The Mechanic’s Secret Santa (Christmas in Alpine Valley #8)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

MEG

“When you said you were making Santa cookies, this isn’t quite what I pictured,” Becky Sue says, leaning her elbows on the metal baking table and eyeing my latest creation. When I don’t immediately respond, Becky Sue, who’s been a bakery employee since I was eight years old, catches my gaze with what appears to be fascination twinkling in her eyes. We both know my mom never would’ve accepted this special order. “What’s with all the cocks?”

“It’s for a bachelorette party.” Now that the cookies have cooled and the first layer of icing has dried, I’m moving on to the finer details. I reposition the piping bag in my hands and concentrate on outlining the cock-shaped gingerbread cookie.

“Slathering the top half in white icing first was pretty genius,” Becky Sue says approvingly.

“Get your mind out of the gutter. I’m topping them with Santa hats.” I switch out the black piping bag for red and fill in a stocking hat with icing to prove my point. “See? Santa hat .”

“Either way, this gives just the tip a whole new meaning.” Becky Sue’s giggle is contagious. Besides, she’s right. This is kind of hilarious, and I’m secretly thrilled that I was given a generous amount of creative liberty with this order. I hope the maid of honor approves. If these cookies are a hit, bachelorette cookies might be something I can add to the online store I plan to open after the holidays.

“ This is what I love about baking,” I admit with a happy sigh.

“Cocks? Cocks are what you love about baking?” Becky Sue’s infectious laugh causes me to join her. This woman’s laughter is the best cure for any bad day. I’m so grateful she stayed on at the bakery when Mom handed me the keys a year and a half ago. “Please tell me you’re sending a picture of this to your mom.”

My chest tightens instantly, my laughter dying a swift death. “I don’t think this is what Mom meant when she told me to make the bakery my own.”

Mom would probably be mortified to discover cock cookies leaving her bakery. She spent years building this place from the ground up. I doubt she’d be eager to sign over the deed if she thought I was going to ruin the bakery’s reputation with my creative liberty . It’s why I took out a secret business credit card. To avoid explaining unusual charges that support my unconventional stretching of traditional parameters.

Never mind that I also promised to have a life outside this all-consuming small town bakery. I’m sure these cookies would only serve as proof that I haven’t managed to find that “work-life balance” – yes, she used air quotes — she preached about before handing over the keys.

If she discovers the huge gamble I’ve made—thank you bank for upping my secret credit card limit to an insane amount without me even having to ask—she’d rather shut the place down than see me lose myself in a risky expansion that will most definitely consume even more of my limited time.

But it’s too late now.

Besides, I love this life.

By summer, when the agreed upon two years is up, I hope to show her just how successful my expansion plan is. Until then, I’m keeping this secret close to the vest. Becky Sue is one of only two others who know about it.

“Hey, speaking of cocks.” Becky Sue nods to the open doorway that partitions the kitchen from the selling floor.

My gaze lifts automatically, falling immediately on the tall, broad-shouldered, rugged man standing at the counter. My pulse doubles, then it doubles again. The man’s effortless sexiness should be against the law.

“You should just go out with him,” Becky Sue insists.

“Yeah, not happening.”

“He likes you, Meg.”

“He thinks he likes me.”

“He comes in here every day to ask you out.” It’s no question that Becky Sue, along with most of my bakery employees, are strongly Team Aaron. I can’t blame them. The former NASCAR car chief for one of the most famous racecar drivers in history can melt panties with little more than a half-smile. My nipples pebble at his presence. Traitors.

Those cobalt blue eyes shift, and his gaze locks ever so briefly with mine.

I squeeze the piping bag. Red icing gushes. “Dammit!” I gasp, turning my back to the sexy distraction up front.

Thankfully, only two of the cocks were hit with streams of red icing where a hat does not belong. It looks a little…gruesome. “Should’ve gone with the green,” I mumble under my breath. Thankfully, I baked a few spares. Mom always said, if you need three dozen, bake four.

“Wouldn’t it be fun if Aaron drew your name for the Secret Santa event?” Becky Sue coos.

Realization strikes me. “Crapskies, I haven’t drawn my name yet!”

This morning, I, along with my four-plex neighbors, discovered a card in our mailbox from our sweet landlord promising a free month of rent if we participated in the local Secret Santa event she hosts. I felt so relieved, knowing I’d be able to give out the Christmas bonuses I forgot to budget. I’m surprised I spaced it. If that isn’t proof that I love this bakery life…

“You still have time to make it over there,” Becky Sue says, her lips tipped up into a smirk. She knows exactly why I’m going now, but I won’t give her the satisfaction of admitting it.

“I’ll be back soon. Don’t touch my cocks!” I warn when Becky Sue reaches for one of the over-iced cookies. The last bit comes out loud enough to draw Aaron’s attention back to me. The corner of his mouth quirks up in a way too kissable smirk.

I run out the back door still wearing my apron, coat half-shrugged on and zipper left wide open. The combined heat from the ovens along with the heat of embarrassment is enough to make the chilly winter air inviting. I suck in a couple of deep breaths as I cut through the alley, hoping I’ve managed to avoid Aaron for the day.

The man is relentless.

The hopeless romantic in me is eating up his daily commitment to stop by the bakery, try one of my new creations, and ask me out. The man should look like the Goodyear blimp for as long as this has gone on. But no. He has the audacity to look like a Greek god.

I can’t figure out why Aaron Montgomery—practically a celebrity in our little town—is fixated on me . He’s traveled all over the world. He’s lived a glamorous life. I give it a full year—two tops—before he realizes how bored he is in quiet Alpine Valley and leaves for bigger and better.

I, on the other hand, adore small town life.

No matter the amount of chemistry sizzling between us, we are completely wrong for one another.

Two feet from the door to the Alpine Valley Community Center, a rock version of Carol of the Bells sounds from my pocket.

My shoulders tense with the warning, the familiar burn of acid reflux rising up my throat.

Mom .

Ignoring her call will only convince her that she’s right: that the bakery has taken over my life. My indecision wavers for one more beat as I yank open the door and step inside, my thumb still hovering over the button. If I want her to sign over the deed this summer, it’s imperative she believes I have a life outside of it.

“Hey, Mom.” Before she has a chance to say anything, I quickly toss in, “I’m at the community center for the local Secret Santa drawing. Can I call you back?” I mumble the last part, hoping she’ll ignore it and stay on long enough to consider the call a success and not call back later.

“I’ll make this quick,” she says as I step up to the table adorned in a red tablecloth.

Wilma holds out a metal bucket to me in offering, her kind smile a gesture of understanding that I’d get off the phone if I could. I mouth It’s my mom as I dip my hand in and draw out a wooden token with the number thirty-two etched on it. Confused, I turn it over, but there’s only a bit of decoupage décor on the other side. No name. I’m about to ask what the number means when Mom interrupts.

“I’ve been thinking I might sign over the bakery to you a little sooner than we discussed,” Mom says as Wilma exchanges the chip for a clipboard. My pulse quickens, waiting for the catch as I fill out the odd list of questions that range from criminal history to my favorite Christmas song. Carol of the Bells. Duh.

“But?” I dare to ask. With Mom, there’s always a catch.

“ But I’m not convinced you aren’t living at that place.”

“Mom, I’m not even there right now. During actual working hours.” I can’t help the bubble of excitement expanding in my chest. If Mom signed over the bakery now, I might be able to score a small business loan to aid in my expansion plan. The credit card can only take me so far.

“I am happy to hear that,” she says, and I wriggle my too-tense shoulders.

I pass the clipboard back to Wilma, receiving a red gift bag decorated with gold snowflakes in exchange. “Everything you need is in the bag,” she says, a twinkle in her eye that I may or may not be reading into. There’s a silly rumor going around that Wilma’s a matchmaker. That she uses this event to lead her Secret Santas to true love. Last year’s event is rumored to have sparked five Alpine Valley weddings.

Considering my true love is the bakery, I’m not worried about falling in love this Christmas. I can be one of the patrons who help put those silly rumors to bed. Hopefully I’ve drawn the name of some sweet elderly person I can stuff full of sweets. Easy peasy.

The moment I’ve fully relaxed, Mom adds, “If you want me to sign over the deed, I’ll need to see it for myself.”

“Um, what’s that?” It’s suddenly hard to breathe. I seek refuge in the corner of the oversized room, dropping into an empty chair away from Wilma and the small crowd that’s suddenly gathered in the community center. Where did everyone come from?

“I’m visiting for Christmas.”

The blood drains from my face. My throat is uncomfortably dry and scratchy. Words become hard to form. This is a disaster. Panic seizes my body as I imagine her showing up to the bakery today and finding all those cock cookies donned in Santa hats. Shit, what if she’s calling me from the bakery?

“Um, how soon are you coming?” I manage to eek out.

“My flight gets in tomorrow. I can’t wait to see what you’ve done with the place. Gotta run. Love you, bye!”

The call ends before I can utter another word.

I stare at the red and gold gift bag, noticing the contents have spilled into my lap. Gold glitter dusts my frosting-stained apron hanging over my knees. For a moment, the Secret Santa thing sparks hope. Maybe I can use it to prove to Mom that I’m involved in things outside the bakery. She’ll love that I’m participating in community events that don’t involve a bakery booth.

But the moment my tense shoulders start to relax, my gaze lands on a holiday notecard. “Kill me now,” I grumble under my breath. All feelings of hope die a swift death at the name handwritten in red marker: Aaron Montgomery.