The Snuggle is Real (Christmas Falls: Season 2)

Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

Mason

I climbed back into the sleigh. Our volunteer driver, Gus, shook the reins. The attached bells jingled and the two reindeer jolted into action.

Dottie’s house was our last delivery, so I tugged down my Santa hat and enjoyed the ride back to the Holiday Hope offices.

I’d enjoyed the past few days of delivering food—and a little holiday flair—to Christmas Falls families.

But it also reminded me of how far away mine was.

Just until Christmas, I reminded myself. You’ll see them soon.

Not for the first time, I wondered if I’d made a mistake by moving so far from home. I hadn’t set out to move to another state. My first job was just a couple of hours from my hometown. The next one a bit farther. Until suddenly moving to Illinois hadn’t seemed like too far of a leap.

But no matter how hard or far I chased my dreams, something still seemed to be missing.

The sleigh pulled to a stop in front of my office.

“Thanks for stepping up today, Gus. I’m sure you’ve got better plans than carting me around.”

“Happy to do it.” He grinned. “Although I’ve got to get home and put the turkey in the deep-fryer or the Mrs. will have my hide. She does the pies; I do the bird. That’s our deal.”

“Sounds like a pretty great deal. My mother makes this amazing apple-cranberry pie every year, and I—I’ve never missed it so much.”

I tried to laugh off the homesickness, but Gus saw through me.

“Would you like to come along? We’ve got room for one more.”

“Oh, no. That’s a kind offer, but I’ve got the Single Mingle Thanksgiving over at Rudolph’s in a couple of hours. I should probably get home and prep my side item.”

I’d already made my mom’s sausage, onion, and apple caramelized stuffing the night before because I knew I’d be busy this morning, but I hadn’t been totally sold on going to a Thanksgiving for singles. It sounded a little depressing—but no more than spending the day alone in my drafty house.

By the time I got home, I had just enough time to give Pepper a turkey rawhide so he could enjoy a doggy Thanksgiving and reheat my stuffing in the oven.

The Single Mingle was over at Rudolph’s bar downtown. It was a fairly casual pub with a wooden bar, scuffed floors, and tables—which had been pushed together for the Thanksgiving dinner.

I hadn’t been sure what to expect, but there was quite a little crowd gathered already. Christmas music played softly in the background, and garland was strung along the bar—where everyone was placing their potluck items—and on the fireplace mantel.

I added my stuffing to the buffet of food, drawing off the foil top.

“That looks delicious,” Mik Gilmore said, leaning closer to inhale the steamy scent wafting from it. He wore a truly ugly Christmas sweater with Bigfoot on it. “Wow, my mouth is watering.”

I smiled a little. “Thanks. It’s my mom’s recipe. She’s a chef.”

“No kidding?” Rudy leaned in from the other side of the bar, where he was serving drinks. “We better steal a sample before it’s gone. Watch out, Mason. These singles find out you can cook like this and you’re gonna be in trouble.”

I laughed. “Not likely. I picked up a few things from my mom, but I’m no chef.”

Mik picked up a fork from the stack of cutlery nearby and sampled the stuffing, making an embarrassing noise. “Is there cranberry in this? There is. Damn, it’s good.”

I was happy someone else was enjoying one of Mom’s recipes. She’d always done Thanksgiving up big. Our family itself was small—especially once Dad was gone—but in Swallow Cove, the whole town was practically family.

She cooked for an army of friends, all of them coming and going, drooling over her cooking—and mine, because I was her appointed helper in the kitchen since Sawyer was hopeless.

Watching Mik try her stuffing was nice, but it made my heart ache for what I was missing, too.

“Can I get a beer?” I asked Rudy, seeking distraction.

“Sure thing.”

Rudy reached for the tap to pull the amber ale they were serving for the occasion, while Mik skipped over to the door to greet a good-looking man with dark hair and broad shoulders.

Rudy set a pint glass in front of me, then muttered under his breath, “Geez, Mik, don’t harass the poor guy.”

I glanced over to see Mik trying to peek under the tinfoil of the guy’s dish. Rudy chuckled and shook his head as he rounded the bar and charged over.

I took a sip from my beer, enjoying the slight hint of caramel flavor, then surveyed the food on display.

There was turkey and mashed potatoes and gravy provided by the bar, and a smorgasbord of side items brought by the crowd, including all the classics: sweet potato pie, green bean casserole, glazed carrots, and so much more.

A pan of lasagna caught my eye, and though it wasn’t typical for a Thanksgiving potluck, I couldn’t wait to try it.

The man who’d made it—Rocco Moretti, the new owner of Jolly Java—was sitting with Taylor, the deputy mayor and one of the guys on the hiring committee who’d chosen me to run the Holiday Hope Foundation.

Aside from Elias, he was one of the few people in this town I’d gotten to know fairly well. And judging by the way he looked at Rocco, he’d found the single he wanted to mingle .

Before I could go over and tease him about his obvious crush, Mik returned and grabbed my arm.

“Have you met Mason West?” he was saying to his victi—er, new friend. “He’s the new director of the Holiday Hope Foundation. Mason, this is Hank Beaufort. He’s the hockey director at the community center.”

“Hi.” Hank, the man with the broad shoulders and enticing food that Mik had taken possession of, held out a hand gamely. “Good to meet you.”

“You too.”

“And now you’re besties,” Mik pronounced with a grin. He sauntered off, leaving us to stare after him.

“He’s certainly…something,” I said.

“He marches to the beat of his own drum, that’s for sure.”

Hank and I made small talk, joking about how wild Christmas Falls got.

“What’s so funny?” Mik asked, swinging back by to check on us like some sort of weird chaperone.

“Nothing,” I said quickly. “We love this town.”

Hank choked on a laugh.

“Okay,” Mik said slowly, clearly not buying it. He didn’t linger on it, though, thrusting the martini glass in Hank’s direction. “Here. You need this. It’s a sugar cookie martini. Bailey’s, milk, vanilla vodka, and Amaretto. It’s my favorite Festival Season drink.”

Mik hustled off to harass—er, greet—another guest and Hank took a sip, immediately grimacing. He tried to offer me the drink, but I wasn’t falling for that trap. Instead, we made a trip to the bar to grab Hank a beer and then I took him over to the table to meet Rocco and Taylor.

Despite tourism, the locals were tight-knit and we were still outsiders. There was strength in numbers though, right?

I left Hank, Rocco, and Taylor chatting at the table and went to grab a plate. By the time I returned, Hank had moved on to mingle with other singles.

I set my plate down and dug into the lasagna. “I’m so glad I came. Thanks again for inviting me. I felt…well, it’s weird to spend the holiday away from my family, it turns out.”

Rocco nodded. “Trust me, I know all about that. Mine is nuts, the quintessential Italian family who’s too big, too nosy, too involved, but when they’re not around . . .sometimes it’s too quiet.”

“Yep. Mine’s not big, but it’s been weird to be away from them.” I turned to Taylor. “What about you? What brings you to the single mingle?”

I wiggled my eyebrows, flicking a pointed glance toward Rocco, but Taylor had averted his gaze and shifted uncomfortably, missing my tease.

“Uh . . .well . . .my dad’s in Chicago. Doesn’t get out here much. So it just made sense.”

“Ah, that’s too bad.”

He clammed up, not too interested in lingering on the topic—and missing my mom, I could relate. Instead, we stuffed ourselves, a classic coping mechanism if ever there was one.

After I cleared my plate—or most of it, anyway; my eyes were a little bigger than my stomach—I couldn’t bring myself to try any of the dessert. No amount of pumpkin squares would measure up to my mom’s cranberry-apple pie anyway.

I said my goodbyes, picked up my empty stuffing pan, and headed out into the cold night. It was a short drive home, my two-story house a dark spot in an otherwise brightly lit neighborhood.

I needed to get my lights up. It could go on the to-do list along with fixing my drafty windows, refinishing scuffed wood floors, and stripping aging wallpaper.

My house was charming on the outside—the latticework trim along the roofline and porch giving it a gingerbread cottage look—but it needed some major TLC indoors.

I was so preoccupied with thoughts of all the things I needed to do before Mom arrived for Christmas that I nearly stepped on a pie sitting in the middle of my front porch.

“What the—” I crouched down to pick it up, catching sight of an attached note.

Under the light of my phone, I read: “Here’s a little cheer to brighten your day. Just a reminder that you’re always on the nice list. Secret Santa.”

“Secret Santa?” I mused aloud. “Well, it’s not Christmas, but I’ll take it.”

I carried the pie inside and uncovered it. My mouth watered as the sweet sugary smell wafted from it. Maybe I could make room for dessert after all.

It wasn’t a pumpkin pie or even a pecan. My heart skipped a beat. It couldn’t be…could it?

I grabbed a fork and cut into it and damn, it was. It was cranberry-apple, just like Mom always made. But who had given it to me?

I’d told no less than half a dozen people about my mom’s pie, the one thing I really couldn’t re-create properly myself no matter how many times I tried. But this pie came really close.

One of the volunteers must have taken pity on me. My money was on Rebecca. She was sneaky like that. I’d have to thank her when I saw her next.

I brewed some coffee, turned on some holiday music, and picked up the phone to call my family, my spirits lighter. I was used to giving to others; it was less often I received a gift like this in return.

It was such a thoughtful gesture my eyes burned. Maybe this place really was becoming home.

“Hey, Mason!” Mom answered, voice bright and happy. “How was your holiday?”

“Really good,” I said truthfully. “I delivered holiday meals to families that needed it, then went to a Thanksgiving potluck where I met a lot of nice people.”

“Oh, sweetie, that’s so lovely.”

I slipped the fork between my lips and hummed with pleasure as the spices hit.

“And I’m a little jealous of whoever made that pie,” Mom said. “You look like you’re in heaven.”

I laughed a little. “Well, nothing beats your pie. It always tastes like home, but this… This is close.”

She smiled. “Let me get Sawyer and Ash so they can say hello.”

“Okay.”

“Actually, the whole gang is here. Maybe you can get Cash out of my leftovers so I can pack them away.”

I laughed. “Not likely, but I’ll try.”

As my brother and his friends came into the video frame, Pepper came over and laid his head on my knee.

All my longing from earlier was swept away. I had family and friends, even if they were far away.

A great job that helped people. A roof over my head. Delicious pie.

And Pepper.

What else could a guy need?