A Bride for All Seasons

CHAPTER TWO

SAM RETURNED with her coffee, Aunt Ginny’s words of wisdom still ringing in her head, and slipped into the opposite seat from Flynn MacGregor. He had a pad of paper open beside him, turned to a blank page, with a ready pen. He’d sampled the coffee, but none of the baked goods. Not so much as a crumb of Santa’s beard on the frosted sugar cookies. Nary a bite from Grandma’s special cookies—the ones he’d presumably come all this way to write about.

Sam’s spirits fell, but she didn’t let it show. Maybe he wanted to talk to her first. Or maybe he was, as Aunt Ginny had cautioned, here solely for the story behind the bakery.

Her story.

“Are you ready now?” he asked.

“Completely.”

“Good. Tell me the history of the bakery.”

Sam folded her hands on the table. “Joyful Creations was opened in 1948 by my grandmother Joy and grandfather Neil Barnett. My grandmother was an amazing cook. She made the most incredible cookies for our family every holiday. I remember one time I went over to her house, and she had ‘invent a cookie’ day. She just opened her cabinets, and she and I—”

“The bakery, Miss Barnett. Can we stick to that topic?”

“Oh, yes. Of course.” Sam wanted to kick herself. Babbling again. “My grandfather thought my grandmother was so good, she should share those talents with Riverbend. So they opened the bakery.”

He jotted down the information as she talked, his pen skimming across the page in an indecipherable scrawl.

Sam leaned forward. “Are you going to be able to read that later?”

He looked up. “This? It’s my own kind of shorthand. No vowels, abbreviations only I know for certain words.”

She chuckled. “It’s like my recipes. Some of them have been handed down for generations. My grandmother never really kept precise records and some of them just say ‘pecs’ or ‘CC.’ They’re like a puzzle.”

He arched a brow. “Pecs? CC?”

“Pecans. And CC was shorthand for chocolate chips.” Sam smiled. “It took me weeks to figure out some of them, after I took over the bakery. I should have paid more attention when I was little.”

His brows knitted in confusion. “I read it was a third-generation business. What happened to the second generation?”

“My parents died in a car accident when I was in middle school. I went to live with my grandparents. Grandpa Neil died ten years ago.” Sam splayed her palms on the table and bit her lip. Flynn MacGregor didn’t need to know more than that.

“And your grandmother? Is she still alive?”

Sam hated lying. It wasn’t in her nature to do so. But now she was in a position where telling the truth opened a bucket of worms that could get out of hand. “She is, but no longer working in the bakery.”

He wrote that down. “I’d like to interview her, too.”

“You can’t.”

Flynn looked up. “Why?”

“She’s…ill.” That was all he needed to know. Joy’s privacy was her own. This reporter could keep the story focused on the present.

Nevertheless, he made a note, a little note of mmm-hmm under his breath. Sam shifted in her chair. “Don’t you want to try a cranberry orange muffin?”

“In a minute.”

“But—”

“I’m writing an article, Miss Barnett, not a review.”

She shifted some more. Maybe her unease stemmed from his presence. The airline magazine had done the interview part over the phone. The reporter had come in and bought some cookies, then found his happy ending, unbeknownst to Sam, at a different time. Talking to someone she couldn’t see, and answering a few quick questions, had been easy. This face-to-face thing was much more difficult.

More distracting. Because this reporter had a deep blue, piercing gaze.

The bell over the door jingled and a whoosh of cold air burst into the room. “Sam!”

“Mrs. Meyers, how can I help you?”

“I need more cookies. My dog ate the box I brought home. I didn’t even get a chance to feed the batch I bought to my Carl and that man is in the grumpiest of moods.” Eileen Meyers swung her gaze heavenward. “He’s hanging the Christmas lights.”

“In this weather?”

“You know my husband. The man is as stubborn as a tick on a hunting dog, Sam. There are days I wonder why I’m even buying those cookies.”

“Because they’re your husband’s favorites,” Sam reminded her. Eileen had been in the day before, plunked down her money, her love for her husband still clear, even in a marriage that had celebrated its silver anniversary, and was edging its way toward gold.

Eileen harrumphed, but a smile played at the edge of her lips. “Will you get me another dozen?”

“Ginny can help you, Mrs. Meyers.”

Eileen laid a hand on Sam’s arm, her brown eyes filled with entreaty. “I love your Aunt Ginny, Sam, I do, but you know my Carl better than I do some days. He says you’re the only one who can pick out the cookies he likes best.”

Across from her, Flynn MacGregor’s pen tapped once against his notepad. A reminder of where her attention should be.

“Please, Sam?” Eileen’s hand held tight to Sam’s arm. “It’ll mean the world to Carl.”

“This will just take a minute,” she told Flynn. “Is that all right?”

“Of course.” A smile as fake as the spray-paint snow on the windows whipped across his face. “I’ve already waited for that massive line of customers to go down. Dealt with my car breaking down, and a blizzard blowing through town, which has undoubtedly delayed my leaving, too. What’s one more box of cookies?”

Sam filled Eileen’s order as quickly as she could, trying to head off Eileen’s attempts at conversation. And failing miserably. Eileen was one of those people who couldn’t buy a newspaper without engaging in a rundown of her life story. By the time she had paid for her cookies, she’d told Sam—again—all about how she and Mr. Meyers had met, what he’d done to sweep her off her feet and how he’d lost his romantic touch long ago.

“Are you done playing advice columnist?” Flynn asked when Eileen finally left.

“I’m sorry. Things have been especially crazy here since word got out about those cookies.” Sam gestured toward the plate, where the trio of Grandma’s special recipe still sat, untouched.

“The ones that are purported to make people fall in love?”

She shrugged. “That’s what people say.”

“I take it you don’t believe the rumors?”

She laughed. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s true. If two people find a happy ending because they eat my grandmother’s cookies, then I think it’s wonderful. For them, and for business.”

Flynn arched a brow. “Happy endings? Over cookies?”

“Not much of a romantic, are you?”

“No. I’m a practical man. I do my job, and I don’t dabble in all this—” he waved his hand “—fanciful stuff.”

“Me, too.” Sam laughed, the chuckle escaping her with a nervous clatter. “Well, not the man part.”

“Of course.” He nodded.

What was with this guy? He was as serious as a wreath without any decorations. Sam laced her fingers together and tried to get comfortable in the chair, but more, under his scrutiny. The sooner this interview was over, the better. “What else did you need to know?”

“How long have you been working here?”

“All my life. Basically, ever since I could walk. But I took over full-time when I was nineteen.”

Surprise dropped his jaw. “Nineteen? Isn’t that awfully young? What kind of business person could you be at that age?”

“You do what have to, Mr. MacGregor.” She sipped at her coffee, avoiding his piercing gaze. He had a way of looking at a woman like he could see right through her. Like Superman’s X-ray vision, only he wasn’t looking at the color of her underwear, but at the secrets of her soul.

She pushed the plate closer to him. “I think you’d really like the sugar frosted cookies. They’re a Joyful Creations specialty.”

Again, he bypassed the plate in front of him, in favor of his notes. “Did you go to culinary school?”

She shook her head. “I couldn’t. I was working here. Full-time.”

“Having no life, you mean.”

She bristled. “I enjoy my job.”

“I’m sure you do.” He flipped a page on his notepad, bringing him to a clean sheet of paper.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m not here to tell you how to run your business.”

“And yet, you’re judging me and you hardly know me.”

Flynn folded his hands over his pad. “Miss Barnett, I’ve been covering this industry for a long time. Talked to hundreds of bakers and chefs. This is the kind of business that consumes you.” He let out a laugh, another short, nearly bitter sound that barely became a full chuckle. “Pun intended.”

“My business doesn’t consume me.” But as the words left her mouth, she knew Joyful Creations had, indeed, done that very thing, particularly in the last few weeks. The business had taken away her weekends. Vacations. Eaten up friendships, nights out, dates. Left her with this empty feeling, as if she’d missed a half of herself.

The half that had watched her friends grow up. Get married. Start families. While she had toiled in the bakery, telling herself there’d be time down the road. As one year passed, then two, then five, and Sam hit twenty-five, and tried not to tell herself she’d missed too much already. She had plenty of time—down the road.

There was a reason she worked so hard. A very important reason. And once she’d reached her goals, she’d take time off.

She would.

“I watched you earlier. And I’ve watched you as you’ve talked about this business. I can see the stars in your eyes,” he went on. “The Travelers’ magazine article has probably put the lofty idea in your head that you can become the next McDonald’s or Mrs. Fields Cookies.”

“It hasn’t,” Sam leapt to say, then checked her defensive tone. “Well, maybe a little. Did you see those lines? It’s been that way nonstop for two weeks. I’m sure you’ve seen many businesses that became mega-successes after something like that. Don’t you think it’s possible for me to hit the big time?”

“I have seen it happen,” he conceded. “And let me be the first to warn you to be careful what you wish for.”

She leaned back in her chair and stared at him, incredulous. Ever since she’d met him, he’d been nothing but grouchy, and now here he was, trying to tell her how to run her own company. “Who put coal in your stocking this morning?”

“I’m just being honest. I believe in calling the shots I see.”

“So do I, Mr. MacGregor,” Sam said, rising. If she didn’t leave this table in the next five seconds, she’d be saying things to this man that she didn’t want to see in print. “And while we’re on the subject of our respective industries, I think yours has made you as jaded and as bitter as a bushel of lemons.” She gestured toward his still-full plate, and frustration surged inside her. With the busy day, with him, and especially with his refusal to try the very baked goods he was writing about yet already judging. “Maybe you should have started with the cookies first. A little sugar goes a long way toward making people happy. And you, sir, could use a lot of that.”

CHAPTER THREE

“WELL, I WAS WRONG.”

Flynn bit back the urge to curse. “What do you mean, wrong?”

“I replaced the air filter. And it turned out, that wasn’t it. That means, I was wrong.” Earl Klein shrugged. “It happens.” He put out his hands, as if that explained why Flynn’s car was sitting inside Earl’s Tire and Repair on a lift six feet off the ground, a jumble of parts scattered below.

“Did you fix it?” Flynn asked. Of all the people to end up with, Earl would have been Flynn’s last choice. He had asked around once he left the bakery, and it turned out the hunting cap guy he’d seen earlier owned the closest garage to Flynn’s broken-down car. Although, given how circular a conversation with Earl was turning out to be, Flynn was beginning to regret his choice.

Earl stared at Flynn like he had all the intelligence of a duck. “Does your car look fixed?”

“Well, no, but I was hoping—”

“Your fuel filter needs to be replaced. I usually have one for your model on hand, but used my last one yesterday. Damnedest thing, too. Paulie Lennox comes in here, his car was running fine, then all of a sudden—”

“I don’t care about Paulie Lennox. I don’t even know him.”

“Oh, you’d know him if you see him. He’s six foot seven. Tallest man in Riverbend. Sings in the church choir. Voice of an angel. Ain’t that weird for a guy that big? Must have organ pipes in his chest.”

Flynn gritted his teeth. “How long?”

“How long are his vocal cords? Damned if I know. I’m no doctor.”

“No, I meant how long until my car is fixed?”

“Oh, that.” Earl turned around and looked at the Lexus as if it might tell him. “Day. Maybe two. Gotta wait for the part. You know,’ cept for Paulie, we don’t get many of those fancy-dancy cars in here. If you’da come in here with a Ford, or Chevy pickup, I’d have you fixed up a couple minutes. But this, well, this requires what we call special treatment.”

Flynn hoped like hell this guy would give the Lexus special treatment, considering what the car cost. “Did you order the part? Or can you go get it?”

“I ordered it. Can’t go get it.”

Flynn wanted to bang his head into a brick wall. He’d probably get further in the conversation if he did. This was like playing Ping-Pong by himself. “Why can’t you go get the part?”

Earl leaned in closer to Flynn. “Have you looked outside, son? It’s snowing. Blizzard’s on its way into town, hell, it’s already here. Only an idiot would drive in this. And I’m no idiot.”

Flynn would beg to differ. “It’s four days before Christmas.”

“That don’t change the icy roads. Old Man Winter, he doesn’t have the same calendar as you and me.”

Flynn dug deep for more patience. “Is there another garage in town?”

Earl’s face frowned in offense. “Now, I’m going to pretend you didn’t even ask that, because you’re from out of town. My garage is the best one for miles, and the only one.”

Of course. Flynn groaned. “I have some place I need to go. As soon as possible.”

That was if he even decided to make that stop in southern Indiana. On the drive out here from Boston, it had seemed like a good idea, but the closer Flynn got to the Midwest, the more he began to second-guess his impromptu decision. That was why he had yet to make any promises he couldn’t keep. Better not to say a word. That way, no one was disappointed. Again.

“Well, that ain’t happenin’, is it?” Earl grinned. “You best get down to Betsy’s Bed and Breakfast. She’ll put you up and feed you, too.” He patted his stomach. “That woman can cook. And she’s real pretty, too. But she’s spoken for. So don’t go thinking you can ask her out. Me and Betsy, we have an understanding.” Earl wiggled a shaggy gray brow. “Thanks to those cookies of Sam’s, which helped us out a lot. Brought me and Betsy together, they did.”

Flynn put up his hands, hoping to ward off the mental picture that brought up. “I don’t want to know about it. Just point me in the general direction.”

Thirty seconds later, Flynn was back outside, battling an increasingly more powerful wind. The snow had multiplied and six more inches of the thick wet stuff now coated the sidewalks. The earlier tourist crowds had apparently gotten the hint and left for their hotels or real cities. Traffic, what there was left in Riverbend, had slowed to a crawl. Within minutes, the damp snow had seeped through Flynn’s shoes and he was slogging through slush, ruining five-hundred-dollar dress shoes. Damn it. What he wouldn’t do for a sled dog team right now.

“Do you need a ride?”

He turned to see Samantha Barnett at the wheel of an older model Jeep Cherokee. Or what he thought was Samantha Barnett. She was bundled in a blue parka-type jacket that obscured most of her delicate features, the hood covering all of her blond hair. But the smile—that 100-watt smile he’d seen earlier in the bakery—that he could see.

Only a fool would say no to that. And to the dry, warm vehicle.

“Sure.” He opened the door and climbed inside. Holiday music pumped from the stereo, filling the interior of the Jeep like stuffing in a turkey. Again, Flynn got that Norman Rockwell feeling. “Is this town for real?” he asked as Sam put the Jeep in gear and they passed yet another decorated window display—this one complete with a moving Santa’s workshop.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s a bit too jolly, don’t you think? I mean, it’s almost nauseating.”

“Nauseating? It’s Christmas. People are feeling…festive.”

“Festive? In this?” He gestured out the window. “My feet are soaked, nearly frostbitten, I’m sure. My car is being worked on by the village idiot, I’m on a deadline that I can’t miss and I’m being held hostage in a town that thinks Christmas is the be-all and end-all.”

“Well, isn’t it?”

“There are three hundred and sixty-four other days in the year, you know.”

Sam stared at him. Never before had she met anyone with as little Christmas spirit as Flynn MacGregor. “Don’t you celebrate Christmas? Put up a tree? Drink a little eggnog?”

Flynn didn’t answer. Instead he glanced out the window. “Do you know a place called Betsy’s Bed and Breakfast?”

“Of course I do. It’s a small town. Everyone knows everyone else, and everything. You burn your toast in the morning and Mrs. Beedleman over on Oak Street is on your doorstep, lending you her toaster before lunch.” Sam smiled. “I’m on my way to make a couple of deliveries, so I have time. Besides, driving you to Betsy’s is the least I can do to say I’m sorry for being so short with you earlier.” She took a left, using caution as she made the turn and navigated through the downtown intersection. “I guess I’m just a little protective when it comes to the bakery.”

“Most business owners are.” He kept watching out the window. “Is that a live reindeer I see in the park? This town is Christmas gone overboard.”

She turned to him. “You’re kind of grumpy, aren’t you? This whole anti-Christmas thing, the way you jumped on me about my business…Grumpy.”

He sat back. “No. Just…honest.”

She shrugged. “I call it grumpy.”

“Honest. Direct. To the point.”

She flashed another glance his way. “You know who else was grumpy? Ebenezer Scrooge. Remember him? He got a pretty bad preview of his future.”

Flynn rolled his eyes. “That was fiction. I’m talking real life.”

“Uh-huh. Let me know when the ghost of Christmas Future comes knocking on your door.”

“When he does, I’ll know it’s time to put away the scotch.”

Samantha laughed. Her laughter had a light, musical sound to it. Like the holiday carols coming from the stereo. Flynn tried hard not to like the sound, but…

He did.

“Listen, you had a rough day,” Sam said, “so you’re excused for any and all grumpiness. And don’t worry, you’re in good hands with Earl.”

Flynn let out a short gust of disbelief. “I’d be in better hands with a troop of baboons.”

“Oh, Earl’s not so bad. He’s really easygoing. You just gotta get used to him. And, indulge him by listening to his stories once in a while. Nothing makes him happier than that. You might even get a discount on your service if you suffer through his account of the blizzard of ’78 and how he baked a turkey, even though the power was out for four days.” She shot him a grin.

“I don’t have time for other people’s stories.”

“You’re a reporter, isn’t your whole mission to get the story?”

“Just the ones they pay me for.” That pay had been lucrative, ever since he turned in his first article. Flynn had risen to the top of his field, becoming well-known in the magazine industry for being the go-to guy for getting the job done—on time, and right on the word count.

Then he’d hit a road bump, a big one, with the celebrity chef back in June. His editor had lost faith in Flynn, but worse—

Flynn had temporarily lost faith in himself.

He refused to get sucked into that emotional vortex again. He’d gotten to the top by staying out of the story, and he’d do that again here. Get in and out, as fast as possible.

And then make one stop, one very important stop, before heading back to Boston.

But he couldn’t do either if he didn’t shake off that silly whisper of conscience, write the story his editor wanted and get it in on time, no matter what it took.

The interior of the Jeep had reached a comfortable temperature and Sam pulled off one glove, then the other. Her hands, he noticed, were slim and delicate, the nails short and no-nonsense, not polished. She tugged on the zipper of the parka, but it stuck. “Oh, this coat,” she muttered, still tugging with one hand while she drove with the other.

“Let me.” He reached over, intending only to help her, but his hand brushed against hers, and instant heat exploded in that touch. Flynn’s hand jerked upward. He hadn’t reacted with such instantaneous attraction to a woman—a woman he’d just met—in a long time. Granted, Samantha Barnett was beautiful, but there was something about her. Something indefinable. A brightness to her smile, to her personality, that seemed to draw him in, make him forget his reporter’s objectivity.

Not smart. If there was one thing Flynn prided himself on being, it was smart.

Controlled. He didn’t let things get out of hand, get crazy. By keeping tight reins on his life, on himself, he was able to manage everything. The one time he had lost control, he’d nearly lost his career.

He cleared his throat. He clasped the tiny silver zipper and pulled. After a slight catch, the fastener gave way, parting the front of the coat with a low-pitched hum as it slid down.

Beneath the coat, she wore a soft green sweater that dipped in a slight V at the neck and skimmed over her curves. From the second he’d met Samantha Barnett, Flynn had noticed the way the green of the sweater enhanced the green in her eyes, offset the golden tones in her hair. But now, without the cover of the apron, he noticed twice as much.

And noticed even more about her.

The scent of her perfume…cinnamon, vanilla, honey—or was it simply the leftover scents of the bakery?—wafted up to tease at his senses. Would her skin taste the same? Taste as good as the baked delights in the cases of the shop?

Flynn drew back. Shook himself.

Get back on track, back in work mode.

Getting distracted by a woman was not part of the plan. It never was. He did not get emotionally involved. Did not let himself care, about the people in the story, about people in general. That was how he stayed in control of his life.

No way was he deviating from the road he had laid for himself. Even Mimi, with her need for no real tie, no commitment, fit into what he needed. A woman like Samantha Barnett, who had small-town, commitment values written all over her, would not. “Your, ah, zipper is all fixed.”

“Thanks.” She flashed that smile his way again.

That was when Flynn MacGregor realized he had a problem. He’d been distracted from the minute he’d walked into that bakery.

Betsy’s Bed and Breakfast was located less than six blocks from Earl’s repair shop, but with Flynn MacGregor so close, the ride seemed to take ten hours instead of ten minutes. Sam was aware of his every breath, his every movement. She kept her eyes on the road, not just because visibility had become nearly zero, but because it seemed as if the only thing she saw in her peripheral vision was Flynn.

She hadn’t been out on a date in—

Well, a long time. Too much work, too little personal life. That must be why her every thought seemed to revolve around him. Why she’d become hyperaware of the woodsy notes of his cologne. Why her gaze kept straying to his hands, his broad shoulders, the cleft in his jaw.

This ride was a prime opportunity to impress him. To tell him more about the bakery. Not flirt. Not that him jumping in to help with her zipper was flirting…except she had held her breath when he’d gotten so close. Noted the fit of his jacket. The flecks of gold in his eyes. The way the last rays of sun glinted in his hair.

Business, Sam. Business.

“Have you interviewed many bakery owners?” she asked. Then wanted to kick herself. She hadn’t exactly hit the witty jackpot with that one.

“A few. Mostly, I cover high-end restaurants. Or, I did.” He gave her a wry grin, one that made her wonder about the use of the past tense. “All those chefs courting heart attacks, trying to maintain their five-star ratings.”

Sam stopped the Jeep, the four-wheel drive working hard to grip the icy roads, and let a mother and her three children cross the street. Sam recognized Linda Powell, and waved to her through the front window. The littlest Powell waved back, a small red mittened hand bringing a smile to Sam’s face. “Is the restaurant business really that competitive?”

He snorted. “Are you kidding? In some cities, these places campaign all year to garner those ratings. They agonize over their menus, stress over the tiniest ingredients, sometimes shipping in a certain fish from one pocket of the world because the chef insists absolutely nothing else will do. Every detail is obsessed over, nitpicked at like it’s life and death. They’ll accept nothing less than the unqualified best. A bad review can close a place, a good review can skyrocket it to the top.”

“But…that’s ridiculous.” She halted at a stop sign, waiting to make the right onto Maple Street. The Jeep’s wipers clicked back and forth, wiping snow off the frosty glass. “A review is simply one person’s opinion.”

“Ah, but people like me are paid to be the experts.” Flynn put a hand on his chest, affecting a dramatic posture. “They live or die by our words.”

They had reached Betsy’s Bed and Breakfast, where a small hand-painted sign out front announced the converted Victorian’s vacancies. Sam stopped in front of the quaint home and parked alongside the front walk. Betsy, a complete Christmas fanatic, had decked the entire porch in holiday flare, with a moving Santa, twinkling lights and even a lighted sleigh and reindeer on the roof.

“And what about me?” Sam asked, turning to Flynn before he exited the Jeep. “What do you think will be my fate? Do you think I’ll skyrocket to the top?”

Flynn studied her for a long time, his gaze unreadable in the darkening day, a storm in his blue eyes rivaling the one in the sky. “That, Miss Barnett, is still to be determined.”