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Then he’d hit a road bump, a big one, with the celebrity chef back in June. His editor had lost faith in Flynn, but worse—
Flynn had temporarily lost faith in himself.
He refused to get sucked into that emotional vortex again. He’d gotten to the top by staying out of the story, and he’d do that again here. Get in and out, as fast as possible.
And then make one stop, one very important stop, before heading back to Boston.
But he couldn’t do either if he didn’t shake off that silly whisper of conscience, write the story his editor wanted and get it in on time, no matter what it took.
The interior of the Jeep had reached a comfortable temperature and Sam pulled off one glove, then the other. Her hands, he noticed, were slim and delicate, the nails short and no-nonsense, not polished. She tugged on the zipper of the parka, but it stuck. “Oh, this coat,” she muttered, still tugging with one hand while she drove with the other.
“Let me.” He reached over, intending only to help her, but his hand brushed against hers, and instant heat exploded in that touch. Flynn’s hand jerked upward. He hadn’t reacted with such instantaneous attraction to a woman—a woman he’d just met—in a long time. Granted, Samantha Barnett was beautiful, but there was something about her. Something indefinable. A brightness to her smile, to her personality, that seemed to draw him in, make him forget his reporter’s objectivity.
Not smart. If there was one thing Flynn prided himself on being, it was smart.
Controlled. He didn’t let things get out of hand, get crazy. By keeping tight reins on his life, on himself, he was able to manage everything. The one time he had lost control, he’d nearly lost his career.
He cleared his throat. He clasped the tiny silver zipper and pulled. After a slight catch, the fastener gave way, parting the front of the coat with a low-pitched hum as it slid down.
Beneath the coat, she wore a soft green sweater that dipped in a slight V at the neck and skimmed over her curves. From the second he’d met Samantha Barnett, Flynn had noticed the way the green of the sweater enhanced the green in her eyes, offset the golden tones in her hair. But now, without the cover of the apron, he noticed twice as much.
And noticed even more about her.
The scent of her perfume…cinnamon, vanilla, honey—or was it simply the leftover scents of the bakery?—wafted up to tease at his senses. Would her skin taste the same? Taste as good as the baked delights in the cases of the shop?
Flynn drew back. Shook himself.
Get back on track, back in work mode.
Getting distracted by a woman was not part of the plan. It never was. He did not get emotionally involved. Did not let himself care, about the people in the story, about people in general. That was how he stayed in control of his life.
No way was he deviating from the road he had laid for himself. Even Mimi, with her need for no real tie, no commitment, fit into what he needed. A woman like Samantha Barnett, who had small-town, commitment values written all over her, would not. “Your, ah, zipper is all fixed.”
“Thanks.” She flashed that smile his way again.
That was when Flynn MacGregor realized he had a problem. He’d been distracted from the minute he’d walked into that bakery.
Betsy’s Bed and Breakfast was located less than six blocks from Earl’s repair shop, but with Flynn MacGregor so close, the ride seemed to take ten hours instead of ten minutes. Sam was aware of his every breath, his every movement. She kept her eyes on the road, not just because visibility had become nearly zero, but because it seemed as if the only thing she saw in her peripheral vision was Flynn.
She hadn’t been out on a date in—
Well, a long time. Too much work, too little personal life. That must be why her every thought seemed to revolve around him. Why she’d become hyperaware of the woodsy notes of his cologne. Why her gaze kept straying to his hands, his broad shoulders, the cleft in his jaw.
This ride was a prime opportunity to impress him. To tell him more about the bakery. Not flirt. Not that him jumping in to help with her zipper was flirting…except she had held her breath when he’d gotten so close. Noted the fit of his jacket. The flecks of gold in his eyes. The way the last rays of sun glinted in his hair.
Business, Sam. Business.
“Have you interviewed many bakery owners?” she asked. Then wanted to kick herself. She hadn’t exactly hit the witty jackpot with that one.
“A few. Mostly, I cover high-end restaurants. Or, I did.” He gave her a wry grin, one that made her wonder about the use of the past tense. “All those chefs courting heart attacks, trying to maintain their five-star ratings.”
Sam stopped the Jeep, the four-wheel drive working hard to grip the icy roads, and let a mother and her three children cross the street. Sam recognized Linda Powell, and waved to her through the front window. The littlest Powell waved back, a small red mittened hand bringing a smile to Sam’s face. “Is the restaurant business really that competitive?”
He snorted. “Are you kidding? In some cities, these places campaign all year to garner those ratings. They agonize over their menus, stress over the tiniest ingredients, sometimes shipping in a certain fish from one pocket of the world because the chef insists absolutely nothing else will do. Every detail is obsessed over, nitpicked at like it’s life and death. They’ll accept nothing less than the unqualified best. A bad review can close a place, a good review can skyrocket it to the top.”
“But…that’s ridiculous.” She halted at a stop sign, waiting to make the right onto Maple Street. The Jeep’s wipers clicked back and forth, wiping snow off the frosty glass. “A review is simply one person’s opinion.”
“Ah, but people like me are paid to be the experts.” Flynn put a hand on his chest, affecting a dramatic posture. “They live or die by our words.”
They had reached Betsy’s Bed and Breakfast, where a small hand-painted sign out front announced the converted Victorian’s vacancies. Sam stopped in front of the quaint home and parked alongside the front walk. Betsy, a complete Christmas fanatic, had decked the entire porch in holiday flare, with a moving Santa, twinkling lights and even a lighted sleigh and reindeer on the roof.
“And what about me?” Sam asked, turning to Flynn before he exited the Jeep. “What do you think will be my fate? Do you think I’ll skyrocket to the top?”
Flynn studied her for a long time, his gaze unreadable in the darkening day, a storm in his blue eyes rivaling the one in the sky. “That, Miss Barnett, is still to be determined.”
CHAPTER FOUR
BETSY WILLIAMS, the owner of the bed and breakfast, greeted Flynn with bells on. Literally.
The buxom, wide woman hurried across the foyer and put out her arms, the bells on her house slippers jingling and jangling as she moved, like a one-person reindeer symphony. “Welcome! It’s so nice to have another guest! At Betsy’s Bed and Breakfast, there’s always room for one more!”
Flynn would have turned and run, except Samantha Barnett was standing behind him, blocking the sole exit. “I’m only here until my car is fixed.”
And hopefully not a single second longer.
“As long as you want, my heart and home are open to you.” She beamed, bright red lips spreading across her face and revealing even, white teeth. Her hand shot out, and she pumped his in greeting, extracting his name and reason for coming to Riverbend in quick succession. “Oh, that’s just so exciting!” Betsy said. “Now, tell me what you want for breakfast. Waffles, French toast or eggs?”
Flynn forced a smile to his face. “Surprise me.”
Betsy squealed. “I’ll delight you, is what I’ll do. And I’ll have plenty of baked goods to choose from, too, won’t I, Sam?”
“You’re my first delivery of the day, Betsy. Not to mention, my best customer.”
Betsy hustled around and took Flynn’s arm, practically hauling him toward the front parlor. “I was her only customer, don’t you know, back when she first took over. So many people didn’t think a girl, still practically a teenager, could run a shop like that. And she did have her mishaps, didn’t you, Sam? A few burned things and well, that one teeny-weeny explosion, but you moved past those little setbacks.” Betsy beamed. “You’re a regular baker now, even if you had no formal training.”
Flynn glanced over at Samantha. Her smile seemed held on by strings.
“And those romance cookies, why they worked for me and my Earl. Oh, he’s such a cutie, isn’t he?” Betsy barreled on, saving Flynn from having to offer an opinion. “Those cookies have fixed up many a person who has come through my door. I serve them every morning on the buffet table.” Betsy wagged a finger at him. “If you’re looking for love, Mr. MacGregor, you be sure to try those cookies.”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
She assessed him like a Christmas ham. “I don’t see a ring. That means you need the cookies.” Betsy nodded. “And our Sam, here, she’s available.”
“Betsy, Mr. MacGregor needs a room,” Sam interjected.
“Oh, my goodness, I almost forgot! And here I am, the hostess and everything.” Betsy tsk-tsked herself. “And you need to get back to work, missy, right?”
“I do,” Sam replied. “Business is booming lately.”
“Well, why wouldn’t it? Where else are people going to go to get their cookies? You’re the only bakery for miles and miles!” Betsy grinned, as if she’d just paid Samantha a huge compliment. Flynn supposed, in her own way, Betsy thought she had, but he could see the sting in Samantha’s eyes. The implication that her success was due solely to a lack of competition, not hard work and expertise. Maybe Betsy still saw Sam as that young kid who burned the muffins.
For a second, his chest constricted with sympathy, then he yanked the emotion back. The first rule in reporting was not to get involved with the story, stay above the fray.
He’d used that as a yardstick to measure every personal decision he’d ever made. After years of sticking to that mantra like tape to a present, Flynn wasn’t about to start caring now. To start putting his heart into the mix. He did not cross those boundaries.
Ever.
He didn’t care if Riverbend had issues with Sam Barnett or vice versa. Didn’t care if her business was going gangbusters or going bust. He’d made a very good living without ever putting his heart into a story, because Flynn MacGregor had learned a long time ago that doing so meant putting his emotions through a meat grinder. He’d rather write about kitchen implements than experience them.
“I’d like to get settled, Miss Williams,” Flynn said. “And find out how to log onto your network.”
“Network?” She frowned, then propped a fist on her ample hip. “I’ll have you know Betsy’s Bed and Breakfast is not a chain.”
“Internet network,” Flynn said. “I wanted to check my e-mail.”
“Oh, that.” She crossed to a side table, to straighten the green-feathered hat on a stuffed cat in an elf costume, then walked back to Flynn. “I don’t have one of those either.”
“Well, then your dial-up connection. That’ll do.”
“Dial-up to what? Anytime we need to talk to somebody, we either walk on down to their house or call ’em on the phone.” Betsy wagged a finger at him. “By the way, local calls are free at Betsy’s Bed and Breakfast, but there is an extra charge for any long distance. The parlor phone is the one set aside for guest usage.”
Flynn pivoted back toward Samantha. “There is an Internet connection in this town, isn’t there?”
“Well, yes, but…” Samantha gave him a smile. “It’s not very reliable, so most people here don’t bother with it.”
He truly had landed in the middle of nowhere. Flynn bit back his impatience, but it surged forward all the same. “What exactly does that mean?”
“Meaning when there’s a storm, like there is now, the Internet is the first to go.”
“What about cable? Satellite?”
“Not here, not yet. Companies look for demand before they start investing the dollars in technology and, well, Riverbend has never been big on embracing that kind of thing.” Samantha shrugged.
“How the hell do you do business out here?”
“Most people still do things the old-fashioned way, I suppose. Face-to-face, with a smile and handshake.”
A headache began to pound in Flynn’s temples. He rubbed at his forehead. He couldn’t miss his deadline. Absolutely could not. It wasn’t just that Food Lovers was holding the Valentine’s Day issue especially for this article, and being late would risk raising Tony’s ire. Flynn had already earned a slot on the ire list.
There was more than his career to consider. In the last few months since that interview that had blown up in his face, Flynn had found himself searching for—
A connection. To a past he thought he’d shut off, closed like a closet door full of memories no one wanted to look at. He’d done everything he could to take care of that past, to assuage his guilt. But suddenly throwing money at it wasn’t enough.
He needed to go in person, even if he wasn’t so sure his shoes on that doorstep would be very welcome. Either way, one glance out the window at the storm that had become a frenzy of white, told him the chances of leaving today—even if his car was fixed—were nil.
Until the storm eased, he’d work. Write up this thing about magic elves baking love cookies, or whatever the secret was, turn it over to his editor, and then he could get back to the meat that fed his paycheck and his constant hunger to find the scoop—scathing restaurant reviews exposing the true underbelly of the food industry.
“How am I supposed to work without an Internet connection?” he said.
“We have electricity,” Betsy said, her voice high and helpful. “You can plug in a computer. That’s good enough, isn’t it?” Upstairs, someone called Betsy’s name, mentioning an emergency. She sighed. “Oh, Lord, not again.” She toodled a wave, then headed up the stairs, while her slippers sang their jarring song.
Flynn turned back to Samantha. “If Scrooge’s ghosts do come visit me, they better bring a connection to civilization. And if they can’t, just put me out of my misery. Because this place is Jingle Hell.”
“He’s awful, Aunt Ginny.” Sam shuddered. “He hates this town, hates me, I think, and even hates Christmas.”
“But he’s easy on the eyes. That kind of evens things out, doesn’t it?” Ginny Weatherby, who had worked at Joyful Creations for nearly twelve years, smiled at her niece. The two of them were in the back of the bakery, cleaning up and putting it to rights after the busy day. The front half of Joyful Creations was dark, silent, the sign in the window turned to Closed, leaving them in relative peace and quiet. “Your grandmother would have agreed.”
“Grandma liked everyone who came through this door.” Sam groaned. “I think he purposely sets out to frustrate me. How am I supposed to give him a good interview? I’m afraid I’ll say something I’ll regret.”
“Oh, you’re smart enough not to do that, Sam. I’m sure you’ll do fine.”
“I don’t want him to find out about Grandma,” Sam said.
Ginny’s gaze softened. “Would it be so bad for people to know?”
Sam toyed with the handle on the sprayer. “I just want people to remember her the way she was, Aunt Ginny.”
“They will, Sam.” She put a hand on her niece’s shoulder. “You need to trust that people of this town are your friends, that they love and care about you, and your grandmother.”
“I’ll think about it,” Sam said. Though she had thought about the same question a hundred times over the past five years, and come back to the same answer. She didn’t want people’s pity. And most of all, she didn’t want them to be hurt when they found out the Joy Barnett they knew and loved was no longer there. “For now, I’m more worried about that Flynn guy. He gets on my last nerve, I swear.”
Ginny loaded the dishwasher and pushed a few buttons. “Give him cookies. That’ll sweeten him up.”
“I did. He wouldn’t eat them.” Sam sprayed disinfectant on the countertops and wiped them down, using the opportunity to work out some of her frustrations.
Aunt Ginny made a face. “Well, then I don’t trust him. Any man who won’t eat a plate of cookies, there’s something wrong. Unless he’s diabetic, then he has an excuse. Did you check for a medical ID bracelet?”
“No. Maybe I should have looked for a jerk bracelet.”
“Have some patience, dear.” She patted her niece’s hand. “This guy could give the shop lots of great publicity.”
“I’m trying to be patient.”
“And you never know, he could be the one.”
Sam rolled her eyes. “Stop trying to fix me up with every man who walks through that door.”
Aunt Ginny took off her apron and hung it on a hook by the door, then crossed to her niece. The gentle twinkle of love shone in her light green eyes. “Your mother wouldn’t want to see you living your life alone, dear, and neither would your grandmother.”
“I’m not alone. I have you.”
Sam would forever be grateful to her Aunt Ginny, who had moved to Riverbend from Florida a few months after Sam took over the bakery. Not much of a baker, she hadn’t exactly stepped into her sister Joy’s shoes, instead becoming the friend and helper Sam needed most. Though making cookies had never been her favorite thing to do, she’d been an enthusiastic supporter of the business, and especially of Sam.
Ginny pursed her lips. “Not the same thing and you know it.”
“It’s good enough for now. You know why I have to pour everything into the business.” Sam went back to wiping, concentrating on creating concentric circles of shine, instead of the thoughts weighing on her. The ones that crept up when she least expected them—reminding her that she had stayed in this shop instead of going to college, getting married, having a family. The part that every so often wondered what if…she didn’t have these responsibilities, these expectations?
But she did, so she kept on wiping, and cleaning.
Ginny’s hand on her shoulder was a soft reminder that they had visited this topic dozens of times. “You don’t have to pour everything into here, dear. Leave some room for you.”
“I will,” Sam promised, though she didn’t mean it. Ginny didn’t understand—and never really had—the all-consuming pressure Sam felt to increase business, and revenues. Grandma Joy deserved the best care—and the only way to pay for that was by bringing in more money. Not think about possibilities that couldn’t happen.
“And as far as this reporter goes,” Ginny said, grabbing her coat as she waited for Sam to finish putting away the cleaning products, “I think it’s time you tried the cranberry orange bread. The frosted loaf, not the plain one. I haven’t met a person yet that didn’t rave about it.”
Sam let out a breath, relieved Ginny hadn’t suggested sweetening him up with a date, or something else Sam definitely didn’t have time or room in her life for. “Okay. I’ll bring some over to Betsy’s in the morning. Try to sweeten him up.”
“And wear your hair up. Put in your hoop earrings, and for God’s sake,” Aunt Ginny added, wagging a finger, “wear some lipstick.”
“Ginny, this isn’t a beauty contest, it’s an interview.”
Ginny grinned. “I didn’t get to this age without learning a thing or two about men. And if there’s one thing I know, it’s to use your assets, Sam,” she said, shutting off the lights and closing the shop but not the subject, “every last one.”
Flynn woke up in a bad mood.
He flipped open his cell phone, prayed for at least one signal bar, and got none. Moved around the frilly room, over to the lace-curtained window, still nothing. Pushing aside a trio of chubby Santas on the sill, Flynn opened the window, stuck the phone outside as far as his arm would reach and still had zero signal. Where was he? Mars? Soon as he got back to Boston, he was switching wireless carriers. Apparently this one’s promise of service “anywhere” didn’t include small Indiana towns in the middle of nowhere.
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