolate Chunk Cookies.

Sam had long heard the rumors about her grandmother’s cookies—after all, they were the very treats Grandma Joy had served to Grandpa Neil when they had first met—but had never quite believed all the people who credited the tiny desserts for their happy unions. Then a reporter from Travelers magazine had tried them on a trip through town and immediately fallen in love with one of the local women. The two of them had run off to Jamaica and gotten married the very next weekend. Afterward, the reporter had raved about the cookies and his happy ending in the airline publication, launching Sam’s shop to national fame, and turning a rumor into a fact.

Ever since, things hadn’t slowed down. Sam had worked a lot of hours before—but this was ridiculous. Nearly every spare moment was spent at the bakery, working, restocking and filling orders. But it was all for a larger goal, so she kept pushing, knowing the bigger reward was on the horizon.

“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.”