Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
I am no longer a competent leader.
I am a firefighter in a burning bakery, armed with nothing but gasoline and shattered dreams. My perfect town hall replica has been downgraded to “structurally unsound mansion haunted by the losses of Christmas past,” and it’s quickly becoming clear we will not be taking home gold this year.
Still, I try my best to keep a cheery smile on my face for the team.
Even when Marge finally succeeds in spackling store-bought garbage onto the east wall while my back is turned, resulting in a slow, dramatic implosion that summons a collective gasp from our table, I will myself to hold it together.
“Oh, no,” Marge whispers. “I guess it really was too heavy and thick. Like you said.”
“Told you,” Timmy whispers before promptly returning to chewing his nails to bits.
Paulie heaves a tragic sigh for the ages, and then we all just…stand there. Speechless in the wreckage. The entire front wall is gone, leaving a gaping hole and a pile of frosting-smeared rubble.
We have failed.
Utterly and completely.
I’m considering face-planting into the center of the mess to hide my shame, when a voice rumbles from behind me, “What in God’s name happened here?”
I turn to see Luke hovering at the edge of our disaster zone, looking like he just stepped out of an issue of Sexy Businessman Relaxing on the Weekend Monthly. In a grey cashmere sweater that hugs his broad shoulders and dark designer jeans, he is the kind of yummy that would soothe a girl’s soul if she weren’t currently lost in the haunted gingerbread house of despair.
“You’re early,” I finally manage, my voice emerging as a squeak. “Clean-up isn’t for another hour.”
“I meant to be here earlier. To cheer you on or…whatever one does at an event like this,” he says, making my battle-weary heart perk up a little. “But there was a sleigh ride traffic jam on Main Street. Half the Santas apparently never learned to drive.” He surveys the carnage of our workstation, his gaze moving from the collapsed wall to Marge’s frosting-smeared hands. “What can I do to help? It looks like we need to address some structural issues?”
I blink, certain that he’s joking.
Surely, this is sarcasm at its very driest.
After all, this is a man who hates Christmas tomfoolery, and it doesn’t get much more foolery-filled than this.
But when his gaze shifts my way, all I see is a sincere desire to help pull me and my band of misfits back from the edge.
I nod, rolling my shoulders back. “I think we need some help regrouping. We got stuck with a crappy batch of cookies.” I motion to Paulie, on my right. “Paulie’s a professional baker, so he’s doing a fantastic job with assembly. But our raw materials aren’t up to snuff. So, we’re shoring them up with a thin coat of my fast-drying homemade icing.”
“Not the store-bought icing I used without permission,” Marge pipes up with a sheepish smile. “I learned from my mistake. I promise I did.”
“And I’m putting the decorations on,” Timmy whispers almost too softly to hear, pointing to the rear of the structure. “I already started.”
Luke shifts to observe the back, nodding seriously. “You’ve done a great job. Keep going with that, Timmy. The rest of us will get the front fixed and ready for you to continue your work as quickly as possible. How long do we have left?”
I glance at the clock, my pulse spiking. “Fifty-two minutes?”
“I’m so sorry!” Marge whimpers again.
“Right, then we’d better get to it.” Luke takes off his coat, folding it with precision and placing it on a clean chair. Then, he pushes up his sweater and starts rolling the button-down sleeves beneath, revealing forearms corded with muscle and dusted with fine, dark hair.
And that’s it.
One look at those highly capable, sexy as hell forearms is all the inspiration I need to get my groove back.
My shoulders, which have been somewhere up around my ears for the last hour, drop, and a steady quiet settles over me.
Luke’s here to back me up.
He’s here because he wants to be, not because our blackmail pact demands it.
The knowledge infuses me with a ridiculous, intoxicating surge of hope.
Maybe, just maybe, we still have a chance.
Ten
Luke
The disaster in front of me is testimony to how much damage can be done by one weak link.
Holly’s gingerbread town hall looks like it’s been through both an earthquake and a frosting tsunami. Half the structure has collapsed, and store-bought icing oozes down what remains of the east wall like some kind of sugary plague. Meanwhile, Timmy is gnawing his fingernails down to the quick, and the professional baker is clearly about five seconds away from bailing on the entire endeavor.
I can’t say that I blame him.
I also usually have little patience for mess. Or people who can’t follow directions. But as I roll up my sleeves, I’m not angry. Or irritated.