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)
“Why? I know you have a strong anti-holiday stance, but does it have to be a Christmassy gingerbread creation? We could just make a house. Or better yet, a ranch.” I picked up a couple of the empty boxes I’d stacked in the corner. “Me and you…could be fun. Like a baking date.”
“A baking date?” Moody repeated.
I pointed at his chest. “Exactly. Your kitchen is bigger, so—”
“No gingerbread in my house.”
I narrowed my gaze. “Okay, we’ll do it at my place. Send me a list of ingredients, and I’ll do the shopping. Sound good?”
I braced for a grumbly Moody brush-off, and let’s be real, I kind of deserved it. He’d clearly stated that he had no intention of participating and once again, I’d inserted myself. Sue me. I liked this man, and I wanted to see him smile the way he had a few months ago, unfettered and free.
But really…a gingerbread-baking date?
Ingredients for a gingerbread house: flour, baking powder, salt, brown sugar, ground ginger, cinnamon, allspice…
I scoured the Santa Ynez supermarket spice section and came up empty. They had basil, bay leaves, cardamom seed powder, cayenne, and thirty more with tiny labels and even smaller font, but no allspice. Maybe that wasn’t important.
I pulled out my cell and texted Moody.
Where the fuck and what the fuck is allspice?
I hit Send just as a new message popped up from my family chat. It was a group selfie of my mom, my brother, a slew of cousins, their significant others, and my aunt and uncle taken at Sunday dinner. The caption read: We miss you, Hud! Come home for Christmas.
“Well, fancy running into you here!”
I spun, jostling my cell and nearly dropping it. “Whoa.”
Vicki cupped her hand beneath mine to catch it, wiping her brow in mock relief when that proved unnecessary. “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“That’s okay. I was texting and got distracted.”
“Happens to the best of us,” she replied, tucking a strand of hair into her loose bun and pointing a red manicured finger at my screen. “Is that your family?”
“Uh…yeah.” I turned my phone toward her and gave a brief rundown of the Calhoun and Babineaux clan.
“That’s a big crew,” she commented, sidling around me to grab two jars of cloves.
“There are even more of us during the holidays. Cousins I haven’t seen or sometimes even heard of come out of the woodwork.” I checked to be sure I hadn’t missed a new message from Moody before pocketing my cell. “It’s chaos…the fun kind. My mom’s convinced I need that in my life, so she’s enlisted the whole gang to coax me home for Christmas.”
Vicki cocked her head, her hand frozen over a package of powdered sugar. “You’re staying in town?”
“That’s my plan.” I turned back to the spice section.
“Ah…well, that’s good. I noticed that you and Moody have become…close, but knowing Moody, he won’t offer the appropriate holiday invite, so if you happen to be available for dinner on Christmas Eve, you’re welcome to join us at my house. Believe it or not, there will be no soup on the menu.”
I smiled. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”
“My pleasure. And good luck with your gingerbread house. You’re going to need it,” she chided playfully. “I’ve got my husband’s secret recipe.”
“Gingerbread smack talk? That’s a new one.”
“Oh, honey, you don’t know the half of it. My late husband was very serious about gingerbread flavor, and Moody was all about construction and design. They were very close, and together, they were a great team. But…things have changed,” she commented, her voice suddenly wistful.
The baking aisle at the local grocery store probably wasn’t the best venue for probing conversations, but I was too curious and this woman knew Moody better than anyone.
“Moody told me his dad was literally Santa.”
Vicki grinned. “Yep. Milt looked the part, and that man embodied kindness and joy and…blessings. Can you believe I met him at a Vegas strip club?”
A woman pushing a drooling toddler in a shopping cart glanced up, immediately veering in the opposite direction.
“Is that so?”
Vicki waited for the young mother to clear the aisle and nodded. “It’s true. Milt came to my show every night during his two-week vacation. It was hard not to notice the guy with the bushy white beard and twinkling eyes. Santa at a strip club? The story just wrote itself. He was such a gentleman…always laughing, always able to find a silver lining. Like Moody.”
The “except in December” was inferred, but I let it go and refocused on the spice shelves.
“He sounds like he was an amazing guy.”
“The best.” She smiled sadly, motioning to the shelves of baking goods. “What are you looking for?”
“Allspice. Got any idea where I can find it?”
Vicki joined the search and found the allspice hidden behind a container of cumin. She dropped it into my cart, nudging my shoulder as she stage-whispered, “The decorations are crap here. You need to buy your supplies at the Candy Emporium in Christmas Town. If you give Sally my name, she’ll hook you up with the good stuff.”