Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 145731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
But I must put him out of my mind, and all these new questions about romance, because it’s strategy time. The room is perfect because there’s a whiteboard in it—one half covered in bakery inventory lists, the other blissfully blank. I tap the clean side and grab a red marker.
List time. Planning mode. I’m in my element, and my element is thinking about others.
“Tomorrow’s first challenge is the snowman challenge,” I say, since Mayor Bumblefritz gave all the teams a general idea about the event but not specifics. “But they’re not telling us whether we’ll be judged on unconventional uses for carrots or not—and no, you can’t use them for dicks.”
“Shame,” Eloise says with a pout on her pretty, pale, heart-shaped face. Her light brown hair frames her cheekbones, but it’s almost impossible to look away from her eyes. One is blue, one is green. They’re captivating—and they sparkle with mischief.
“I know, but we’ll soldier on,” Aurora says, chipper and upbeat, all traces of flour and sugar wiped off her freckled face.
“Exactly. We might face ‘most classic,’ ‘most creative,’ or other types,” I say, then rattle off more ideas.
“We need to be prepared for all sorts of possibilities,” Eloise adds, an eager and savvy competitor. “They might do non-snowmen snowmen. I read about a town in the Swiss Alps that did that in a Christmas contest. Threw everyone off—except for a local sculptor. She had no problem making a dog out of snow.”
I write that down. “Good to know. We should be ready to make snow cats, snow dogs, or snow people. And that brings me to my point: what’s the one thing we bring to the table—the three of us?”
“It’s certainly not years of snowman-building,” Eloise says, “since I’m more of a snow angel girlie myself.”
“That’s my point. We’re creative,” I say, then walk them through how we might be able to win tomorrow, taking notes on the board, then choosing a team name.
“You’re a goddess,” Eloise says when we’re done.
I give a bob of a shoulder. “No. I just like to win.”
We smack palms, and before we go, I clear my throat, point to the whiteboard, and say, “We’d better erase this. The stakes are high. Everyone wants to win the prize.”
I picture Rowan. Hell, the man wants to be a coach when he retires. He’ll be doing everything he can to make sure his team wins. He’s ruthless. But I’ll be more so.
Eloise grabs the eraser, but before she wipes the board clean, she taps her forehead. “I’ve got it all up here, boss.”
“Please. Call me by my official name.”
“Isla?” she asks, confused.
I toss my midnight blue snowflake scarf jauntily around my neck. “Miss Christmas.”
“All hail Miss Christmas,” they say in unison.
“This meeting of the Sugar Plum Ladies is officially adjourned!” We place our hands together, one on top of the other, then let them fly.
I head upstairs, grab my coat, and check the time. Fifteen minutes till I’m running romantic drills with my grumpy, stupidly hot client-slash-competition.
No big deal. Except for the part where he kissed me senseless last week under the mistletoe. But tonight’s not about my desire. Tonight is about my client, and my goal is to help him, not to ogle him. “You’re Miss Christmas,” I say to myself as I leave the bakery. “There’s nothing you can’t handle during the holidays.”
Over the years, I’ve handled missing gifts, a dog who ate the reindeer’s cookies, and a stolen yule log cake at a corporate Christmas retreat. I can manage a few flutters.
As I tighten my coat against the chilly winter air, my boots crunch over the remains of the snow along Main Street toward the diner. I pass the display at A Likely Story, its windows full of Christmas romances peeking out of stockings, then reach the Candy Cane Diner, with its red-and-white striped door.
I pull it open. And my chest heats when I spot Rowan at the counter, wearing…another Santa sweater?
His lush lips are curved up, like he’s smirking. Well, he probably is.
When he spots me, he rises, and I stop in my tracks. Is that a Christmas moose on his sweater? It’s subtler than the Santa one he wore earlier. It’s something you might pick up in a store here rather than a novelty online shop. I resume my pace, striding to him.
“Hey there,” he says, his voice a sexy rasp, the sound sliding down my spine.
It…disarms me. “Hi.”
He leans in and presses a soft kiss to my cheek. I catch the scent of his cologne—that ocean breeze scent, masculine and enticing. It wraps around me, and my eyes flutter closed for a second or two as his lips dust across my skin.
These aren’t just flutters. These are sparks. The full-throttle kind.
He steps back and I nearly grab his arm to steady myself. But I manage to stand through the fog of lust.