“Hank Bailey. He helps me find my Christmas tree every year. Honestly, watching that man fell a tree is one of the highlights of my Christmas season. He’s the main reason that I haven’t caved to convenience and bought an artificial tree. Are you telling me you’ve never been out to Bailey’s Tree Farm to get your Christmas tree?”
“You know I don’t put up a tree,” Viv said. Her only concession to Christmas decoration was a paper wreath her nieces had made her out of their handprints, and a pretty snow globe of London’s Hyde Park in winter that her mother had given her a few years ago for Christmas along with the note, “Someday...”
That someday, provided nothing went wrong, was December twenty-sixth. She’d been steadily saving for a couple of years now, determined to make the trip. But every time she got close to her goal amount, something invariably went wrong. To date that London fund had absorbed the cost of a new hot water heater and repairs to her transmission in her car.
But not this year. This year she was going.
She didn’t know why it had suddenly become so important that she do it now, but she couldn’t shake it. The idea of bringing in another New Year--on the heels of the Most Miserable Time of The Year--as someone’s lonely, pathetic guest made her absolutely heart sick.
She needed to go away. She needed London.
“I know you don’t put up a tree now, Ms. Scrouge, but what about when you were a child? I know I’ve run into your mother at Bailey’s before.”
“Mom gets her tree from there,” Viv said, once again besieged by the image of that gangly teenage boy with the pale grey eyes. Hank Bailey? she wondered, slightly intrigued.
Minna looked at her watch. “Sorry, sweetie. I’ve got to meet a client.” She handed Viv the papers. “You start on Monday, eight am. I’ll give you a call later.”
Viv thanked her friend and watched her leave. It wasn’t until the doors closed behind Minna’s retreating back that her words fully surfaced. She felt her eyes widen in horror, then looked down at the orders in her hand.
Monday through Friday, 8am-4pm.
She was supposed to be at work from 8-4. How in the hell was she supposed to be two places at once?
A fatalistic laugh bubbled up her throat.
She couldn’t.
Goodbye, London. Again.
CHAPTER 2
“I just don’t believe you,” Jason said, shaking his head. “Amanda’s pretty. She’s smart. She’s funny. Have I mentioned she’s pretty? And you don’t like her.” He blew out a sigh of exasperated air. “Why the hell not, Hank? What’s wrong with this one?”
Henry “Hank” Livingston Bailey--named after the true author of The Night Before Christmas--ignored the familiar tirade altogether. “Instead of worrying about my love life, why don’t you help me get this tree onto the stand?”
Grumbling under his breath, Jason, his younger, recently- happily-married brother did as he was told. “You don’t have a love life to worry about,” he said, positioning the Blue Spruce. “You have a series of let’s-see dinners that always result in the woman of the hour not passing muster.” Jase shook his head. “I just don’t get it. What was wrong with this one, bro? Was her nose a little off-center like the last chick? Was she a ‘loud-chewer’ like the one before?” Jason snorted. “Honestly, you go into it looking for a reason to bail. I don’t know why you even bother.”
Frankly, he was beginning to wonder the same thing, Hank thought, spinning the tree to inspect it for imperfections. He trimmed the top and tidied a section near the bottom, before gesturing to the guys to take it to the lot.
While most customers liked to stroll around the farm in search of their own tree, there were several people who preferred to browse their pre-cut selection, then retire into the gift shop for hot apple cider or chocolate--whatever they preferred--and a homemade iced sugar cookie.
In addition to those items, his mother and sister baked holiday offerings--his mother’s pecan pie being a favorite--and stocked the store with handmade Christmas ornaments. To say that Bailey’s Tree Farm was anything short of a family affair would be a huge understatement. Even Jason’s new bride, Angelica, had been pressed into service creating a new brochure for the business and, more recently, had been helping out in the gift shop.
Despite the fact that Christmas only came once a year, the farm was a year-long job. In addition to servicing the greater Jackson area, Bailey’s shipped trees all over the southeast. When the official season was over, the real work began. Stumps had to be removed, new trees planted, weed control, insect and disease maintenance, shaping. Since it took five to seven years to produce the typical six to seven foot tree, their business plan was always working seven years in advance. There was never what one would call a “down time.” It was hard work, but it was lucrative thanks to the increasing commercialism of the season. He had to admit he hated that part, but it left him feeling a bit like a hypocrite if he complained.
But how in the hell, in the middle of all that effort and planning, was he supposed to find time to truly date, much less find someone he wanted to spend the rest of his life with?
“What was wrong with her?” Jase persisted. “I want to make sure we don’t try to hook you up with anyone who has the same problem.”
Hank wrangled another tree onto the stand and started the process all over again. “Here’s a thought. Why don’t you stop trying to hook me up with anyone?”
Jase grinned. “No can do, bro. Angelica is convinced that you’re going to make some lucky woman very happy. She thinks it’s a crime that you’re old and alone.”
Hank chuckled. He would cop to being alone, but old? He was thirty. Hardly ancient, by anyone’s standards. His gaze slid to Jase and his lips quirked. Unless it was his twenty-one-year old little brother and his equally young new wife. No doubt to them he was just one fiber bar short of the old folks home.
Still, he knew his brother well enough to know that unless he answered him this line of questioning would continue ad nauseum, so he was better off to simply lay it all out on the line.
“You want to know what was wrong with her?”
Jase’s eyes widened comically. “Isn’t that what I’ve been asking you for the past fifteen minutes?”
“Thirty,” he corrected. “It’s been thirty minutes. After five minutes of your incessant nosiness my eye starts to twitch. After ten I want to go deaf. At fifteen I’m considering permanently removing your vocal cords and after thirty I’m on the brink of throttling you senseless. Since the impulse to wrap my hands around your scrawny little neck it at maximum capacity, I know it’s been thirty minutes.”
Jase merely smiled. “What happens after an hour?”
“Your wife becomes a widow and I become a permanent stain on the family name.”
“That would be tragic.”
Hank laughed softly. “Smart ass.”
“Well?” his brother prodded.
Hank leaned against the log planks of their shaping shed and picked the pine needles out of his gloves. “She told me that she doesn’t like a ‘real’ Christmas tree. That the scent of evergreen reminds her of those bad air fresheners in public restrooms.”
Jase, recognizing an unforgivable Bailey sin, whistled low. “Damn.”
Hank smirked. “She’s got a pre-lit artificial Douglas Fir, Jase.” He pushed away from the wall, preparing to go back to work before they officially opened for business. “Any woman who doesn’t like the scent of evergreen and uses a fake tree for Christmas isn’t the woman for me.”
And that was putting it mildly. In all seriousness, whoever the future Mrs. Bailey turned out to be needed to love Christmas as much as he did. Christmas wasn’t just a season--it was his livelihood. His heritage. He glanced around, taking in the acres and acres of trees in various stages of growth.
Bailey’s had been farming this land for more than one-hundred years. His great-grandfather had bought the property with the intent to farm cotton, but the ground had been a bit too rocky. His wife had
noticed the native Scotch pines grew quite prettily and had suggested letting families come out and cut their trees at Christmas as a way to bring in some extra cash. Her suggestion had turned into a profitable business that had been handed down for the past two generations. To this day, they still used his great-grandmother’s sugar cookie recipe to offer to their customers.
“I’m sorry, Hank. That sucks. I was hoping she might be the one.”
Hank shrugged. He was beginning to wonder if The One existed. For all of his complaining about his brother butting into his romance life, Hank had to admit that he’d begun to seriously miss being in a committed relationship.
He had been, once.
He’d been in his early twenties, just out of college and had fallen ass over end for a girl who worked for their local radio station selling advertising. Hell, even her name had been perfect. Noelle.
Unfortunately, while Hank had been thinking happily-ever-after Noelle had been secretly balling her much older--and richer--boss. Who was married. The boss left his wife and family for Hank’s faithless girlfriend and, as far as Hank knew, they were still together.
Needless to say, the whole experience had left him with a bad taste in his mouth and a general distrust for women that he hadn’t been completely successful in shaking. Like Jason said, he managed to always find fault and he knew that the fear of getting hurt--of being cuckolded again--was no small part of the problem.
Furthermore, though it shouldn’t matter how he met his Ms. Right, Hank longed for a more “organic” meeting and, despite all logic, clung to the idealistic idea that he would simply know when he found the right girl for him. Irrational? Pathetically romantic? Unrealistic?
Yes, to all of the above.
But he couldn’t shake the notion, no matter how impractical it might seem.
“Hank?”
Hank’s gaze swung to Brody Foster, one of the troubled teens who’d been working on the farm since the beginning of summer. Hank had a soft spot, in particular, for this kid. Absentee father, harried, mostly-disinterested mother who couldn’t be bothered to properly care for her child. Like most teenagers who were left to their own devices, Brody had developed a talent for getting into trouble. No drugs, thank God. Just your typical run-of-the-mill thug-in-the-making behavior. Since he’d been working here though, the boy seemed more focused and appeared to be doing better.
“Yeah?” Hank said.
“Your mother told me to tell you that the lady who’s supposed to do her community service work is here.”
Jason perked up. “The Santa Slugger? She’s here now?”
Brody grinned. “Yes, sir.”
Vivian Foster--aka The Santa Slugger around here--had become a hot topic of conversation ever since last week when Hank had gotten a call from Judge Moroz’s clerk about possibly accommodating him in a community service project. Though he’d thought it a bit of an odd request, Hank imagined that his work with the local teen center had prompted the idea.
Furthermore, what better place for a woman who’d attacked Santa Claus to do her community service than at a Christmas Tree Farm? Hank grinned. This Judge Moroz had a very interesting sense of humor.
“What’s she like?” Jason wanted to know.
“Short,” Brody told him. “It’s hard to imagine her laying into Big Red.”
“Don’t let her size fool you,” Jase said, chuckling darkly. “It’s the short ones you have to look out for. They’ve usually got a terrible temper.”
Hank felt a smile tug at his lips. “Are you referring to our mother or your wife?”
“Both.”
Hank was inclined to agree. His mother was as loving as the day was long, but when she got angry... She was like a little tornado, wreaking havoc to everything around her. He hadn’t seen Angelica display that sort of a temper yet, but no doubt his brother had and from the look on Jason’s face, he actually liked the occasional storm. Moonstruck moron, Hank thought, peeling off his gloves.
“She’s in the gift shop then?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thanks for letting me know, Brody. I’ll head over there now.” He started toward the small gingerbread-type cottage that housed their bakery and gift shop.
“I’ll come with you,” Jason piped up, falling into step beside him. “I want to get a look at this girl.”
“She’s not here for your entertainment. She’s here to work.”
“Yes, for free. I like her already, don’t you?”
Hank stifled a smile. “It’s not for free. She’s fulfilling her debt to society.”
“Well, I’m glad that she’s paying it here. Lately Angelica’s been a little too tired to--“ He cleared his throat and the tops of his ears turned pink. “An extra pair of hands in the gift shop will be nice. I know they can use the help.”
“Who says she’s going to get a cushy job in the gift shop?” Hank asked. “Judge Moroz indicated that he wanted this to be unpleasant for her so that she doesn’t become a repeat offender.”
“A repeat offender?” he asked, his eyes widening. “You think she’s going to become some sort of serial Santa slugger? She’s going to travel from mall to mall attacking hired Saint Nick’s?” He snorted.
Hank would admit it was a bit of a stretch. Still, he’d given his word that he would make her work in every area of the farm, not just the gift shop. Naturally, how long she worked in each position was at his discretion, but he certainly wasn’t going to ignore his promise.
“What if she’s old? You’re going to make some short old lady help pull trees?”
“Of course, not.” But, for whatever reason, he hadn’t gotten the impression that she was an “old lady.” He mounted the steps to the gift shop, then pulled open the door and stepped inside.
A blanket of warmth washed over him and the familiar scent of cinnamon, sugar and cider reached his senses. No matter how many times he’d come into this shop, he never failed to appreciate the very essence of Christmas it evoked. A cozy blaze crackled in the stacked stone fireplace, holiday music played from hidden speakers and the occasional blow of the horn from the antique train set that circled on a specially-built track near the ceiling never failed to make him feel a bit like a kid again. How could anyone not like Christmas? Hank wondered. It was the most wonderful time of the year. He breathed deeply...then completely lost his breath as the Santa Slugger turned around.
His body went into an instant, scorching full-on burn. A tingly wave of prickly sensation started at the bottoms of his feet and swept upward, followed by an all over shiver he could thankfully blame on the cold.
One look, a mere three seconds in her company and he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. She was sexual perfection. Utterly gorgeous. He went instantly hard, just looking at her.
“Ah, here he is now,” he heard his mother say, seemingly from very far away.
Her eyes were the most curious shade of blue he’d ever seen. Deep, almost purple, sparkling with intelligence. Heavily fringed with long lashes, they put him in mind of sugared violets, which somehow seemed appropriate because every inch of her was utterly delectable. She was short, but extremely curvy--particularly her rump. Jet black curly hair tumbled almost to her shoulders beneath a charming red beret. She had smooth ivory skin, rosy plump cheeks, a tiny little nose and a pair of mouthwateringly perfect Cupid’s bow lips. She put him in mind of one of his mother’s china dolls, only fully grown and sexy as hell.
For starters, his mother’s dolls didn’t have breasts.
A flash of what looked like recognition lit her unusual gaze, but Hank was certain he’d never met her before.
He wouldn’t have forgotten.
He extended his hand and the moment her dainty little fingers closed over his, a jolt of indefinable emotion traveled up his arm along with the electrical current that rooted his feet to the floor and made every hair on his head prickle with awareness.
And in that instant he knew. Call it intuition, ca
ll it psychic ability, call it shades of Tom Hanks in Sleepless In Seattle.
He knew.
There would be no finding fault with this woman because every cell in his body told him she was absolutely perfect, and oh how he wanted her.
CHAPTER 3
It was him, Viv thought as that vaguely familiar smile shaped the sexiest masculine mouth she’d ever had the pleasure to gaze upon. Slightly crooked, inherently open and at once endearing.
Her shallow breath stuttered out of her lungs and a bolt of heat landed in her womb. Impossibly, her breasts ripened in her bra and an unmistakably current of need coiled low in her belly. It was him, only the mature version. Six and half feet of rugged, muscled, flannel and denim clad male. The scent of cedar clung to him along with something else, an intriguing combination of citrus and patchouli. It made her want to lean into him and then lick the side of his neck. Her lips quirked.
Of course, she should probably shake his hand first.
His big hand closed over hers and she had the oddest sensation of both simultaneously falling and taking root. Her feet felt like they’d been cemented to the floor, while the rest of her body seemed to be floating. The air around them seemed to thicken with awareness and she was struck with the curious urge to reach up and thread her fingers through his wavy dark brown locks. The contrast between the rich shade of his hair and those pale grey eyes was unbelievable striking, left her a bit breathless.
“Hank Bailey,” he said, his smooth baritone sliding over her like warm caramel. “You must be Vivian.”
“Viv please,” she automatically corrected. “The only person who ever calls me Vivian is my mother and it’s usually when I’ve incurred her wrath.”
His smile widened and he jerked his head toward his own mother, a spry sixty-something with graying hair and keen blue eyes. “She’s been known to call me Henry on occasion so I know exactly what you mean.”
“I only call him Henry when he deserves it,” his mother interjected. “Thankfully it isn’t that often.”
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