Not Your Average Vixen: A Christmas Romance

by Krista Sandor

  Soren pulled the bag of gummy bears from his pocket. “These?”

  Tanner’s eyes went wide. “Where’d they all go?”

  Bridget did another twirl. “I ate them. I was so hungry, and they were so delicious, and then the chocolate started talking to me. Oh, and I’m a normal person, right, Soren?”

  Oh, for fuck’s sake!

  The kid’s jaw dropped. “You let her eat all of those?”

  He shook the bag in the guy’s face. “I thought they were candy!”

  “They are. Candy with a decent amount of THC mixed in.”

  Dammit! That was exactly what he’d feared when he’d smelled them.

  “These are marijuana gummy bears?” he hissed, lowering his voice, then glanced over to find Bridget tapping a row of hanging pots, telling each cooking utensil that she was a normal person.

  Heat rose to his cheeks. He’d been the only one with Bridget all day. If her sister saw her like this, God knows what she and the rest of the Abbotts would think. After the stripper incident, he was already walking a thin line with Tom and, if he wasn’t careful, he was in jeopardy of damaging their relationship. He needed to be stealthy in his tactics. If anyone thought he’d had a hand in Bridget’s stoned-out-of-her-mind condition, he’d be screwed.

  He pinned the kid with his gaze. “Is she going to be okay?”

  Tanner gave him an exceptionally hesitant shrug. “I mean technically, yes. Everything she ingested is organic. She’s just had a lot. Like…a lot, a lot.”

  He blew out a tight breath, then checked on his baked vixen. She wasn’t upset or in pain. She was just talking to a spatula.

  He paced the length of the kitchen. “Should I take her to the hospital?”

  “Take who to the hospital?”

  Ah, shit! He recognized that haughty Harvard lilt.

  Lori, Tom, and the rest of the Abbotts filed into the kitchen, with Bridget’s sister sporting a scowl.

  “Birdie, is everything okay?” she called.

  Bridget looked up, and his heart jumped into his throat.

  She grinned at the group. “Hey, everyone! I have hands, and I’m a normal person.”

  “What?” Denise asked, her gaze pinballing from Bridget to him.

  Just as he’d expected! If they thought anything was wrong with Bridget, the blame would fall squarely on him.

  “Are you feeling all right, dear?” Grace pressed.

  Bridget set down the spatula. “I think I can smell color.”

  Grace shared a perplexed look with Scott.

  “Hey, you all remember me. I’m Tanner from the kitchen at the mountain house,” the kid said, breaking into the conversation and taking the attention off the baked bridesmaid.

  “Living in the mountains of Colorado, I’ve seen people act like this before. I think this lady has altitude sickness. She probably needs some rest. Like, six to eight hours of solid rest,” Tanner added, catching his eye.

  He gave the guy a minute nod. What the hell was he supposed to do with her for six to eight hours?

  “Scooter, you and Birdie have been together all afternoon. Has she been like this the whole time?” Lori asked, sounding very lawyerly. But the worried glance she shared with Tom was decidedly more concerned than upset.

  “It just came on. I think she’s exhausted. She didn’t get much rest last night,” he answered with a wave of his hand, going for casual as Bridget bent down and smelled a rolling pin.

  “How would you know that?” Tom asked, sharing another look with his fiancée.

  “Know what?”

  “That she didn’t get much rest,” Tom pressed.

  He parted his lips, wondering what verbal vomit would spew out of him when Bridget raised her hand like she was in third grade.

  “I can answer that!” she chimed. “It’s because—”

  “Because you told me that you were a little sleepy when we were baking cookies,” he interrupted, then turned to Lori. “I think your sister needs a little air and some rest.”

  Lori squeezed his hand as the mistrust in her eyes morphed into worry. “Thank you for keeping an eye on my sister, Scooter. I think you’re right. Birdie, do you want us to take you back to the mountain house?”

  Anxiety welled in his chest. He had to get Bridget out of there and away from these people. It was only a matter of time before somebody figured out that she wasn’t suffering from altitude sickness.

  He plastered on a grin and turned up the wattage. “There’s no need for everyone to go. I’ve got the truck, and I know how important it is, especially to your sister, for you to put on the spaghetti dinner. Here are Bridget’s cookies. I de-blossomed her, I mean, them—the cookies. I added the chocolate kisses to the peanut butter blossoms,” he blathered, handing over the basket when Cole and Carly ran into the kitchen with Dan on their heels.

  “Scooter! Birdie! There’s a room full of Santa’s helpers out there!” Carly called.

  A grin stretched across Cole’s face. “No Christmas fairies that I could see, but lots of Santas. Want to take a look? They’re right outside!”

  Crap! He didn’t need more people seeing Bridget like this!

  “That sounds really cool, but I’m going to take Birdie home because—”

  “Because she’s talking to an egg?” Carly interrupted, cocking her head to the side.

  He looked over his shoulder to see that, yes, Bridget had found an egg and was, in fact, talking to it.

  He crouched down to the kids’ level. “Birdie’s very tired, and she’s acting a little loopy because we’re up so high.”

  “High is right,” Tanner muttered.

  “What was that, son?” the judge asked, pinning the kid with his watchful gaze.

  “I meant high, like elevation. Your bird lady has an elevation high,” Tanner backtracked.

  “You mean altitude sickness, right Tanner?” he corrected, hoping the guy caught the hint of urgency in his tone.

  “Right! Totally! This is absolutely not chemically induced,” Tanner chimed with a resolute nod.

  Sweet burning sleigh bells. He was so screwed!

  “I think I would like some air,” Bridget said—to the fucking egg.

  He went to her side and patted her arm. “Nobody needs to worry. I’ll take care of Birdie and get her back to the mountain house—best man duties and all,” he added, taking the egg from the baked bridesmaid and placing it back in the bowl with the others.

  He pressed his hand to the small of her back, praying she didn’t fall on her ass or bid goodbye to the cooking utensils. They’d made it a few steps before he glanced over his shoulder to see every Abbott, plus Lori, watching them in stunned silence.

  “Please try and act normal,” he whispered.

  Bridget stopped in her tracks and looked back at the group. “Where are my manners! Goodbye, everyone! And don’t worry, I’m totally normal.”

  “Let’s get started making the spaghetti,” Tanner called with a clap of his hands, blessedly shifting gears.

  “We’re not having spaghetti?” Bridget asked as they left the kitchen.

  “No, not tonight.”

  She made a sad little puppy sound. “I told the egg that I’d make him a plate.”

  “The egg will be fine,” he answered, taking her hand as they entered the main area, no longer empty and now occupied with about a dozen Santa-looking dudes.

  “Holy Father Christmas!” Bridget exclaimed as he led her through the mass of white-bearded men.

  How many obstacles could they encounter tonight?

  “Is this where Christmas goes to die?” he mumbled.

  “No, young man! It’s where Christmas goes to retire. We’re former members of the Fraternal Order of Real Bearded Santas,” a Santa in a plaid shirt replied.

  He looked around, taking in the sea of white beards and rosy cheeks.

  That explained a hell of a lot—and who knew there was a Santa frat?

  A naughty grin bloomed on Bridget’s lips. “S
antas, there’s something you should know. This guy, right here—his name is Rudolph. But don’t be fooled. He’s no sweet red-nosed reindeer. He’s been very, very naughty.”

  A Santa in a red turtleneck nodded. “Oh, we know. He’s definitely on the naughty list.”

  “I am?” he blurted, taken aback.

  Okay, there was no such thing as an omnipresent, all-knowing Santa. He knew this. But confronted by a gaggle of them left him off balance. He ran his hands through his hair, then blew out an exasperated breath when a cool rush of air washed over him, and the door to Kringle Acres slammed shut.

  He glanced around.

  Where was his stoner maid of honor?

  A short Santa chuckled. “You better go find her, young fella.”

  The turtleneck Santa nodded. “Yep, that young lady is as high as a kite, and there’s no telling the trouble she could get into in Kringle.”

  “How do you know?” he exclaimed.

  “We’re Santas. We know things,” the short Santa replied and tapped his head.

  “And her pupils are the size of papayas,” the plaid shirt Santa added.

  “Shit, I mean shoot! You’re right! I need to find her,” he answered, snapping out of the Santa haze.

  He busted out the door and looked up and down the street. Thank Christ, she hadn’t gone far. He jogged half a block and found her staring into a darkened storefront.

  “There’s nothing sadder than an empty bakery,” she said with her nose pressed to the glass.

  “Yeah, it’s too bad,” he answered, trying to get his bearings, then nearly fell onto his ass when he saw the awning for the Cupid Bakery.

  Sweet Christmas cupcakes!

  Undoubtedly, this was one of the Cupid Bakeries he was in the process of liquidating.

  He crossed his arms. “We should get going. The car’s back the other way.”

  But Bridget wasn’t listening. She gasped and pointed down the street.

  “No, Soren, we can’t. I just saw one,” she exclaimed, breaking into a run.

  He trailed behind her. Weren’t stoners supposed to be chill? Whatever Tanner put in those gummy bears had his vixen raring to go.

  “What did you see?” he called as they came upon the town square.

  Surrounded by evergreens and twinkling lights, Bridget skidded to a halt.

  “Soren, just look! It’s a gathering of Christmas fairies.”

  It was easy to mistake what they’d happened upon as a gathering of fairies. Children stood together holding sparklers, and in the darkness, the glittering light created a shimmering, ethereal halo, like something out of a fanciful fairy tale.

  Bridget leaned against him. “My dad used to tell us that the snow fairies traveled around as tiny balls of light. It’s too bad we left the egg behind. He would have loved to have seen this.”

  “Is that right?” he asked, using all his strength not to wrap his arm around her.

  “It’s magical,” she said, staring up at him.

  He stared at this beautiful enigma of a woman. “It is.”

  She stroked his cheek, and he closed his eyes. Could this be a dream? Or perhaps his sandwich was laced with something, and he was on a psychedelic trip right alongside her. Whatever it was, he was losing control.

  “What’s that smell?” she asked, breaking their connection.

  He inhaled. Whatever it was, it smelled amazing.

  “Soren, it’s funnel cake,” she exclaimed with more enthusiasm than funnel cake deserved.

  And then it was back to the running business.

  Bridget took off like a shot toward a table teeming with the sweet treat, then swiped a funnel cake and kept moving like the Grinch pilfering Whoville.

  “Hey! That’s five dollars,” called a lady manning the table.

  He pulled out his wallet. “Sorry, my friend is a big fan of funnel cake.” He glanced over to find Bridget covered in a white floury substance and going to town on the sugar-covered dough.

  The woman gasped and pressed her hand to her chest.

  He stared at his vixen, feeling an odd sense of pride. “Yeah, she’s a really big fan of funnel cakes. She’s also suffering from altitude sickness.”

  The woman raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

  He shrugged and shook his head. “No, she’s baked out of her mind, but that’s the story we’re sticking with tonight,” he said as Bridget waved him over, and the funnel cake lady’s jaw dropped.

  “Take a bite. It’s like eating happiness,” she said, ripping off a piece and holding it to his lips.

  “I don’t know,” he answered.

  “Just one bite,” she tempted, eyes twinkling.

  He opened his mouth, powerless to say no. Granted, she was completely out of it, but no one had ever looked at him the way she did—like she saw him.

  “Bridget, we need to get back to the mountain house,” he said, swallowing the bite as well as the emotions rising to the surface.

  “Not yet! Look! There’s a photo booth. Let’s take a picture, and then we can leave Christmas Fairy Land. Deal?” she replied, then crammed the last bit of funnel cake into her mouth with the gusto of a truck driver.

  He bit back a grin. “With charm like that, how can a guy say no?” he replied as she took his hand as if it was second nature, then pulled him into the snug booth.

  She stared at the instructions pinned to the wall. “It takes three pictures. We can do surprised faces, happy faces, then one more. But I’m not sure what the last picture should be. Ready?” she asked, pressing the button to start their photo session.

  The screen counted down with a ping.

  Three.

  Two.

  One.

  “Surprised faces!” she chimed, and yes, he made a stupid surprised face.

  The camera flashed, and she leaned into him.

  “Okay, happy faces next. Get ready!”

  She looked up at him and grinned that sun, moon, and stars smile as the camera flashed, but frowned as soon as the timer for the last photo started counting down.

  “Last one. What should we do?”

  The timer pinged.

  Three.

  He held her gaze.

  Two.

  Unable to stop, he cupped her cheek in his hand.

  One.

  His heart took over, and he pressed his lips to hers. For a fraction of a second, he’d feared that she’d pull away. But relief flooded his system when she hummed a sweet, sated sound as he deepened the kiss. The pop of the flash and the mechanical whirr of the booth printing their pictures buzzed in the background. This was risky. No, not risky. It was damned stupid to lock lips with Bridget Dasher, but he couldn’t resist. Her cinnamon vanilla scent entranced him into a dreamlike holiday haze. It transported him. It altered him. Warm and soothing, her kisses tasted like sunshine and s’mores. She stroked his cheek, then pulled back slowly and stared into his eyes.

  “Soren,” she whispered. The silly, playfulness in her tone was gone and replaced with an air of haunting seriousness.

  “Yes.”

  She glanced away. “Do I seem stuck to you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like, stuck in my life.”

  “I don’t know much about your life,” he replied, hating that he wished he did.

  She nodded, then reached down and removed the photo strip from the tray.

  “When you kiss me, it feels like you know everything,” she remarked softly as she stared at the pictures.

  “You’re tired, Bridget. That’s all.”

  But it wasn’t. Not even close.

  “Garrett said that I’m stuck—that I’m not living a real life. But I made a promise and promises matter. You believe that, don’t you?”

  He thought of his parents and all their empty promises, then caressed her cheek, reveling in her honesty.

  “They should matter.”

  She handed him the photo strip. “Can you hold on to this? I feel a little woozy.”r />
  He folded it carefully, making sure not to crease any of the photos, then slid it into his wallet.

  She stared up at the ceiling of the booth. “I just don’t think he saw me. He’d look at me, of course, but maybe there wasn’t anything to see. The Abbotts, they see you, don’t they, Soren?”

  This got deep quick.

  “We should go, Bridget.”

  They did see him, but so did she.

  She just didn’t know it.

  And he couldn’t let her know, not now. Not ever. Because if things went the way he wanted, after this time in Kringle, he’d never see her again.

  And, despite the knot in his stomach at the thought of that prospect, he needed to start acting like it.

  9

  Bridget

  Bridget pulled the pillow over her eyes and groaned. Her head pounded. Her mouth tasted like she’d binged on straw and powdered sugar like some kind of Candy Land farm animal. Blindly, she reached over to the side table to grab her phone to check the time when her wrist bumped a plate.

  But she didn’t have a plate on her bedside table—at home.

  “Be careful! You’ll get crumbs everywhere!” came a familiar, irritable warning.

  She shot up and immediately regretted the move as the pounding intensified. Cradling her head in her hands, she brushed back her bangs and cracked open her eyes.

  “Good afternoon, Birdie,” purred the last person in the entire world she wanted to see moments after waking with bed head and morning breath.

  But, of course, there was no escaping Soren “Scooter” Traeger Rudolph.

  She tried to orient herself. Her memories of last night were foggy at best. What was the last thing she remembered? She racked her brain, but all she got was a jumble of disjointed images like a half-completed puzzle. She wasn’t even sure she was awake. This could be another dream.

  “It’s afternoon? And what are you doing here?” she replied with raspy morning, or in this case, afternoon voice.

  “We’re sharing a room,” he replied without an ounce of emotion.

  A room? The last clear memory she’d had was the two of them leaving the mountain house.

  She looked around wildly. “Where are we?”

  “Where else? The place on Kringle mountain.”