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The smell of hot donuts was endearing enough to make me stop, and I eyed the three-person long queue with some skepticism.
I was freezing.
But I really, really wanted those donuts.
Hmm.
No brainer.
I slipped into line before anyone else could and stuffed my gloved hands into my pockets. Even though everyone was still preparing for the grand opening tomorrow and not everyone was open, maybe visiting a few stalls was the way I’d find someone—in a town like this, everyone knew everyone, so if someone was available, the locals would know.
Of course, that meant talking to them.
I had no idea why I was being made to be the face of the family business this year. The only thing I had any business being the face of was an anti-social club.
I tucked my chin down to avoid anyone noticing me. I was happy to talk to people on my terms, because I knew exactly what everyone would ask me.
Was the grotto ready?
Had I done all my Christmas shopping?
Had Verity had the baby yet?
Were there still trees at the tree farm?
Would Mom have her famous hot cider stall next to the grotto?
No, no, no, yes, and yes.
I needed little cards to hold up.
“Quinn!” Mrs. Barton’s eyes lit up when she saw me. “Donuts, dear?”
“Yes, please, Mrs. Barton,” I replied. “Four.”
“Sure thing, honey.”
“Actually, no. Make it six.”
She chuckled as she picked them up with her tongs, dipped them in sugar, and put them in the paper bag. “That kind of day?”
“Don’t get me started.” Seriously, though. My mouth was watering like crazy at the scent of the donuts. “Dad has the flu.”
She turned, clapping a hand to her chest. “Oh, no. What about the grotto?”
“You don’t know anyone who’s free until Christmas Eve, do you?” I asked, handing her a ten-dollar bill in exchange for the donuts. “Michael has to stay at the tree farm in case Verity goes into labor.”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, honey, I don’t. Want me to put the word out?”
“Please. Have them come to the grotto if anyone can do it. I’m just going to see Erin then I’ll be there all day finishing up.”
“You got it, Quinn.” She returned my change which I shoved in my pocket as I said my goodbyes.
Well, at least with her on the job, the entire town would know within an hour.
And that was me being generous.
I plucked out one of the donuts and ate it as I made my way through town to the bakery my best friend’s parents owned. They had a baked goods stall that would be open from tomorrow, and I knew there was a very good chance Erin would be stuck in the kitchen finishing up the cakes they would need.
I wondered if she had a spare Bundt cake. Erin made the best Bundt cakes in the world, on account of the fact her maternal grandparents were German immigrants and her grandma had taught her the family recipe. They were Dad’s favorite, and I imagined he needed some cheering up.
I finished the donut and wiped my fingers on my coat to displace the sugar from my glove right. Snow had started to fall again, and I wrinkled my face up in disgust as I approached the bakery.
We did not need more snow, thank you very much.
Eight feet was more than enough.
The bakery door was unlocked, and I escaped the white crap falling from the sky. It was toasty and warm in here, and I walked past all the tables and went straight to the back.
“Morning, Quinn!” Erin’s mom said when she saw me. “Everything all right?”
“Dad has the flu,” I huffed. “So I’ve been sent to find a Santa Claus.”
“Does your mom know she’s sent you on an impossible task?”
“Honestly, I think she’s so overwhelmed right now that I’m not sure she cares.”
“There you go, honey, thank you.” Debbie handed the person in front of her their order, rang it up, then turned to me. Her thick blonde hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, and her large, blue eyes blinked at me sympathetically. “Verity still being dramatic?”
“Yep. Gramps keeps drinking, and Jazzy is being… Jazzy.” That was self-explanatory to everyone who knew her. “I think she’s just happy she doesn’t have to work this year.”
“I’ll stop by this evening and bring some wine. She sounds like she might need it.”
“She’ll only tell you there’s nobody to look after Jazzy.”
“Of course there is. Either Michael can have one night away from the tree farm, or I will personally drag Verity’s ass out of that bed. She’s pregnant, not dying.”
“That’s what I keep saying,” I muttered. “I don’t suppose Sean is free to be Santa for me, is he?”
Debbie smiled sadly. “Sorry, Quinn. One of the guys at the station is off with the flu like your dad. Sean’s working overtime.”
