Not Your Average Vixen: A Christmas Romance

by Krista Sandor

  Agnes closed her eyes and inhaled. “What’s that I smell?”

  Bridget’s cheeks grew rosy. “I’m so sorry. You’re probably wondering what we’re doing here.”

  “No, no, Delores told me that she had a guest who needed to use the space. We’re always happy to help if we can, and it’s so nice to see the shop humming with holiday activity.”

  Bridget squeezed the woman’s hand. “I’m very grateful. This morning we made a wedding cake here—a three-tiered red velvet cake frosted in buttercream, and then you’re also smelling the—”

  “Sugar cookies!” Ernie exclaimed, rubbing his paunch of a Santa belly.

  “Please, try one,” Bridget said, throwing eye daggers at Soren as she came behind the counter, then handed the Angels each a cookie.

  “We all helped make them!” Carly chimed.

  Cole walked up to Ernie. “Are you the real Santa?”

  Ernie chuckled. “No, dear boy, I’m one of his helpers.”

  “Have you seen a Christmas fairy?” the boy asked earnestly.

  “Not recently,” the man replied warmly.

  Cole blew out a frustrated breath as the Angels each took a bite of their cookie.

  “Divine!” Ernie remarked through his bite as few sprinkles settled in the white of his beard.

  “Perfect crunch on the outside and moist and delicious on the inside. Just the right amount of frosting. Well done,” Agnes said, complimenting the group.

  “It’s our grandma Dasher’s recipe,” Bridget added.

  “Dasher, you say?” Agnes asked.

  “Yes, I’m Bridget Dasher, but everyone calls me Birdie. And that’s my sister, Lori Dasher.”

  Ernie glanced around the room. “Dasher sisters and new friends, thank you for breathing Christmas spirit into our Kringle Cupid Bakery location.”

  “You’re not out of business yet,” he blurted, like an idiot.

  And again, everyone stared at him.

  “The Angels have until the day after Christmas before we begin liquidation,” he added, knowing instantly that little tidbit didn’t make him look any less scrooge-like.

  “That’s not even a week, Scooter,” Grace said with a crease to her brow.

  “Well, it’s…” he began, but Ernie Angel cut him off.

  “Oh, it’s plenty of time.”

  He stared at the man. “It is?”

  “We’ve seen a holiday miracle or two in our day, haven’t we, Agnes?”

  Soren gave the couple a forced grin and a curt nod. This wasn’t some Christmas Story with a happy ending for the lovely old bakers.

  That didn’t happen in the real world.

  Short of Santa dropping off a sack full of millions and a bold operating plan, there was largely nothing that could save their business. Hell, only a handful of locations were even open at this point.

  “We should be getting back to our friends. Merry Christmas to all!” Ernie said with the finesse of the real Santa as he opened the door for Agnes and the Angels left the bakery.

  No one spoke. Cole didn’t even ask him about Christmas fairies for the fifty billionth time.

  “Scooter, how very sad. Is there nothing you can do to help those lovely people?” Grace asked, shaking her head when a kitchen timer cut through the heaviness that had overtaken the bakery.

  Nancy turned it off. “Sorry, I forgot that I set the timer, so we’d know when to leave to deliver the cookies to the Kringle town square. We should head out now if we want to get to the Kringle Cares group in time.”

  Bridget manufactured a grin, but he could see that, beneath her faux pleasant demeanor, she was seething.

  “Why don’t you each take a box and head out. I’ll get the last batch ready to go. Scooter, would you mind staying behind to help out?”

  Fucking festive fruitcake! She was gearing up for a fight when he needed everything to go back to normal—or whatever normal he’d stumbled into after falling into bed with her.

  No, the normal he needed would only return the minute the Dasher sisters were out of the picture.

  That’s what he wanted, right?

  That’s what it had to be. It was the only damn way he could go on.

  “Sure thing, Birdie,” he answered, manufacturing a plastic grin of his own, as the rest of the group left the shop and headed for the square.

  Bridget closed the last box, then pinned him with her gaze. “Why didn’t you say anything about owning the Cupid Bakeries?”

  He took off his apron and put on his coat. “It’s none of your business.”

  “I’m baking in their shop. Well, your shop. Who knew you were a baker?” she added with a nice helping of go-fuck-yourself infused into her reply.

  “I’m not a baker. I’m a—”

  “A businessman. A cold-hearted businessman. Yes, I got that part,” she replied, still laying it on thick.

  Who was she to judge him?

  “I’m a meticulous businessman, and in business, it’s all about profit. I don’t go out of my way to hurt anyone.”

  “You don’t?” she threw back along with a few more eye daggers.

  “No,” he hissed, but that wasn’t the whole truth.

  He’d never turned the tables and put himself in the shoes of the person whose business he’d taken over.

  She huffed an unconvinced breath as she put on her coat and gloves, then picked up the last box.

  “Let me carry it,” he said, gesturing for her to hand it over.

  “No,” she answered, balancing the box between her arm and her hip, then opened the door.

  “Bridget, let me help. I’m not going to walk alongside you, doing nothing, while you carry that giant box.”

  “I don’t need your help, Scooter, the fancy bakery owning businessman.”

  Dammit! Now he had to piss her off.

  “I do own everything you’re carrying. I could demand you return my property,” he parried back, pretty sure that would rile her up.

  “Wow! Just wow!” she murmured, then thrust the cookies into his arms.

  He took a step back, nearly falling over. He’d forgotten about her freakish baker strength.

  She charged down the sidewalk, mumbling something—most likely cursing him. He stayed a step behind as they walked, no, not walked, dashed toward the town square.

  She could really move when she wasn’t stoned.

  He blew out a tight breath, and since she wasn’t about to shoot the shit with him, he did the only thing he could and took in Kringle Village. It lived up to its Christmassy name. Shrouded in fresh snow, twinkling lights outlined every shop, and no door was without a wreath, decked with bows, berries, and ornaments. With its Bavarian Alpine ski-lodge feel, it did have a certain charm. Even a Grinch like himself could see that.

  He turned his attention to the brunette beauty leading the way. The sound of laughter and children hooting and hollering grew louder, and it wasn’t long before they arrived at the square, and he spied the photo booth.

  The location of another kiss that had left him, Mr. Manhattan Womanizer, besotted like a lovesick teenager.

  That kiss in the snug space seemed like it happened a lifetime ago.

  He stared at the festively decorated photo booth as a couple ducked in to have their picture taken.

  He glanced at Bridget. Last night, that was them.

  And last night was another first for him—or rather—another Bridget Dasher first.

  After their night of funnel cake thievery and photo booth fawning, she’d fallen asleep in the truck on the drive back with her head resting on his shoulder. He’d carried her inside and got her ready for bed. And then, he’d pulled up a chair, removed the photo strip from his wallet, and stared at the pictures. He couldn’t help himself. He looked so damn happy in them. And that kiss—that kiss would be forever captured in the last frame. She’d smiled when he kissed her, and the photo also caught his hint of a grin the moment their lips met.

  He’d be lying if he said his fasc
ination with her ended with the pictures.

  Once he’d tucked the photo strip back into his wallet, for the second night in a row, completely enchanted yet again, he’d watched her sleep.

  Yes, he wanted to make sure she didn’t fall into a psychotropic coma or whatever could happen after ingesting enough THC to subdue an elephant. But that didn’t stop him from twisting a lock of her hair around his finger, just as he did when they were strangers sharing a night of passion in a hotel suite.

  “Soren, what are you doing?”

  Bridget’s words pulled him from his daze.

  She glanced at the photo booth. “Is that it?”

  He nodded.

  “I don’t remember a whole lot,” she said, but she was a terrible liar. The tremble to her bottom lip gave away that she remembered just as much as he did.

  “It’s better that way. It wasn’t a big deal,” he replied, luckily a good enough liar for them both.

  A storm brewed in her eyes. Part anger and part outright confusion; she stared at him.

  Seeing him—all of him.

  A chill passed through his body that had nothing to do with the temperature, and all he wanted to do was confess like the sinner he was. Confess everything about his parents, his lonely childhood, how he hated who he’d become, and what the Abbotts meant to him. Like a tidal wave forming in the depths of the ocean, poised to crash upon the shore in a fury of sound and energy, he wanted to let everything out as if she possessed some special power to tame the tumultuous sea of longing and loathing he’d lived with for as long as he could remember.

  But why her? Why did she have to get to him? Why couldn’t she have been nothing but a quick fuck in a hotel room? How had she gotten under his skin in so little time?

  “Bridget, I—”

  “What?” she asked, the storm in her eyes intensifying.

  “I’ll take those cookies!”

  He and Bridget startled as the Kringle Care’s woman hurried up to them.

  “Thank you so very much! You truly are an angel,” she said, taking the box out of his hands and carrying it over to the families gathered near the frozen lake covered with ice skaters.

  “Did you have something to say?” she asked, concern edging out the anger.

  But he didn’t want her pity.

  “I was going to ask if this place looked different to you—you know, now that you’re not completely blitzed out of your mind.”

  “Unbelievable,” she bit out with a shake of her head, but before she could lay into him, Carly called out to them.

  “Birdie! Uncle Scooter! Over here!”

  “We’re doing a snowball fight competition,” Cole called excitedly.

  “Boys versus girls,” Carly added, taking his hand as Cole took Bridget’s.

  Cole pushed up his red glasses. “It’s like capture the flag with snowballs. If you get hit, you’re out.”

  “The boys are the green team, and the girls are the red team,” Carly added.

  The children pulled them over toward the west side of the square that backed up to thick snow-covered foliage dotted with evergreens and willowy white wisps of leafless aspens.

  “Doesn’t this look fun, Scooter!” Grace said as the snowball attendant handed her something that looked like large salad tongs with ice cream scoopers on the ends.

  “What’s that for?”

  “It’s a snowball maker,” Tom answered, grinning ear to ear as he formed a snowball, then chucked it at his head.

  Soren veered out of the way just in time.

  “Isn’t it great!” Cole exclaimed, making a snowball, then handing it to the judge.

  “Not too shabby,” the man said, pretending to assess the weight of his great-grandson’s ball of ice.

  Another Santa lookalike clapped his hands. “Gather around, folks. Welcome to Kringle’s version of capture the flag. We’re losing daylight, so you’ll be the last group to go out today.”

  All these retired St. Nicks in one place was getting to be a bit much.

  “All right, snow warriors, here are the rules. Each team gets five minutes to hide their flag. It must be visible from all directions,” the man continued.

  “No hiding it under the snow?” Cole asked.

  “That’s right. You’ve got to be able to see it. Now, after the five minutes have passed, you’ll hear me ring the bell, and then, the competition begins. The first team to steal the opposing team’s flag and carry it over to their side of the course wins. I’ll ring the bell again to let you know when the game is over.”

  Soren glanced at Bridget as she stood with the women, carefully inspecting her snowball maker like a James Bond weapons specialist.

  No matter.

  He could roll with this. Fresh air and some fun with snowballs would be an excellent reset to get everyone’s minds off the whole cold-hearted corporate raider fleecing the nice bakers’ business business.

  He stole another look at Bridget, who threw a fresh batch of eye daggers at him.

  So much for a little fresh air changing anything with that vixen.

  Russ handed him a green snowball maker. “Birdie’s got some spunk to her—a real take-charge woman,” the man said, lowering his voice.

  “I guess,” he mumbled.

  “Do you think she’d go for me? I know I’m a few years older.”

  Soren pegged the guy with his gaze. “A few?”

  “You should have seen the ladies that I was talking to yesterday. They were around the same age as Birdie, and they were really into me,” Russ replied with a triumphant glint in his clueless eyes.

  “Yep, I’m sure they were,” he answered.

  He’d heard all the bullshit Russ is smooth with the ladies stories. They never bothered him. In fact, he’d gotten a kick out of them until the lady in question was Bridget.

  “Stay away from her, Russ.”

  The man frowned. “Why? Do you like her, Scooter?”

  “I—”

  Dammit! Did he like her?

  “Let’s focus on the snowball competition,” he said, hoping Russ got the message.

  “Right, right! Always out for the kill, huh, Scooter,” Russ replied with a slap to his shoulder.

  Was he always out for the kill? Is that all he’d become? And did that make him as myopic as his parents?

  No, he ran a business, and there was no room for pussyfooting around when it came to managing hundreds of millions of dollars in assets and hundreds of people on the payroll. His parents lived off their trusts and only thought of themselves. But was he any different? Without the Abbotts, maybe not.

  Nine times out of ten, he didn’t give his mother and father a second thought. But with Christmas, even with the good times he’d had with the Abbotts, he couldn’t erase what had happened when he was thirteen. The last Christmas he’d spent in Manhattan.

  The attendant held up a bell, attracting everyone’s attention and, blessedly, pulling him from the past.

  “Here we go! On your mark, get set, go!” the man cried as the clang of the bell rang out.

  The women were off like a shot, clustered together as they ran into the wooded area, and he watched Bridget disappear behind a veil of evergreens.

  “Come on, men!” Scott called, waving for them to follow as Cole rushed ahead.

  Tom and Russ jogged to catch up with the boy, and he was about to join them when he felt a tap to his shoulder and glanced over to find Tom’s grandfather.

  “Hey, Judge,” he said, gaze bouncing between the man and the others running into the woods.

  “Walk with me,” the judge replied.

  “What about the game?” he asked, gesturing to the others.

  “Just for a moment, then we’ll catch up. There are a few things I’d like to say to you.”

  He nodded and did his best not to appear rattled.

  While the judge was a kind and impartial man, he wasn’t one to mince words either.

  Whatever he had to say to him in private would not b
e good.

  12

  Soren

  He gave the man the once-over. Maybe he was overreacting. The judge was in his eighties. He probably wanted someone to walk with and shoot the breeze. But the elder Abbott’s neutral expression didn’t give away anything.

  “Are you feeling okay? Would you like to sit down, Judge?” He pointed to a tree lying across the snow. It wasn’t that cold out. There was a nip in the air, but it wasn’t frigid.

  The judge patted his arm again. “No, no, Scooter, I’ve got at least a few more years left in me. But let’s hang back for a moment.”

  The muscles in Soren’s body tensed. “Sure, we can do that.”

  He and the judge passed a cluster of sturdy evergreens as the sound of the men hunting for a spot for the flag grew farther and farther off.

  “Curious happenings at the bakery,” the man continued.

  Dammit! He should have known that this was coming.

  He didn’t talk to the Abbotts about his work. Not really. Of course, they knew what he did, but when they were together, it didn’t come up that often. And in the off chance it did, he’d become a master at guiding the conversation in another direction, which was damn near impossible today when his work life, his personal life, and his Abbott life collided like three submarines headed straight for each other, full speed ahead.

  “What a coincidence, right? It’s too bad about Mr. and Mrs. Angel,” he replied, surprised that he actually did feel bad about it. He shook off the emotion.

  “Meeting the Angels was interesting, but I was talking about Birdie,” the man corrected.

  “Birdie? What about her?”

  The ghost of a grin pulled at the corners of the judge’s lips. “She’s quite something.”

  Russ and now the judge! Was every unattached male Abbott into this woman?

  “Yep, she sure is something.”

  Infuriating. Hard-headed. A taskmaster in the kitchen. A vixen in the bedroom. Heaven in his arms.

  No, he could not go there!

  “She reminds me of Alice,” the judge said, his blue eyes growing a touch glassy.

  Soren stopped in his tracks “Your Alice? Your wife?”

  “Oh, yes, there was only ever one Alice. She was magnificent from the first moment I saw her. And would you like to know something else?”