Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 44474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 222(@200wpm)___ 178(@250wpm)___ 148(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 44474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 222(@200wpm)___ 178(@250wpm)___ 148(@300wpm)
I plucked the glass from his hand, set it on the counter, and lunged for him, standing on tiptoe as I fused my mouth to his.
Hudson took my overenthusiastic lip-lock and turned it into something hot and sexy. I melted into the kiss, loving the taste of sweet eggnog and alcohol on his tongue and the feel of his strong arms around my waist. It was heaven, and I didn’t ever want to let go.
He rested his forehead against mine and tilted my chin till I met his gaze. “You okay?”
“I’m splendiferous.”
Hudson threw his head back and laughed. “Glad to hear it. Should we start baking?”
I nodded. “Yes. Let’s bake.”
A little-known fact about yours truly…I was an excellent baker. Top tier, first rate, “could lend a hand at a fancy French patisserie in a pinch” good. Seriously.
“Whoa! How do you know how to crack eggs like that?” Hudson asked, wrinkling his nose in wonder or confusion. “Hang on. Did you even measure the sugar? How do you know if that’s the right amount?”
Fair questions.
“I perfected this recipe at the tender age of twelve and made it continually for twenty years. I’ve taken a couple of years off, but I’ll never forget how to crack a darn egg.”
“Okay…well, what can I do?”
“You could measure and mix the flour, salt, and baking powder.”
Hudson gave a thumbs-up, tossing curious glances as I blended sugar and butter, swaying to a familiar carol on the radio. “Twenty years of baking?”
“Yes.” I pushed at the frame of my glasses with the heel of my hand and proceeded to spill all the beans. “When I was ten years old, I took over baking my mom’s chocolate chip cookies. She loved them, though too much sugar made her queasy after chemo. She kept me company in the kitchen and gave me pointers I still use today—unsalted butter only, always add an extra quarter cup of flour, and refrigerate the dough for at least twenty minutes before putting it in a properly preheated oven. Cooking, baking, and books were my safe haven during my mom’s illness and my dad’s sadness.”
Hudson frowned. “I’m sorry, baby. How old were you when she passed away?”
“Fifteen,” I said. “My parents were in their midforties when they adopted me and—”
“You’re adopted? I didn’t know that.”
I shrugged. “Mmm. It’s not news to me, but yes. My birth parents were forced to surrender me to the state or so the story goes. They were either neglectful or just bad people. My real parents, the ones who raised me, never went into gory detail. I was adopted officially at nine months old to a lovely older couple who’d never been able to have children of their own. They adored each other, and they adored me. They accepted me as is, too.”
“Good. That’s the way it should be.”
“Yes.” I added cinnamon, allspice, and ginger. A minute or so later, I was yapping again. “My dad fell to pieces after we lost Mom. He didn’t know what to do with himself. His hobbies had been her hobbies—antiquing, gardening, cooking. He was terribly depressed, so one year, I signed up for a gingerbread house competition and asked for his help. Actually, I recall an exaggerated desperate plea. Dad agreed…grudgingly. And guess what?”
“He loved it and decided to become Santa?”
I cast a sharp sideways glance his way. “How’d you know?”
Hudson chuckled, raising his hands in surrender. “Just a guess. There must have been a step or two in between.”
“It began with gingerbread and a little weight gain. He let his beard grow too, and one of his students commented that Mr. Moody bore a striking resemblance to Santa Claus. My father loved it. He loved it so much, he became Santa.”
“That’s pretty damn cool.”
I grinned. “It is. My Aunt Kathy was a little concerned. But he didn’t move to the North Pole, hire elves to make toys, or wrangle a few reindeer to do some heavy lifting. Dad wore the costume—red T-shirts in warm weather, red sweaters in colder months, and he kept his beard long year-round. And…he started volunteering—food banks, hospitals, events for cancer awareness, child and domestic abuse—if he was needed, he showed up. And it made him happy.”
“He really was a great man.”
“Yes, and Mom was equally fantabulous. I’m lucky they chose me. I wouldn’t be me if it weren’t for them,” I replied matter-of-factly.
Hudson pushed the bowl of flour toward me and dusted his hands off. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Me too, but I’m okay. I have a lot to be grateful for, and I know it.”
“Now that sounds like something the Moody I met in October would say,” he teased, nudging my shoulder. “Not December Moody. That guy’s a grouch.”
“Hmph.”
“December is tough for you,” he stated. No judgment, no question…just a simple acknowledgment.
Silence.
But not quite. “Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer” was playing now. I’d always liked this song. It was silly and funny and…it reminded me of happy memories and warm kitchens that smelled like cinnamon and hope.