Humbugged

by Pippa Grant

  “Snowmen After Dark?” she asks as the door snaps closed behind me.

  “It’s a family thing,” I say through the screen. “At Ryan’s place on the longest night of the year. There’s mulled wine, cookies, creative snow rolling, inappropriate use of carrots… And usually at least one person gets drunk enough to glitter his beard and hang makeshift Christmas ornaments on it.”

  She grins. “Sounds like fun. Sign me up.”

  “Think about it first, and give me your answer tonight,” I say. “Once I’ve accepted a mission I don’t turn back, Cupcake. Especially a mission like this one.”

  “Good,” she says, holding my gaze. “Me, either. See you tonight, Mr. Meme. Although, if I agree to this Snowmen After Dark thing, I refuse to grow a beard for the event. I’d have to glitter…something else.”

  Fuck. The idea of Noelle’s body glittered up and decorated is making me impossibly harder, and it’s making my gut ache with need. I need to hustle my ass inside and take a cold shower before work.

  “See you tonight, beautiful.” I force myself to head inside and get dressed. Because I am a Marine and duty comes before pleasure.

  But I would be lying if I said I wasn’t sporting a hard-on half the way to Jackson.

  My big head is all about discipline, but the little one?

  Well, he’s all about Noelle Alwyn and counting the seconds until he sees her tonight.

  Fourteen

  Noelle

  You’re mine.

  Clint’s words—spoken in a deep, no-bullshit, oh-so-sexy voice—echo through my ears all morning, and the moment his towel fell off plays on endless repeat in my head. Throughout shopping for industrial-sized containers of flour and sugar at the bulk store two towns over and the drive back to Happy Cat, all I can think of is the moment I’ll see him again.

  And then I arrive back at the bakery to find half the town has shown up to rally behind me, and I get fizzy inside for completely different reasons.

  Having over a dozen people offer to help me clean up the mess and get started on today’s baking fills my heart with a feeling as cozy as the inside of my oven-warmed shop. And then my phone starts ringing off the hook with orders for holiday sheet cakes and cupcake platters and more townsfolk than I’ve ever seen in one morning wander in my front door, eager to try the new holiday specials.

  By ten AM, I’m tearing up a little.

  Eunice and Phoebe drop in as my cheering section. Steph from the accounting firm next door leaves her number and asks to be texted at the end of the day so the firm can buy what’s left of my inventory. And Maud and Gerald Hutchins, who own the other bakery in town, come bearing extra cleaning supplies.

  It reminds me of the best part of my childhood—people on base rallying around each other like family.

  But even as gratitude for this feeling of belonging settles deep in my chest, in the breaks between customers and visitors, I can’t stop seeing Clint O’Dell naked.

  Clint. O’Dell.

  Naked.

  If there’s a sexier sight on God’s green earth then I’ll make a batch of bean flour penis-shaped cookies and eat the entire thing.

  Though they’d have to be perfectly shaped, perfectly long, perfectly thick penis cookies…

  I’ve never been the type to obsess about the size of a man’s bits and pieces—I figure as long as he’s big enough that he’s not going to end up slipping into home without my being aware of it, then we’re fine. In my experience, size really isn’t all that important. It really is the motion of the ocean—and the way the captain looks into my eyes while he steers his ship—that puffs up my water wings.

  But if I said I wasn’t irrationally excited by the thought of becoming special friends with Clint’s gloriously perfect peen, I would be a filthy liar.

  “Liar, liar, underpants on fire,” I whisper beneath my breath as the last of my morning customers depart and thoughts of that towel falling off once again take up permanent space in the front of my brain.

  My kitchen is spotless. I have every last muffin tin filled and in my oven. And my morning helpers saw to all the dirty dishes before departing to spread more holiday cheer around town.

  There’s nothing at all to stop me from daydreaming about all the filthy, frosting-filled fantasies I’m planning on exploring with Clint.

  At least, until I spot Cassie and Olivia crossing the street a few minutes later, heading to my front door with armfuls of Tupperware, containing what I can only assume is a BBQ taco feast. Olivia’s dressed in a flowy dress beneath a sparkly gold knit sweater, and Cassie’s wearing a black sweatshirt with a huge reindeer face across her pregnant belly.

  I can’t tell them the truth about what went down with Clint this morning.

  If Clint and I were dating, that would be one thing. Deciding to be holiday bang buddies is quite another.

  I know Cassie and Olivia both well enough to be certain they wouldn’t judge me for wanting to have a little fun. But the part of me that was raised by a man who encouraged me to keep all of my business private and my private business locked away in a safe so deep inside me that no one will ever find it—let alone guess the combination—isn’t ready to show those cards.

  Besides, it’s really no one else’s business.

  This is between me, Clint, and Clint’s magically magnificent penis.

  “Stop thinking about penis,” I mutter, thunking myself on the forehead with the heel of my palm, hoping to dislodge the phallic thoughts from my mind.

  But when Cassie swings through the door, singing out a cheery, “Hello, we come bearing treats!” my brain is still filled with images of Clint standing in the freezing cold, every inch of him gorgeous in the early morning light.

  There was no shrinkage from the cold there. I don’t think.

  I can’t even imagine that he could actually be any bigger.

  “Thank you,” I say to Cassie. “Not just for the tacos, but for getting so many people to help clean up this morning. Greta said you sent out an SOS. That was just… I’m so touched.”

  “Happy Cat has way more neighbors and friends who love each other than jerks who make newcomers feel unwelcome. I would’ve been here too, but Ryan has this idea that I shouldn’t do any heavy lifting. He doesn’t trust me not to do something that’ll send me into labor.” She sets her Tupperware containers down on the table in the corner and starts to unpack plates, while Olivia deposits her containers next to Cassie’s and wanders to the other side of the small seating area.

  I nod in agreement. “Ryan’s right. That baby needs to keep baking. I wouldn’t have let you lift a finger.”

  She grabs a tortilla with an amused eye roll. “You’re all against me. Oh, and I was going to lie and say I hope these will be good, but the truth is that I already had two of them on the way into town and they’re delicious. Though I did spill some of the pickled jalapenos on my sweater, so if you smell something spicy and sour that isn’t on your taco, it’s me.”

  Laughing, I pop out from behind the counter, swapping the Open sign for one that reads Lunch Time! Be Back Soon! Then I turn back to my new friends. “Water, lemonade or coffee? I also have milk, but milk and tacos sound kind of weird together, right?”

  Cassie cocks her head, her brows lifting. “It does, but also kind of good, right?”

  I wrinkle my nose.

  She laughs. “Right, it’s disgusting, but my pregnant body is into disgusting things so I’ll have milk, please. What about you, Liv?”

  “Just water for me, thank you,” Olivia murmurs, her attention fixed on the opposite wall, where the few pictures I brought with me from Atlanta hang in a crooked row next to a couple of old prints I found in the back room and decided matched my funky-cute vibe. “Is this your father, Noelle? In the uniform?”

  “Yeah, that’s the old man.” I head back into the business part of the bakery to grab drinks. “He had that taken the first time he threatened to retire. Five years later and he’s still headed to work every m
orning.” It occurs to me that he might know Clint, but I probably shouldn’t ask.

  If he does, that could inspire the kind of interrogation that neither one of them would survive. Crotchety seasoned Marine versus horny energetic Marine?

  They would literally die of a staring contest.

  After like seventy-four days, but still… Neither would survive. I swear, women are still the one thing that can level the few, the proud, and otherwise indestructible.

  “I think that’s cool,” Cassie says. “I know we’re supposed to want to be all relaxed and retired someday, but I love my job. I want to keep working until I die. I mean, maybe not as many hours as I was working in San Francisco, or while I was preparing for maternity leave, but…”

  “Yeah, he wouldn’t know what to do if he weren’t Marine-ing full time,” I say, fetching the milk from the fridge. “He’s been in since he was eighteen. Enlisted the minute he found out I was on the way, but I wasn’t really the reason he went into the military. He belongs there. It’s his calling. He’ll have to retire someday, but I don’t actually know what he'll do when that happens.”

  “That’s lovely, to have such a strong sense of purpose,” Olivia says, shifting her attention to the painting next to my father’s picture. “Sometimes I wish I did, instead of drifting wherever the tug of my heart takes me.”

  “But if you didn’t drift, you wouldn’t have ended up in Happy Cat or have your beautiful family,” Cassie says. “And so far that seems to be working out pretty well. Any new words from Miss Clover yet?”

  Olivia beams at Cassie over her shoulder. “Still just dada and mama, but I can feel language building inside her, just waiting to break free. I’ve been putting rosemary under her crib at night to help her achieve clarity.”

  “And she still thinks George and his family are dadas, right?” Cassie winks at me, making me feel included in the joke as I deliver the drinks to the table.

  “Of course.” Olivia turns back to the wall. “And who’s to say George wasn’t one of Jace’s cousins or some other relative in another life? That would explain why he picked Ryan to adopt him. We’re all more than we appear to be. Like this painting…” She lifts one slim hand, tracing the delicately carved wooden frame that showcases a bouquet of flowers.

  It’s one of the paintings I found tucked under a tarp in the back room when I first arrived, all of them a little odd, but too pretty to toss in the dumpster. After a childhood filled with purging every time we moved, I have a sentimental spot for things that look valuable on a personal level.

  The blue vase of bright red flowers is surrounded by several odd-looking pocket watches and what I think is a hummingbird skull. But it’s still lovely and no weirder than a lot of other things in this bakery.

  Like me, for example.

  Or the maple bacon vampire cupcakes with candy corn fangs I whipped up for Halloween this year. They sold out by noon every day, proving there’s a market for odd.

  “What’s your take on that one, Olivia?” I slide into the seat beside Cassie’s and accept a plate of tacos, curious to hear Liv’s thoughts. “I don’t know a lot about fine art—I’ve spent most of my time studying photography—but I think it’s pretty good. I couldn’t believe whoever owned this property forgot it when they closed up shop.”

  “He didn’t leave it behind on accident,” Olivia murmurs. “He left it on purpose. As a warning, I think…”

  The hairs on my arms lift to stand at attention, but I force a laugh. “A warning that selling flowers is a hard way to make a living in Happy Cat?”

  “The men around here aren’t very romantic,” Cassie says. “And so many people ask for donations, in lieu of flowers, at funerals these days.”

  I shiver, not liking the mention of funerals on what’s otherwise such an amazing day. “I love flowers, but they don’t love me. Every time I bring a bouquet in the house I end up sneezing my head off. Which reminds me,” I add, hoping to change the subject. “Is allergy season ever over around here? I swear it feels like I’ve been waking up with itchy eyes since last spring.”

  “No, it never ends,” Cassie says pleasantly. “Hope says the trees are trying to kill us.”

  “They’re just trying to communicate how much they need a nice long winter’s rest,” Olivia says. “Like this painting is trying to communicate how little time we have to make our dreams come true.” She points to the pocket watches, her finger hovering over the canvas. “See, the watches are all stopped at the same time, just before midnight, the time when the day ends, slipping away from us forever. And the hummingbird skull is a classic memento mori.”

  “A reminder that we’re all going to die,” Cassie says, apparently seeing my blank look. “Artists used to put them in their still life paintings all the time in the old days. Just to keep things cheery. Like this light lunch conversation we’re having.” She bites into her taco with gusto, moaning in pleasure as she chews. “Oh my God, this is so good. Come eat, Liv. Lunch first, ghost hunting second.”

  “You should never ghost hunt on an empty stomach,” I joke. “You could get cramps.”

  Olivia swings around, drifting across the room with a smile. But her forehead remains furrowed, even after she’s taken her first bite of BBQ taco and confirmed that Cassie is a brilliant creature who should patent her creation immediately.

  And open a food truck.

  And maybe start a frozen food empire in her spare time before the baby is born.

  “Is everything okay, Olivia?” I finally ask, resisting the urge to grab a fifth taco. I’m not pregnant and have no excuse for gluttony except the fact that I was too keyed up after my run-in with Clint this morning to finish my breakfast.

  Call me crazy, but oatmeal with berries on top felt a little lackluster after spending the drive back to town daydreaming about licking icing off of Clint’s rock hard abs.

  And other rock hard parts…

  “I’ve just been thinking,” Olivia says, scooting slaw around her plate with her fork. “And I wonder if maybe the ghost keeps showing up because he’s trying to warn you that you’re in danger? From whoever keeps breaking into your shop? I mean, we can assume this person’s broken in at least twice, correct?”

  I nod. “At least. Once to swap out my good flour for fart flour before the gingerbread cookie decorating event and then again last night.” I push my plate away. “And yeah, the more I think about it, the more I wonder if at least some of the bad luck I’ve been having since I opened is because someone has been doing their best to help me fail.”

  Cassie hums around the edge of her glass as she drains the last of her milk. “I was wondering about that too. I mean, someone sabotaging you doesn’t explain why George has made it his mission in life to steal your cupcakes—that’s just common sense, because they’re delicious and he’s a sugar fiend—but it would go a long way to explaining other things.”

  “Like my cakes breaking down the middle.”

  “And your icing going gooey at room temperature,” Cassie seconds.

  Olivia nods. “And the unfortunate case of the pudding cups.”

  I arch a brow. “What pudding cups?”

  “The ones that tasted like chocolate and chunky ketchup.” A guilty expression creeps over Cassie’s face. “We didn’t want to say anything about it before. We just assumed you’d made a creative choice to keep the pre-schoolers on their toes during their field trip to the animal sanctuary. But now I’m guessing someone swapped—”

  “My raspberry jam for chunky ketchup.” My blood boils in my veins. “But why didn’t I smell it?” I wince and answer my own question with a nod. “Because that was July and my allergies were awful in July. I don’t think I smelled anything for a month.” I curl my hand into a fist. “Crap on a cracker. I wonder how many other horrible mistakes I’ve made without having any freaking clue?”

  Olivia lays a gentle hand on my shoulder. “It wasn’t a mistake. And it wasn’t your fault. But maybe this is why your ghost frie
nd has stepped up his presence. Maybe he’s trying to alert you to the danger before your bakery gets a bad reputation.”

  “A worse reputation, you mean,” I grumble, eyes lifting to scan the ceiling. I know why everyone came in here this morning, and it wasn’t for my baked goods.

  I appreciate the support, but my dad taught me to earn my accomplishments.

  I don’t want people buying my cupcakes out of pity. I want to give them a delicious product, not be the local trouble magnet.

  And I’m not a paranormal enthusiast by any means—and not certain there’s a ghost haunting my bakery, though I’m less skeptical than I was before the incident last night. Still, I’m a logical woman who was raised by a no-nonsense, protocol-following Marine. There was no room for ghosts in the world as it was explained to me as a child, and the lessons we learn when we’re little tend to stick in a way other lessons don’t.

  Early stories become the foundation of who we are. Later stories are just actors prancing around on the stage our parents built as they raised us to be as much like them as possible.

  But I’m nothing like my father.

  And I saw something in here. And so did Olivia.

  “What did the man you saw look like?” I ask hesitantly. “The one last night had shaggy brown hair and was wearing a loose blue shirt. I couldn’t see his face clearly, but I’m pretty sure he’s in his late forties or early fifties?”

  Olivia wraps her hands around her water glass. “That sounds like the man I saw. Shaggy brown hair, blue shirt, and a tight expression. Almost like he was frustrated. Or…trapped, maybe?”

  “Trapped in the worst bakery in town,” I mumble. Like there’s much competition. There’s Gerald and Maud, who’ve been in business forever, and then there’s me.

  Who can’t bake a gingerbread man that won’t fall apart.

  The three of us fall silent.