Humbugged

by Pippa Grant

  She tilts her head, studying me as something shifts behind her brown eyes. “You’re a really happy guy.”

  “Yeah. I don’t do sad.”

  She arches a brow. “We all do sad sometimes. Whether we like it or not.”

  I acknowledge her point with a nod and make the necessary correction. “It takes a lot to make me sad. I find it easy to choose happy most of the time.”

  “That’s awesome,” she says.

  And there’s that sexily determined set to her jaw again.

  She’s so tiny. Short and slender. Like an elf. Her apron is covered in dancing reindeer with lights decorating their antlers and her earrings are holly berry clusters and she’s just so fucking cute I want to throw her over my shoulder and head for the hot chocolate stand right now.

  Or maybe someplace less wholesome than the hot chocolate stand…

  I’d take out a horde of angry geese with my bare hands to see her in a reindeer headband, that candy cane-striped bra, and nothing else. Except maybe a Christmas light necklace.

  Holiday jewelry is weirdly arousing.

  “Not always awesome.” I fight to bring my thoughts back onto safer ground. “At least not everyone thinks so. My brothers get pretty pissed when I break into their houses at dawn to force a dance party.”

  “You can’t force a dance party.”

  “You can if you’re playing ‘Gonna Make You Sweat’ at top volume.”

  She frown-smiles. “What on earth is that?”

  “C+C Music Factory? From the 80s or very early 90s?” I hum a few bars. Shake my hips. Bop my head.

  She laughs, a beautiful sound that ends in another shriek when her gaze drops to the ground between us. “Raccoons! Cookies!”

  I spin, squat, and get right in George’s face. His kit scrambles out of the leftover cookie box with a smear of frosting on his little face. Which one is that? Goober Smooch? Pickle? I can’t tell the younger trash pandas apart.

  Whoever he is, he’s smart enough to recognize authority.

  George, however, returns my challenging stare, a gingerbread cookie leg dangling from his mouth.

  “Don’t eat cookies in the form of the man who feeds you,” I tell the masked bandit.

  He doesn’t move.

  He doesn’t keep chewing, but he doesn’t spit the leg out either.

  “You want to go back on the ice and crickets diet?”

  He plucks the cookie from his lips, rubs it on his furry belly as if marking it with his scent for later, mic drops it, and waddles out of the box. Pretty sure he flips me the finger on the way out too, but it takes more than a cranky raccoon to hurt my feelings.

  “It’s for your own good, George. Go back to Grandma’s house. Have some private time with Sticky Fingers. And maybe Santa will bring you an extra big bag of popcorn this year.”

  I straighten, cookie box in hand, and catch Noelle flinching again.

  Because I said private time? Grandma? Popcorn?

  This woman has secrets. And I want to know them. Every single one. “What’s your story, Cupcake?”

  “My story?” She blinks innocently, but I’m not buying the act for a second. “I don’t have a story.”

  “Everyone has a story. You have family? Where’d you come from? Why Happy Cat? Everyone treating you nice? You need anything? Spill it.” I shove the cookie box in the back of her car, close the hatchback, lean against it, and wait.

  I’m good at waiting.

  And I’ll wait a damned long time for the goods on Cupcake. She’s fascinating. A mystery. An adorable, intriguing mystery I’d like to solve one kiss at a time.

  “I…” She shakes her head with a laugh. “Are you this nice to everyone?”

  “Do you avoid questions from everyone?”

  “I don’t— I’m not— I just had a bad Christmas…a few times. And I’m tired of bad Christmases.” She smiles her determined smile. “So I’m making this a good one. No matter what. But I don’t want to talk too much about the gory details of Christmas past, okay? Or I’m afraid I’ll get sucked back into the bad, and I want the good this year.”

  I nod slowly. “Good for you, Cupcake. Everyone should know they deserve the good.”

  She catches her lower lip between her teeth and studies me like she wants to ask another question, but instead, she hums a warning to someone—me? herself?—beneath her breath and reaches for her car door.

  I catch her elbow gently between two fingers. “Did I say something wrong?”

  “No. It’s not you. You’re great.” She turns back to me with a sigh. “It’s…other stuff.”

  “Other stuff?”

  “Bad stuff. Sad stuff. Stupid stuff.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “Sounds like you could use a friendly neighborhood distraction.”

  She arches a brow. “You certainly are distracting…”

  I decide to take that as a compliment and wink. “I also have a hook-up with the hot chocolate stand. Get extra whipped cream for free.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Noelle asks, a teasing note in her voice. “That’s pretty hot.”

  “Damned straight it is. And I’ll hook you up, woman,” I say, playing along. “You stick close to me tonight and I’ll keep you smiling.”

  She shoots me a look that almost knocks me off my feet. I’ve seen Noelle freaked out. I’ve seen her determined. I’ve seen her making the best of things.

  I haven’t seen her glow.

  But right now her eyes are brighter than every Christmas tree in the county put together.

  “I bet you will,” she murmurs. “You make me so…”

  “I make you so…?” I coax when she’s silent for a beat too long and my curiosity starts to kill me a little.

  “Warm,” she says, laughing self-consciously as she clarifies, “Inside. Warm inside.” She blushes. “That sounds even weirder, I just meant that you make me feel warm in a happy way. That being around you makes me…happy.”

  I can’t explain what’s going on in my chest right now, but seeing a woman choose to let go of an ugly past and forge a better path for herself? That’s an aphrodisiac I didn’t see coming.

  And I want more. “Meet you by the hot chocolate stand at seven?”

  She slowly nods. “Yeah. We can all use more friends, right?”

  Friends.

  Oh, Cupcake.

  Friends isn’t going to cut it.

  But sure. We’ll start there. “Absolutely.”

  Five

  Noelle

  I pull up to my shop wearing the goofiest of all goofy grins.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve had a grin attack like this.

  The morning after Derrick walked out of our shared apartment—without warning, the day before we were supposed to leave on a romantic vacation to Alaska to frolic with real-life reindeer—I woke up hungover, hopeless, and certain all my grins were behind me. It was all I could manage to wipe the grit from my eyes and drag my sour stomach and swimming head to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. Opening the cabinet to discover Derrick had taken my favorite mug with him when he left, I’d assumed things couldn’t get worse.

  Then I sat down to check my email and learned that I was now the proud owner of a run-down, long-vacant, possibly rodent-infested flower shop in a small town in Nowheresville, Georgia that I’d purchased on Craigslist while I was drunk—completely emptying my savings in the process—and realized I’d kicked myself while I was down.

  Adulthood has kinda been like that for me.

  One big mistake, followed by a series of smaller, ridiculous mistakes, followed by another doozy of a “WTF have I done?” disaster. Ever since I turned eighteen.

  But the good thing about making lots of mistakes?

  You learn to make the best of things and move on.

  I did want a fresh start, away from Derrick and all the memories we’d made in Atlanta, the place I’d believed would be my forever home with my forever love. So maybe the Craigslist Disaster was a blessing in disguise.<
br />
  Deciding this line of thinking was in my best interest, I gave my landlord thirty days’ notice, packed up what remained of my life, honored the last of my commitments with my photography business, and trundled up the highway to start my brand new life.

  Mercifully, the flower shop wasn’t infested with rodents and converting it to a bakery was pretty simple, thanks to a going-out-of-business sale at a diner two towns over, where I scored some sweet vintage appliances and a gorgeous stove. And the people of Happy Cat are so nice, and as passionate about their sugar as they are their sex toys. Despite the bad luck that’s plagued my products since this past summer, I have loads of pleased customers, people who don’t seem to care that my cupcakes tend to split down the middle as soon as they’re removed from the wrapper and that it’s a miracle if I’m able to get a cake delivered without something strange happening to the icing.

  Second Chance Cupcakes has given me my second chance.

  Or maybe my fifteenth chance at this point.

  But this second chance is a keeper so far, and I’m choosing to be grateful for the good stuff instead of dwelling on the things that have gone awry.

  So the gingerbread men fell to pieces? It’s no big deal. The senior citizens had fun, I had fun, and Clint O’Dell surprised me in the best way.

  He seems like a genuinely nice guy, one I’ll be able keep safely in the friend zone moving forward.

  I’m not saying it will be easy, by any means. But after today, the effort to resist his dreamy green eyes and swoon-worthy body seems worth it. He’s just so sweet and positive and fun to be around. And he’s good with old people and young people and raccoons and reindeer and…me.

  He’s good with me…

  The thought makes me blush.

  Clint O’Dell. Reindeer and Noelle whisperer.

  I push into the back door of the bakery, giggling to myself at the idea of making my own meme and—wow.

  When you start participating in the inside jokes, you’re home, right?

  Happy Cat is home.

  It’s one more thing to celebrate this season.

  I switch on the radio, and “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer” comes on.

  Which, naturally, makes me think of Clint. And caroling tonight. And how much I’m looking forward to seeing him again. Which is fine! And nothing to fret about! It’s perfectly acceptable to be excited about spending time with a new friend.

  I put the dishes in the sink to be washed and pull the tips off the piping bags, humming along to the catchy chorus. And then I turn around and—shit!

  The refrigerator is cracked open.

  How is the refrigerator cracked open?

  I yank on the door handle, and inside everything’s sweating. The milk. The eggs. The eggnog carton. Even the butter.

  “Fudge nuggets,” I mutter, nibbling on my thumb as my thoughts race.

  The ingredients are fine now, but they can’t be trusted to be saved for later. I need to use all the potentially compromised goods. Now. And then have a blowout sale on…

  On something holiday-ish…

  Shortbread? Cookie bars? But what about the milk?

  Pudding! Yes!

  Problem solved. Who doesn’t love pudding? Especially after a big night of caroling?

  I will overcome this bump in the road with an act of kindness for my fellow carolers and some dark chocolate and peppermint cookie bars to sell two-for-one in the shop tomorrow. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

  I eyeball the lemons in the bottom drawer, considering whipping up some lemon bars too, but the fruit will keep and I’m on a timeline. I have to be ready to head out the door to meet Clint a little before seven.

  I pour myself a big glass of eggnog, tip in a shot of whiskey, and get to work.

  The timing’s going to be tight, but I can do it.

  I can get everything made.

  And spread all the cheer tonight.

  I crank the holiday tunes louder and dance around the kitchen while I cream the butter and sugar for the cookie bars and measure the milk over my industrial stovetop. When I bought the shop, there was a sink in here, and a walk-in refrigerator—flowers have to stay cold too—but everything needed work to get back into tip-top shape.

  It was worth it, though. All the renovations have resulted in a workspace that makes me feel safe and happy, like I was when I was a kid, spending long afternoons with Terry in her kitchen making enough sweets to feed the entire base.

  I add the flour, baking soda, and salt mixture to the creamed butter and sugar, still smiling.

  Clint’s right. Dance parties are the best, even if they’re solo dance parties.

  I tip half the flour into my industrial-size mixer, stir the milk heating on the stove, measure the sugar, eggs, cocoa, and other ingredients for the pudding, then pop back to the mixer again to drop in the baking powder.

  I am a multi-tasking baking goddess!

  Soon, I’m spreading the cookie dough into a greased pan and popping it into the oven. I turn back to the milk, thoughts of pudding cups dancing in my head, to find my recipe box going up in flames on my stovetop.

  “No!”

  I race across the kitchen, sliding over my prep table to grab the fire extinguisher off the wall as the smoke alarms split the air.

  I pull the pin, aim the extinguisher, and squeeze the trigger.

  Foam shoots out.

  I’m propelled backward, straight into a brick wall.

  But it’s not a wall, of course. My walls are made of plaster and this brick wall is already wrapping an arm around my waist and dragging me toward the exit.

  “Get out,” Clint yells over the blaring alarm. “I’ve got this.”

  He plucks the extinguisher from my hands, aims, and fires, sweeping it in controlled strokes back and forth across the stove, putting out the fire and soaking the smoldering remains of my poor recipe box.

  I choke back a sob. Those were Terry’s recipes, written in her cramped but beloved handwriting.

  “Head outside, Cupcake,” Clint repeats.

  “But the fire’s out,” I say with a sniff.

  “Still needs to be checked. And the fire department is already on the way.”

  Sure enough, a second later sirens wail outside.

  Tears threaten, but I’m the daughter of a Marine, dammit. My dad wouldn’t cry. I won’t cry. I can find new recipes. There’s this thing called the internet where I can source similar desserts, and I’ve made most of the recipes so many times I can recite them from memory.

  But…I won’t have any more in Terry’s handwriting.

  “Noelle. Outside,” Clint orders again.

  “Nope. This baker goes down with her ship.” I grab my tallest step stool, plop it to the ground under the smoke alarm, and climb up and pull the battery out.

  Finally. Peace.

  “Noelle,” Clint insists, but firemen swarm in the back door before he can issue any more orders.

  “It’s okay,” I say, waving at the firefighters, embarrassed that they’ve rushed over here for nothing. “Just a little kitchen fire. It’s under control now.”

  Ryan, Clint’s oldest brother, flips up his face shield. “We still need you to leave while we check it out. Sorry, Noelle.” He turns to Clint. “You too, Mr. I don’t burn in fire, fire burns in me.”

  “Nice one,” Jessie, the fire chief says, pushing up the sleeves on her jacket. “But inspect first. Write memes about your brother later. Civilians—out.”

  “C’mon, Cupcake.” Before I can climb down, Clint scoops me up with one big arm—holding me like he did the other night, like I don’t weigh enough to necessitate two hands—and marches through the flock of firefighters to the back door.

  I cast one last, longing look at the blackened mass of my recipe box and sag against his chest in defeat.

  And his chest feels good. Like always.

  Too good.

  “I didn’t put it on the stove,” I say as Clint deposits me in the alley behind my sh
op. “The recipe box was on my prep table. Not the stove. Who puts a plastic recipe box on a gas stovetop?”

  He frowns. “You were alone?”

  I nod miserably. “I’m a one-woman shop, and the front door was locked.”

  “Huh.” He reaches out, giving my arm a comforting squeeze. “It’s going to be okay, Cupcake. We’ll work this out.”

  “Thanks, I—”

  “Everything okay out here?” a feminine voice asks from my right. I turn to see Steph Wilson’s curly brown head sticking out of the accounting firm’s back door. There’s a concerned expression on her usually unflappable face.

  You have to be unflappable to do people’s taxes. It’s a rule.

  “It’s fine, just a little kitchen fire,” I say.

  “Kitchen fire, oh, no!” A second, higher-pitched voice squeaks from the back door on my other side. It’s Gigi, the adorable, horn-rimmed-glasses-wearing owner of the bookstore. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, thanks. Sorry to bother you two.”

  “Not bothered at all,” Steph says with a crisp and assuring nod. “Just glad you’re all right.”

  Gigi tuts sympathetically. “Ditto. See you at the caroling later?”

  “See you there.” I wave at the two women, waiting until they disappear into their respective places of business before I pace down the alley, rubbing my upper arms as I walk around the firetruck. I pretend to be mesmerized by the flashing lights, but it’s just a ploy to put some space between me and this man who makes me feel he can handle anything the crazy world throws his way. Because he’s a Marine.

  Like my dad.

  But Dad wasn’t a force of nature the way Clint is—Clint is bottled-up sunlight under pressure, on the verge of exploding and drenching the world with goodness. Dad’s hugs made me feel safe, but they never brought me the kind of easy, happy peace I feel when Clint’s close enough to touch.

  But a man isn’t going to solve my problems.

  I learned that the hard way. I thought I’d found my happy ending with Derrick, but I only ended up more lost than I was before. It’s time to stand on my own two feet, to create my own happiness and make my way more carefully in the world from here on out.