The Christmas Crush

Chapter 9

CHAPTER NINE

Amid red and green Christmas card envelops, the plain white letter-size envelope with his landlord’s return address stuck out like a sore thumb. If I put this straight in the trash, I can pretend this isn’t happening. Lawrence wished he hadn’t stopped at the mailbox on his way to Snowcap Inn. Going out of his way to drum up new customers was enough of a stretch for one afternoon. What if he unrolled the truck window and let the envelope blow out on the highway? He pressed the button, lowered the window. Wind whipped in, bringing him to his senses. Ditching the notice had the potential to make his problems worse. He couldn’t afford an increase, much less back rent.

Once he parked the truck, he couldn’t handle the anticipation any longer. His hands tingled, his fingers clumsy as he tore open the envelope. Blood rushed in his ears as he unfolded the page and saw his worst fears in black and white.

Dear Mr. Higgins,

Please be advised of the following change to your rent. A monthly increase of $480 effective January 1.

The landlord had the gall to end the letter with the phrase Happy Holidays and New Year . Just great. He wadded the letter into a ball and threw it on the passenger-side floor, next to a discarded hamburger wrapper he’d been meaning to dispose of for the last week. With any luck, 120 customers who wanted to spend four dollars a month on cookies would attend the cookie swap.

Concerns about the rent relented as he carried his cookies up the cobblestone front drive to the Snowcap Inn. He’d seen the stately building from the road many times, but the three-story white clapboard structure had been mostly hidden by soaring pine trees. Their crisp aroma traveled on the light breeze stirring their branches. The sounds of the road were muffled by the trees, making the songs of a few brave, frost-proof birds audible. How could he panic on this clear, bright day? The sky full of white clouds like spun sugar. This place seemed designed to relax the mind and body, to instill a gentle sense of retreat.

He passed a hand-painted sign staked in front of the steps, informing visitors that a horse-drawn sleigh departed every two hours from the back porch. That sounded cool. He felt as if he’d stepped back in time. Evergreen-colored shutters, fuzzy boughs of pine over the double doors, and a weathered, antique Santa statue with rosy cheeks completed the idyllic entrance.

“Welcome,” said a cheery woman around his mom’s age sporting a pink Santa hat at a jaunty angle. She wore a gold name tag with Marilyn in block letters. “Are you from the snowplow company?”

“Uh. No. I run Sweet L’s Bakery in New Hope.” He held up the boxes of cookies as proof. “I’m here for the cookie exchange.”

Confusion crossed Marilyn’s face. He gulped, worried he had the wrong day. Wasting five dozen fresh cookies was not what he needed right now.

“Oh, of course you are, dear. You didn’t strike me as the baking type. Silly me.” The lady’s face turned as pink as her hat. She cleared her throat. “Let me show you to the reception room.”

Lawrence tried not to gawk at the fancy upholstered chairs around the wide fireplace or the expensive-looking oil painting above the mantel. They walked down a wallpapered hallway, passing more original art and elegant brass sconces with flame-shaped lightbulbs. He shot a look behind himself to make sure he wasn’t tracking in snow on the plush runner rugs over the polished wood floors.

Should he have dressed up a little? Soft jeans and a gray Henley seemed too casual in comparison to the classy surroundings. His eyes slid to Marilyn, who he noticed wore a sweater covered in reindeer. Okay, he wasn’t crazy out of place. And for some reason women always seemed to like this shirt, though he couldn’t figure out what made it special.

He wavered when they got to the ballroom, wishing again he’d at least worn a collared shirt. Through glass-paned French doors, he glimpsed the reception tables with white cloths arranged in a semicircle around a twelve-foot Christmas tree. A tartan ribbon garland swooped over the branches; light glinted from crystal ornaments. A silver star topper crowned the tree. He followed Marilyn into the room.

“Here’s a nice, hot cup of cocoa for you in the souvenir mug, and this will be your table,” she said.

Lawrence set down his boxes, and Marylin gave him a green mug wearing a knit sweater. Why? Maybe to keep the drink warm? He raised an eyebrow at it. Was the cup better dressed than he? While Marilyn tutted and fussed around, helping him open boxes, he caught sight of his swap neighbor.

Part of her, at least. The best part, by the looks of it. She was leaning over the table to reach something, her magnificent ass front and center in a flattering purple sweaterdress. His lips parted; his jaw muscles slackened. Long legs in patterned tights. He didn’t mean to ogle, but his eyes forgot how to blink. Suddenly, she shot up, a wave of dark hair flipping back, and caught his expression before he could recover.

Elena Voss.

Breathless, he spun to his table. Marilyn had scurried off. The other participants so far were a few tables down, some on the other side of the tree. He and Elena were as good as alone together. He wanted to crawl under his card table, hide behind the starched white tablecloth. Was there any chance she hadn’t recognized him? Any chance she didn’t realize he had been checking her out, his eyes cartoon-character huge, his pupils heart shaped? Drool running down his chin? He swiped his hand over his face. No, he hadn’t actually drooled.

His stomach clenched. Embarrassment worse than the time his pants ripped in middle school clutched him.

“Mr. Higgins, how delightful to see you again,” said a cool voice.

He swallowed his discomfort, turned back to her. Elena’s poise stood in stark contrast to his flustered shame. All her hair had landed perfectly, draping over her right shoulder in soft, touchable waves. She extended a hand—nails painted the same purple as her snuggly dress. Snuggly, low-cut dress. Keep your eyes on her face. Almost numb with humiliation, he barely felt her hand in his. Did she mean to play nice today, or was this some kind of trick?

How sweaty is my hand? Elena had already let go. He snatched up his cocoa to have something to do with his hand as he said hello in a pinched voice. A few drops of cocoa splashed the front of his shirt.

“Careful there. It’s hot.” Her berry-colored lips quivered. Ripe, asking to be tasted. Merriment twinkled in her eyes, cheerful as the tree lights. When she wasn’t threatening to ruin his life, her undeniable beauty shone even brighter.

Which Elena was he getting today? The sensitive one from the town hall, the mean one from the street, or this brand-new one, with a smile that unexpectedly stopped his heart? He’d certainly found her attractive from across the room at town hall and on the darkened street, but seeing her in full light, up close, was a whole new level.

No matter her motives, he’d better be polite, since potential customers were filling up the room as they spoke. Customers she wanted and he desperately needed. He couldn’t risk acting like a jerk and making everyone think they’d get the same treatment if they visited Sweet L’s.

Say something. Anything. “Your cookies look nice.”

She smirked.

That came across weird. Sounded like something a gross guy in a dive bar would use as a pickup line, not a line to show the competition he could be cordial and businesslike too. If only she didn’t make him so damn nervous.

His hand went to his collar; he undid another button. A vast gray expanse filled his mind as he searched for a single appropriate, interesting comment. Anything to get off on a better foot than the one they’d started on. If he had to spend all afternoon next to the gorgeous troublemaker, he had to find some composure. She looked stunning in that dress, but he couldn’t let her know how stunning. She’d think she was winning. Keep calm, prove what a competent business owner you are. People are watching.

“Your cookies are nice too,” Elena said. “They have a quaint little homemade look.”

He caught himself before he could answer her backhanded compliment with some attitude of his own. He’d give her a little small-town, gentlemanly charm instead. “Thank you. That’s exactly what I was aiming for.”

Elena’s lips dipped into a quick frown. Ha! She didn’t know what to do when he didn’t take her bait. She began to arrange immaculate purple boxes, a few shades lighter than her dress, on her table. Silver ribbon formed a bow on each box, and each ribbon had a little card with a holiday scene painted in shades of purple threaded through it. Beautiful to behold. He couldn’t make another remark about cookies, though.

It seemed they’d be stuck with each other for the next few hours. Could he keep knocking her for a loop? He certainly didn’t want to spend all afternoon lobbing insults back and forth, especially since she seemed better at put-downs. What would happen if instead he tried to draw her out, change the subject? Would that shift the energy between them and make for an easier day? But how to manage it?

A quirky option came to him, and he blurted it out before he could second-guess himself. “This place is nice, right? Makes me feel like I’m at the Independence Inn.”

Elena paused, hand frozen over a cookie box, then slowly angled her face toward him. “As in Stars Hallow? As in Chef Sookie might come by and set up a cookie swap table?”

A grin broke across his face. She knew the Gilmore Girls . “Exactly. Just don’t burn the place down, okay? We don’t need to recreate that episode.”

“Who me? I would never.” Did he detect the hint of a smile on those glossy lips? “I work in an office; you work in a kitchen. You’re the one who likes playing with fire.”

At first, he thought she meant extending the olive branch to someone set on ruining his business. “Hey, I’ve never set a kitchen on fire in my entire career.”

Elena set out a stack of business cards. He should get business cards. No matter how much trouble her professionalism caused him, he had to admit it impressed him.

She crossed her arms and appraised him. By the windows on the south wall, a violinist and cellist began to play “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.” “I bet you’ve set lots of fires,” Elena said.

This time, her words didn’t have an insulting undertone. Rather, her fire-starting comment felt almost suggestive. He gave her a long look to gauge whether she meant to discombobulate him with her remark. He might not be as quick with words, but looking at her was the easiest thing in the world. For half a heartbeat her eyes lowered before darting back to meet his. That’s right, eyes on me, Elena. Mine are on you. Slowly, a fraction at a time, color rose up her neck to flush her cheeks.

Equal heat spiked in him to match hers, but before he could respond, Marilyn introduced an editor from Home Baker’s Quarterly . A midthirties woman in a navy skirt suit, the editor thanked Marilyn, then took the microphone. She explained the rules of the swap again, said there were free magazines for everyone. More bakers filtered in, and soon both Lawrence and Elena were too busy exchanging cookies to say a word to each other. The whole time his brain buzzed, eager for another chance to impress her, to make her smile.