Page 11 of Only for the Season

“Oh my, Parker. You’ve outdone yourself this time.” She pats my hand. “Smuggler’s Hideaway is lucky some fancy bakery in New York City didn’t snap you up.”

I could take or leave New York City. But, Paris, on the other hand? I’ve always dreamed of working there. And I nearly managed to. Unfortunately, nearly doesn’t mean anything.

I slice two pieces and place them on plates while Mrs. Simpson prepares the tea.

“Sit. Sit.” She indicates the chair and I settle in. There’s no sense trying to rush her. She doesn’t get much company and looks forward to Thanksgiving and my visit all year long. What kind of person would I be if I didn’t stay a while?

“Tell me everything happening on Smuggler’s Rest. And don’t forget to tell me all about your young man.”

“I don’t have a man,” I begin.

We chat for twenty minutes before I decide I need to go.

“It was lovely to see you, Mrs. Simpson. I’m off to deliver the last of my pies now.”

“And then you can enjoy your Thanksgiving celebration as well.”

I don’t bother to tell her I won’t be enjoying a celebration. Unless you consider sleeping after being awake for nearly two days a celebration. I guess it kind of is.

I blare music in the van as I drive toward Eli’s. I will not fall asleep. I will not crash this van I do not own and dig myself deeper into debt.

I keep my eye out for Sammy the seal as I drive, but he’s probably hiding somewhere warm since the weather has gotten colder. Not cold. It’s never truly cold on Smuggler’s Hideaway. Except for last year when we had the surprise snowstorm.

I shiver. I love snow, but I hope we don’t have a surprise snowstorm this year. I can’t afford for the electricity to go out and ruin all of my ingredients again.

I arrive at Eli’s house – more mansion than house, really. This delivery bag is heavy since his fiancée, Paisley, ordered six pies.

I carefully make my way to their porch and knock on the door. It opens moments later, but it’s not Eli or Paisley standing in the doorway. It’s the man who stopped by the bakery looking for directions to this very house last night.

“What are you doing here?”

I was wondering the same about him, but instead of asking, I lift the bag of pies. “Special Thanksgiving day delivery.”

His stomach growls, loud enough to make me smirk. My pies have a way of humbling even the most arrogant of men. Unfortunately, this particular rude one is also – now that I can see him clearly in the daylight – ridiculously attractive.

His dirty blond hair is an artful mess, the kind that makes my fingers twitch with the urge to touch it. His eyes – light brown and sharply focused – hold an intensity that hits me low in the belly. I wonder what they look like when he’s lost in something… or someone.

He’s all sharp lines and masculine angles: high cheekbones, a square jaw, and a chin marked with just the faintest dimple. Like the universe added a single flaw for balance. Except it doesn’t work. The dimple only makes him more devastating.

Something stirs in my stomach – not hunger, not exactly. Butterflies, maybe. Or warning bells. Probably both. I remind myself he’s a reporter. Trouble. Off-limits. No matter how good he looks.

“Are you going to stare at me all day, or are you going to take the pies?”

“What are you doing here?” he asks instead. “I thought you didn’t know where Eli lived.”

“I never said I didn’t know where he lived.”

“You gave me directions toMermaid Mystical Gardens.”

I giggle. “Gets them every time.”

Paisley rushes out of the kitchen. “Oh, good. You’re here.”

I lift the bag with pies again. This delivery is starting to feel like an upper-body workout. I am not kidding about how heavy these pies are.

“At your service. Holiday bliss in a bag.”

She moans. “They smell delicious. Do you mind setting them out on the side table in the dining room?”