Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 44474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 222(@200wpm)___ 178(@250wpm)___ 148(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 44474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 222(@200wpm)___ 178(@250wpm)___ 148(@300wpm)
“I think the capacity to give unconditional love is more important. I got lucky in the parent department. My dad was cool under pressure and he could be fun, but he was tough too. My mom was the softie. Still is.”
“Yeah, well, my father was literally Santa.”
I dropped my fork with a clang for comedic purposes. “For real? Does that mean you’re an elf?”
Moody’s lips curled in a reluctant smile. “A South Pole elf, perhaps.”
“Ah…still cool.”
He chuckled, his eyes twinkling in the candlelight. “My dad embraced all things silly. As far as he was concerned, the fact that he was a big man with white hair, a beard, and a belly meant that he had a particular calling when he moved to a holiday-themed town. Dad bought himself a suit with faux-fur lining and a hat and shiny black boots and shouted ‘Happy Holidays’ at the top of his lungs as he waltzed down Reindeer Lane beginning the day after Thanksgiving. Needless to say, he was a hit. Sam Barnham took over two years after Dad passed, but it’s not the same. As Vicki says, ‘Sam’s a sorry second.’ ”
“Well, I admit that’s pretty cool. Your dad sounds like a good guy.”
“He was the best,” Moody said matter-of-factly. “He’s been gone almost four years now, and he’s sorely missed by everyone. Town hall dedicated a statue to him…right next to the giant Christmas tree. You’ve probably seen it.”
I cocked my head curiously. “The Santa statue? That’s your dad.”
“Mmhmm. A decent likeness, too.”
I reached across the table and touched his hand. “I’m sorry for your loss. My father’s been gone ten years, and not a day goes by that I don’t think of him. Working at the ranch has been a good way to feel connected to him…if that makes any sense.”
Moody raised a brow. “Of course it does. I moved to the area after my father’s first heart attack. I was also in between jobs and hadn’t relished the prospect of a return to Wall Street. My dad showed me the property next to Vicki’s café and asked me what I would do with it if I could do anything in the world.”
“Sell books?” I guessed.
“Yes. My initial plan was to start a business and hire a manager to run it for me, but I’m still here.”
“You must like it.”
“I love it. Belle from Beauty and the Beast was my childhood idol. I envied her more than I could possibly put into words. I wanted a room filled from floor to ceiling with books and a ladder that whisked me from one end to the other. Teenage me added the coffee shop next door to the equation. Tea and books and comfy chairs to snuggle up in…” He fluttered his eyes as if in a euphoric trance. “But adult me became terribly busy, bought an e-reader, and was happy enough ordering online publications. Owning a bookstore seemed outrageous. Way too big of a dream.”
I grinned, loving his passionate speech and glowing eyes. Geez, this guy was magnetic. I felt drawn to him in a way I hadn’t been to anyone in a long time. “But you did it.”
Moody inclined his chin as if taking a mini bow. “Yes, and I’m proud of it. I should be thinking about how to expand, but maybe someday. So to answer your question—I like that part of my dream has come to fruition. I also like that Vicki is here.”
“Vicki the soup vixen?”
“That’s the one. Vicki’s my dad’s widow, and she’s family. We look out for each other. And Santa Ynez Valley is a truly lovely area, so yes…I’m happy here. Ish.”
“Ish?” I prodded.
“It’s a quiet life. Sometimes, I think a little more action would be nice. I miss New York City, but going back to long hours and cold winters in a fast-paced city doesn’t appeal to me. Neither do the holidays,” Moody added scornfully.
I narrowed my gaze. “You seriously don’t like the holidays?”
“That is correct.”
“Yet…you live in Christmas Town,” I continued in a measured tone.
“Also correct.” He tore a piece of bread in half and took a big bite.
“Everyone loves the holidays.”
“I’m not everyone.”
“No…you’re not,” I agreed with a laugh.
“I have my reasons and I won’t bore you, but suffice it to say, that the lighthearted joie de vivre required to embrace the magic of the season is not wired into my system.”
“I see.” I wrinkled my nose in barely masked confusion. “Look, I know we just met, but you strike me as a jolly guy. Happy to the core.”
“Thank you. I am.” He paused a beat. “Until December and the holiday season and blah…”
“Blah?”
“There’s an existential argument to be made that we’re conditioned to enjoy the holidays and part with money with smiles on our faces. It’s a genius ploy, really, but gosh, it grinds my gears. And the rush of endorphins is often accompanied with a January crash and a case of the blues.” Moody paused when a team of servers swooped in to deliver our meals. He thanked our waiter, complimented the presentation of his salmon, her hair and necklace, and asked after her mother. The moment we were alone again, he picked up his fork and finished his thought. “It’s simple science, Hudson. For every positive, there’s an inverse reaction. What goes up must come down. Faux December high, real January low.”