I looked at the form again, with its garish red and green print. Maybe this was a sign. Maybe it was time to learn how to enjoy my craft again.
And Cameron makes gingerbread houses, a helpful voice reminded me.
That meant he was probably entering, so this could be my chance to charm him, maybe flirt a little if he seemed interested, and show him I wasn’t a total asshole after all.
Not that I’d be entering because of that. I’d be doing it for the animal shelter. Forcharity.
That was what I told myself, anyway.
By the time the oven timer pinged, I’d already filled in the form and tucked it into the back pocket of my jeans, feeling decidedly optimistic. This was a great chance to find my people in Sugar Hollow.
Plus I was pretty sure I could win this.
I droppedmy entry form off during my lunch break on Monday at the tiny building that doubled—tripled?—as the library, community center, and town clerk’s office. The middle-aged blonde woman behind the counter—Sherri, according to her name badge—gave me an assessing look. “New to town?” she asked, tilting her head.
“Yeah,” I said. “Just arrived two weeks ago.” I gave her a tentative smile. “I wanted to get away from the city, you know? Breathe some fresh air.”
“Well, welcome to Sugar Hollow”—her gaze flicked down to my entry form—“Finn Kelly.”
“Thanks,” I said, then added, “I’m really looking forward to the festival. I love gingerbread. Do you bake, Sherri?”
It was like I’d flicked a switch. Her face lit up with excitement. “I still use my grandmother’s recipe! And I always enter the competition, even though I have no chance of winning. My icing tends to drip down the side of my houses.”
“Oh,” I said, “you ice the panels while they’re flat and then assemble your building.”
Sherri stared at me like I was the Second Coming. “I never eventhoughtof that,” she said, her tone almost reverent, “but of course it makes perfect sense!” She gave me a smile that held real warmth.
“As long as you don’t use that knowledge against me and scoop the competition,” I teased.
“Oh, there’s no chance of that, but at least this year my husband won’t have to listen to me cursing like a sailor while all my decorations slide right off,” she said with a laugh.
I laughed along with her and gave her a smile of my own. “Glad I could help.”
“Welcome to Sugar Hollow,” she said again, and I got the feeling that this time she actually meant it. “Let me know if there’s anything you need help with while you’re finding your feet.”
“Thank you,” I said, warmth settling in my chest. Small towns tended to fall into one of two camps—warm and welcoming or cold and insular—and so far, Sugar Hollow seemed like it was the first kind, although that could have been because I was doing my best to make a good impression. Still, it seemed to be working.
I headed back to the sawmill where I spent the afternoon working my ass off stacking timber. It was dirty, repetitive work and my back always ached by the end of the day, but I liked that expectations were simple and clear-cut and that my mind was free to wander while I worked. It meant that by the time I clocked off I’d decided on what to make for my competition entry. I got the feeling a traditional cottage with candy canes and pine trees wasn’t going to cut it, so I’d decided to go all out and build the Nakatomi Plaza.
What?Die Hardwas totally a Christmas movie.
I stopped at the store on the way home and picked up some groceries, and then I added a small sack of flour, some sugar, unsalted butter, and an assortment of spices. I figured I’d make a practice batch of gingerbread and some cookies, just to be sure I remembered how to do this. It was dumb, but I wished I had someone to share my plans and my excitement with—except I didn’t know anyone here well enoughtotell. Still, it had been a long time since a project had made me feel so alive.
I lined up at the cashier—and accidentally smacked into the guy in front of me when I swung my basket. I hit him so hard that he let out a grunt and I stepped back, horrified. “I’m so sorry!”
The guy spun around, and I froze.
What were the odds of assaulting the same hot guy in the same grocery store twice in the same week? Pretty high if you were me, apparently.
Cameron glared at me, his lips a thin line, before he huffed out a breath and said, “It’s fine.” Judging by his tone, it was anything but fine.
I swallowed and did my best not to be distracted by how attractive he was. And hewas.He was lean and lithe, shorter than me by about a head, with dark hair and darker eyes and a perfectly sculpted jawline that I kind of wanted to lick. He was dressed like he’d just come from an office job, in tidy chinos and a dark blue sweater under a heavy coat, and if I’d thought he looked good in his ratty sweats the other day, he was smoking hot now.
But he also looked mad, so maybe now wasn’t the time to tell him that. So I just said, “Sorry,” again, hitching my basket up on my arm.
His gaze swept over the contents, then back to me, and he raised his eyebrows. “More baking?”
“Uh, yeah. I just signed up for the gingerbread house contest, so I figured I’d better get some practice in.”
