Humbugged

by Pippa Grant

  Ghosts don’t talk.

  And also there’s no such thing as ghosts.

  I’m probably going crazy from a mixture of work stress and life stress and the guilty certainty that I alone am responsible for the Great Senior Caroling Toot Tragedy last night.

  “Speaking of toots,” I mutter, circling back around to my pantry. I double-check the ingredients I used to make the gingerbread men, but everything seems in order.

  Everything, aside from the dusty flour fingerprints on the inside of the pantry door.

  Dusty, man-sized fingerprints that I swear weren’t there earlier. Were they?

  Looks like my ghost is a dude.

  Either that, or someone has been in my bakery, messing with my stuff.

  Is it a testimony to my crazy that my gut is voting ghost?

  I shake my head. This is getting ridiculous.

  There is no such thing as ghosts. And there were a dozen firefighters here last night, and I had so much to clean up that I probably just missed these prints.

  Still…should I call the sheriff?

  And say what exactly? Hi, I found some dusty fingerprints that might be a ghost’s, or might be a firefighter’s, or might belong to someone who’s trying to sabotage my bakery?

  “They’d think I lost my marbles,” I mutter to myself. So my gingerbread cookies gave some senior citizens some gas? So I had a hallucination about a ghost? So I found some fingerprints I hadn’t paid attention to before?

  So what?

  I square my shoulders. “Thank you for sharing your space with me,” I tell the ghost again, and I get back to work.

  But for the rest of the day—whether there are customers in the shop or not—I don’t feel alone. And when I leave to meet Cassie at the curb just before six, I leave a white chocolate cupcake on the prep table as a peace offering—just in case.

  But I’m still on edge most of the rest of the day.

  At least until I get to Hope’s place, where I’m determined to hide my crazy and be the kind of friend I’d like to have.

  Eight

  Clint

  I love the Marines.

  I love being a Marine and I love the Corps itself. I love being part of something bigger than myself, getting jobs done that no other branch of the military is equipped to handle, and turning in at the end of the day knowing my blood, sweat, and tears have made the world a better place.

  But most of all, I love the people I’ve met in my six years of duty. They’re some of the most amazing, loyal, hard-working men and women in the world. Can’t deny that being here, away from the hustle and bustle of life on post, I miss my comrades from time to time, even though I love being so close to my family.

  When I was first assigned to this recruiting gig, I wasn’t sure it was in my wheelhouse. I live for a challenging mission and the adrenaline rush of never knowing what’s coming next. Of using my natural talents to help people.

  I didn’t see how I’d be making a firsthand difference if I wasn’t out in the field or training to be out in the field every day.

  But educating the best and the brightest Georgia has to offer on what the Marines can offer them has been an incredible experience so far. It is my honor and privilege to recruit the badass Marines of the future.

  And as an added bonus, I’ve gotten to know my sisters-in-law better than I could from afar. And they love me, naturally, which means at least once a week I get a heads up from one of them that there’s extra food at her place I’m welcome to pick up for dinner on my way home.

  I love to cook—my manliness extends to complete domination of the culinary arts—but I’m not about to turn down Hope’s homemade beef stew. She does something with the carrots, soaks them in balsamic or crack rock or something. I’ve only had it once before, but I may or may not have broken into her house the next day while she was out working with the animals to steal the rest of the leftovers—and blamed it on George—and I can’t wait to get that stew in my belly again.

  Food, man.

  That’s where it’s at.

  My last session at the career fair over in Griffin ran late so by the time I pull into the animal sanctuary parking lot, it’s already dark. But the moon is out, illuminating a peaceful view of Hope’s farmhouse, the pens and stalls nearby—decorated with softly-glowing multicolored lights—and the browning winter fields and barn beyond. It’s a sweet patch of land, and close enough to Jace’s property, where I’m staying in the cabin that used to be Blake’s, that my older brothers can cut through the woods to get to poker night without having to drive.

  Which is perfect. They drink more beer than they would if they were getting behind the wheel, and I take their money even faster than usual.

  I’m grinning as I bound up the stairs to the house, already anticipating our next poker night and the payday that’ll come. I fully intend to mock Blake about how much of his hard-earned winery money I’m going to slip into my pocket, but when I step into the kitchen he’s nowhere to be seen.

  The kitchen is deserted, aside from a note on the microwave and the oh-so-delicious smell of stew lingering in the air.

  I pluck the sticky off the glass, hit the add one minute button three times—two is too few, and four is too many to properly reheat a dinner plate. Write that down, live it, love it—and scan the brief note.

  There’s a Tupperware bowl with more leftovers in the fridge. If you want to take the rest of the stew home, feel free. Cassie, Noelle, and I are up in the barn taking animal Christmas pics. Come say hi before you go!

  Instantly, I stand up straighter and every cell in my body perks up like a dog hearing the ice cream truck heading up the lane.

  Noelle.

  I possibly shouldn’t be this excited to see a woman who has made up her mind to resist my Rugged and Rambunctious Charm, but man, the way she smiles at me… That smile sets my interest meter at a twenty-seven out of ten.

  And I have a feeling her smile is about more than admiring my forearm porn.

  You don’t walk around with a virtually irresistible wrist-to-elbow region like mine without getting used to the attention. You bet I notice—I notice everything; I’m trained to—but I don’t let it go to my head.

  Yes, I exercise like an animal, but I’m also naturally gifted with gorgeously shaped forearms and it’s not in good taste to get a big head about something that comes easily.

  I’ll get a big head about my protein cookies, instead.

  The ones I got up early to make this morning after lying awake in bed thinking about a certain Cupcake for way too long.

  The ones that just happen to be in my truck on the off chance I ran into Noelle while on the way home tonight—taking the long way through town for an excuse to swing through her orbit.

  As one does when he has it bad for a certain Cupcake.

  I wolf down my stew in five minutes instead of savoring each succulent little carrot, bound back out of the house to my truck, and grab the cookies from the glove compartment. After stashing them in my coat pocket, I trot up the path to the barn, toward the sounds of Christmas carols and women’s laughter ringing through the cool evening.

  It’s one of the best sounds on earth.

  I’ve spent enough time helping terrified women and children out of war-torn areas to be grateful for every giggle.

  As I step through the cracked barn door to find Cassie, Hope, and Noelle all doubled over with laughter by a reindeer wearing a thick gold necklace, my heart just about bursts out of my chest. I want to tell them that I’m so glad they’re safe and happy in a country where, for all our problems, most of us are lucky enough to go to bed knowing we’re safe from the kind of violence that ravages so many parts of the world.

  Instead, I cross the dirt-covered floor like a ninja, grab an elf hat from a pile of props in a cardboard box, and slide into the next shot, posing beside my reindeer friend.

  “Yes! Perfect!” Cassie shouts, as Hope cries, “No! The Santa hat, you need the Santa hat,” and erupts
in a fresh wave of laughter as the reindeer turns and starts licking my face like he can’t get enough of my O’Dell musk.

  “Looks like all the ladies love you.” Cassie chuckles as she shuffles over to grab a Santa hat from deeper in the box.

  “Except that Don Juan is a boy.” Hope takes the hat from Cassie and tosses it my way. “Hat on, Mr. Meme. We’re about to make the town InstaChat page very happy.”

  I cast a glance Noelle’s way as I pull on the hat—dodging Don Juan’s enthusiastic tongue long enough to toss the elf cap to Cassie—but she’s quiet. And pale.

  And looking like she’s enjoying the festivities less than she was before I crashed the party…

  Huh. Maybe all the ladies don’t love me?

  But before I can worry that my instincts have steered me wrong when it comes to Cupcake, she smiles and says, “I know how to make them even happier.” She meets my gaze and the warm, hay-scented air is instantly charged with something that wasn’t there before. “I think Mr. Meme needs to lose that shirt.”

  I let my jaw drop dramatically and press a hand to my chest. “Are you objectifying me, Cupcake?”

  “Just trying to give the people what they want, tough guy.” Whatever had her down a minute ago is fading quickly, replaced with sparkling eyes and a smile growing more natural by the second. “Unless you’re shy. Then it’s totally fine to keep your shirt on.”

  My jacket is off and the tight black tee beneath hits the dirt before she can finish her sentence.

  Hope laughs. “Right on, Sexy Santa!”

  Cassie claps her approval with a laugh of her own.

  I’m flattered, but I don’t really care what my sisters-in-law think of my chest. They’d love me if I had a Dad Bod and a Food Baby Belly so big I hadn’t laid eyes on my Thunderstick in years.

  My eyes are all for Cupcake, and Cupcake doesn’t disappoint.

  First her eyes drag down to my belt and back up again. Then her face turns bright red. And then her little pink tongue slips out to wet her lips and I’d bet my favorite pectoral muscle—that’s the left one, if you’re wondering—that she’s thinking about licking something else.

  About licking me.

  And so I start thinking about it too.

  I think about it so much that I’m on the verge of embarrassing myself.

  Gulping oxygen, I force my attention back to the task at hand—giving my modeling session with Don Juan everything I’ve got. I flex and smolder and curl my lip Elvis-style and the girls reward me by laughing until Cassie shouts, “I can’t take anymore! I’m going back to the house before I pee myself.”

  “Make some decaf when you’re done,” Hope calls after her. “I want coffee with my dessert.”

  “Will do.” Cassie waves her fingers my way. “You should join us, Clint. Noelle brought a ridiculous number of cupcakes. And if someone doesn’t help us eat them I’ll end up taking them home and too much sugar is bad for the baby.”

  “Not to mention George Cooney,” Hope adds as Cassie disappears through the barn door. She snaps one last shot of Don Juan and me, with our cheeks pressed together and making duck lips, and puts her camera back in the case. “Ryan’s mom said he was up all night last night with a terrible case of the toots.”

  Noelle stands up straighter, her smile fading as her hands come to her hips. “That settles it. There was definitely something wrong with my cookies. And I think I might have an idea what.” She shakes her head. “Or maybe who… I don’t know.”

  I reach for my shirt, protective instincts blazing. “What happened?”

  “I was double-checking my ingredients today and found flour fingerprints on the inside of the pantry door. Big fingerprints, way too wide to be mine.”

  Hope’s brows shoot up. “Whoa. That’s messed up. Why didn’t you tell us?”

  Noelle glances down. “I keep telling myself it was the ghost, and I didn’t want you to think I was crazy.”

  “Never,” I assure her. “You think someone was in there last night?”

  “Maybe?” She lifts her palms and shrugs. “I mean, the fire department was all over the bakery after my recipe box caught fire, so I guess one of them could have left fingerprints, but—”

  “But Ryan asked them to clean up.” The trouble sensors in my gut are registering blips on the radar. “And they always do a good job for Ryan, even when they’re not getting a pan full of cookie bars for free.”

  Her forehead furrows. “I forgot about the cookie bars. The firefighters didn’t have any, um…tummy troubles last night, did they?”

  “Cassie didn’t say anything about it,” Hope says. “And she and Ryan talk on the phone a lot when he’s at the station.” She squeezes Noelle’s slim shoulder. “And Cassie was fine after eating your cupcake this morning.”

  “She told me not to tell you that she ate one.”

  “She told on herself.” Hope grins. “Cassie can’t keep a secret to save her life. And I’m not about to play sugar police with her. If I were that pregnant, you’d better believe I’d be taking my comfort where I could get it.”

  Noelle nods emphatically. “Ditto.”

  And there goes another wave of weird thoughts dancing like sugarplums through my head.

  Thoughts about what a cute pregnant woman Noelle would be. Sweet. Sexy. Maternal, which is way hotter on Fantasy Noelle than it’s been on any of my sisters-in-law.

  I shake my head and beside me Don Juan shakes his as well. He makes a move as if to lick my face again, but I hold him gently at a distance. “Sorry, buddy. I have to do some thinking. No more time for kissing.”

  “Oh, there’s always time for kissing.” Hope’s lips stretch in goofy, newlywed grin. “But kisses or no kisses, would you mind putting Don back in his stall and giving him a carrot treat from the snack bucket while I clean up the props? He’s in the last pen at the back, beside the sleepy boys.”

  The sleepy boys are Chewy and Tu-Pac, the alpacas, who are already snuggled up in a corner snoozing.

  “I’ll help you tidy up,” Noelle offers, bending to grab an elf outfit, but Hope waves her away.

  “Could you go with Clint and grab those treats for Don Juan? I’m a little afraid to leave the two of them alone. Don’s a sweetheart, but his horns are big enough to do damage if he turns on the love while Clint’s back is turned.”

  Noelle shoots an anxious look my way. “Oh, I’m sure Clint doesn’t need backup. I could go visit the kittens.”

  “They’re asleep too,” Hope says.

  Have I mentioned I love my sisters-in-law? “And I absolutely need backup,” I say. “Get over here, Private Cupcake. You’re on snack duty. Grab those carrots, soldier.”

  “I’m going to grab your carrot in a minute,” she grumbles on her way past me.

  “My carrot and I would be honored. Anytime.”

  She stumbles, catches herself, spins, and pins me with a narrow look. I lift the hand not busy holding Don Juan’s bridle in surrender. “I was kidding. Unless you’d rather I be serious. Then I was serious.”

  Her lips quirk, but she doesn’t crack a smile until I add, “Though honestly I’m probably more of a mini-gherkin than a carrot.”

  Victory comes in the form of her surprised laugh. “Right. That’s where your abundance of confidence comes from. Your mini-gherkin.”

  “I’ve learned to overcome my shortcomings,” I deadpan as we head toward the pens.

  She hums thoughtfully. “Well, then, you’re a special kind of man. In my experience, for most guys there’s a direct correlation between confidence and the size of their carrot.” She glances over her shoulder, cheeks pinker than they were before. “Though how we got on this subject, I have no idea.”

  “You threatened my carrot. My carrot was unafraid. Flirting ensued.”

  The amusement fades from her delicate features as she opens the door to Don Juan’s stall. “Clint, I think we should talk.”

  “Agreed.” I guide Don Juan inside with a pat on the rump. “We
need to find out who’s breaking into your bakery. I’ve got a good buddy with the county sheriff’s department. I’ll get him out to lift prints first thing tomorrow.”

  She nods, but then almost immediately starts shaking her head. “Thank you, but we don’t need to talk about that.” She looks up at me and winces. “Could you take off the Santa hat? Please?”

  “Sure, but why?”

  There’s definitely a story here. Even someone with half my powers of observation would pick up on the way she’s suddenly more interested in picking lint off her sweater and studying the latch on the pen than in looking at me.

  But I’m still not prepared for what slips out of her mouth.

  “A mall Santa broke my heart, stole my coffee mug, and killed my reindeer dreams.”

  My jaw slips as her words register, and before I can stop myself, I burst out laughing.

  I shouldn’t. I know this. But what’s a guy supposed to say to a bombshell like that?

  This woman. She’s like a country song. A really funny, really sweet, kind of sad country song I want to learn all of the words to by heart.

  And then write her a new ending verse.

  Nine

  Noelle

  “It’s not funny.” I cross my arms at my chest, trying to glare Clint out of his laugh attack, but he only chuckles harder, though he has the decency to look contrite about it.

  Naturally.

  Because only Clint O’Dell could look sorry for laughing while he’s busting a gut. If men got the giggles, that’s what he’d have, but there’s no way I’d call those manly rumbles that he’s trying to suppress giggles.

  Finally I find a small smile of my own. Most people would just say my ex-boyfriend scarred me for Santas for life, but even that’s unusual.