Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 96312 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 482(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96312 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 482(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
“And even a grumpy photographer can be eloquent once per lunar cycle,” I countered with a wink. “So which one are we tasting first?” I segued smoothly, lifting my mug. “Mrs. Marian, tell us what flavors you have for us today.”
We both took sips as Mrs. Marian stood next to us, explaining the hot chocolate flight and telling us a little bit more about her family’s lodge. The chocolate in this first selection was rich and velvety, the homemade whipped cream melting slowly into the warm liquid. I made the appropriate appreciative noises, describing the flavor profile for the viewers.
“It’s like drinking a warm hug wrapped in cashmere,” I enthused. “The way the vanilla notes complement the richness of the chocolate is absolutely—”
Maddox set down his mug with a decisive thunk. “Let’s not get carried away. It’s good, but I remain steadfastly loyal to my grandmother’s own recipe. No offense, Mrs. Marian.”
She laughed warmly. “None taken. Your grandmother’s Christmas open house was the inspiration for our hot cocoa mornings.”
As she wandered off to grab our next round, I focused back on Maddox. “Was this an open house at the hardware store?”
“Another annual tradition featuring the Sullivan family recipe. Been served at the hardware store’s Christmas open house for over fifty years.” He wiped his lips carefully, checking for more rogue whipped cream. “She used real dark chocolate and a pinch of cayenne pepper for depth.”
“Sounds delicious. Tell me about it.”
His expression softened slightly. “It was my favorite day of the year growing up. The store would be transformed—lights everywhere, pine garlands on the counters, Mr. Peterson—the elder Mr. Peterson—dressed as Santa. And my grandmother standing behind a giant pot of hot chocolate, making sure every kid in town got a candy cane and a full mug.”
I could picture it vividly—the hardware store transformed into a winter wonderland, young Maddox wide-eyed at the magic of it all. For a moment, I felt a pang of something like envy. My own childhood Christmases had been elegant, formal affairs with catered food and professionally wrapped presents. The kind of Christmases that photographed beautifully but rarely featured in any stories I told. Nothing as messy or warm as what Maddox described.
The warmth in his voice was captivating. I found myself genuinely interested, the practiced conversation topics forgotten.
“And you still do it?”
His smile faded a little. “We try. It’s not the same without my parents, but Maya and I keep it going. Tradition matters, you know?”
I nodded, unsure how to respond to the unexpected vulnerability. The casual mention of his parents’ absence hung in the air between us. I wanted to ask what had happened but sensed it wasn’t the right moment. He struck me as someone who wouldn’t want to reveal too much on camera.
Before I could formulate a reply, Mrs. Marian arrived with the second round of hot chocolates—these topped with homemade marshmallows and chocolate shavings.
“Mexican chocolate,” she announced. “Cinnamon, vanilla, and a hint of chili.”
The moment broken, we returned to the tasting. As we progressed through the flight, Maddox gradually relaxed, his commentary becoming less grudging and more animated. He had strong opinions about the white chocolate peppermint (too sweet), enthusiastic praise for the dark chocolate orange (surprisingly complex), and outright skepticism about the final offering—a lavender-infused concoction with gold-dusted marshmallows.
“Fair warning,” Mrs. Marian teased before leaving us to the final tasting. “This one’s a little out-there, but it was a special request sent in via my granddaughter’s social media account by several fans of the tasting.”
After she’d moved far enough away to be out of earshot, Maddox made a face.
“This,” he declared, eyeing the purple-tinted drink like it had personally insulted his heritage, “is exactly what’s wrong with Instagram culture. Nobody needs edible gold or flowers in their hot chocolate. It’s pretentious nonsense.”
I laughed despite myself. “Not a fan of the nontraditional aesthetic?”
“It’s hot chocolate, not a fashion statement. It should taste good, not just look good in photos.”
“You know,” I said, leaning closer, “for someone who claims to hate social media, you seem to have a lot of opinions about it.”
“I have opinions about everything,” he retorted. “Ask anyone in town.”
“Oh, I plan to. I’m making a spreadsheet of ‘Maddox Sullivan’s Grumpy Opinions’ as we speak. I’m guessing by the end of our twelve dates, I’ll have enough material for a coffee table book.”
His lips twitched, fighting a smile. “Your dates,” he corrected. “Not our dates.”
“Our dates since you will definitely be there,” I corrected with a grin. “And if you thought I was implying something more than that, don’t flatter yourself, Sullivan.”
“Like I’d date someone who needs outdoor wear with fancy labels when the weather’s barely below freezing,” he shot back.
“Says the man who’s been checking out my fancy-labeled ass since yesterday.”
Maddox choked on his hot chocolate. “I have not—”