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CHAPTER ONE

* Sharolyn *

I’d always loved the holidays, but with my sister and parents in Vancouver this year visiting my brother’s new baby, I felt completely lost. I’d been working like crazy, and although I loved my job, it was starting to wear me down. I’d hit the level of exhaustion where lights were too bright and everything felt brittle.

Decorating cakes, cupcakes, and pastries for high-end corporate events was fun, but sometimes solitary work that I really enjoyed. I had a steady hand, and endless patience for things like waiting for the right temperature for the fondant, or creating designs for the client that were “Just a bit different than last year but nearly identical.”

Everyone else’s holidays seemed packed with activities, rushing to three events a night. People in Toronto appeared frantic in December, and I was glad to be outside of the whirlwind.

I did have my best friend’s Christmas Eve party, which was the main thing that had been lifting my spirits all week. My former co-worker and crazy friend Jenny threw a cozy Christmas Eve party with just friends, to give us an escape from our families for a few brief hours.

That was just three days away, which gave me a bit of time to prepare for the onslaught of annual questions.

Being a shy girl, it was difficult enough to mingle in a group of twenty people and make small talk. It got easier every year though, especially since I’d taken up the trick of having a small glass of wine every hour and a half. Not enough to get tipsy, which made me more anxious. Just enough to relax and become a bit chattier.

Every year these well-meaning friends would ask why I wasn’t dating, why I didn’t have a boyfriend, and remind me that twenty-five was the perfect time to find a husband. Yikes. I wasn’t sure I wanted to commit to new houseplants quite yet. And dating? Didn’t they realize that would involve speaking with strange men? Not likely.

Jenny often had smaller parties throughout the year, and I tried to force myself to practice speaking to strangers. Chatting with friends of friends made it feel safer, and I learned how to muddle through awkward conversations, and always have a range of light-hearted things to comment on. I even forced myself to chat with the men. Since they were all coupled off and they knew there was no way I was interested, I tried to discover what men like to chat about.

Other than their interests tending to skew more to sports than books, there were always the staples of urban conversation such as new restaurants, events, and how unbelievably horrid our public transit was.

I’d learned that an amusing complaint was a sure-fire way to start a conversation. Nobody wants to talk to a whiner, but if you’re making cute jokes about a blizzard, or threatening to sue the streetcar for making you late, everyone always laughs.

Trying these conversation starters actually had me talking to my coworkers a bit more. The kitchens of the fanciest hotels and event spaces were sometimes small and awkward, so it was close quarters. So as we decorated pastries and iced cakes, preparing glorious treats for the ridiculously wealthy people who came to these sorts of fancy events and fundraisers, I tried to think of it as anti-shyness practice time.

After a ten-hour shift, the holidays draining everyone, I’d let everyone else go home to their families while I finished up the last half hour. Some of them had children waiting at home, so I wanted them to beat rush hour. The cater waiters had taken out nearly every dessert, and I was left finishing up a selection of gingerbread men that were a thank you gift for the organizers.

After placing the last of the cupcakes in white cardboard boxes, I just had a few dozen more gingerbread men to ice. The red frosting always looked thicker and creamier when applied chilled, so I went to get my spare batch from the walk-in refrigerator.

Opening the giant metal door, I had to put my weight into it to actually move the huge panel of steel. This room always felt a bit uncomfortable, like a basement. I grabbed the bowl from the shelf where I left it twenty minutes ago, then turned to see a huge man in a dark suit standing with his back against the far wall.

I froze, and not from the blast of chilly air. There shouldn’t be anyone in here. There was no reason why anyone would be hiding in a refrigerator. Backing away slowly, I didn’t quite have time to register that I was trembling when he lunged for me.

My hands were shaking so badly that I had begun to drop the mixing bowl, but he caught it just in time. Looking up into the warmest brown eyes I’d ever seen, I realized in a blink that they were attached to a giant mountain of a man who was now standing far too close to me.

“I’m so sorry,” he said quickly but gently, forcing a wide smile. Taking the bowl from him with both twitching hands, I backed slowly out the door, refusing to be cornered.

He followed me, turning off the light and shutting the door behind him. “I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said. “You were fussing with the ovens when I came in a few minutes ago and I didn’t want to disturb you.”

Setting the bowl down on the counter, I dropped into a chair in the corner, fluttering like a leaf about to fall.

I assumed that he would go about his business, but instead he dropped to one knee in front of me so our eyes were on a similar level. “Are you all right?”

I nodded, taking slow, deep breaths. “I’m sorry, I’m just a little jumpy.”

He chuckled, a deep rumble in that huge barrel of a chest. “Please don’t apologize – I must have scared you to pieces.”

I was so rattled that it actually shook out some of my usual nervousness, and I found myself asking, “Why were you in there?”

He laughed again. His voice was so rich and deep. “This is my brother’s fundraiser, and I have to give a short speech. I’m used to talking to groups of maybe fifty people, but there’s at least five hundred out there. I don’t get nervous exactly, I just get overheated in this stupid suit from the adrenaline rush. So I was taking five minutes to literally chill. The cold calms me.”

My eyes roamed around the shoulders of the obviously custom-fitted deep black suit that probably cost more than three times my rent. He looked like some sort of jet-setting model.

Everything about him was a strange blend of rough and refined. His hair was thick with a bit of wave, yet impeccably cut. His slight beard was perfectly trimmed. His massive shoulders looked almost civilized in that stylish jacket. His thick, tough-looking fingers might even have been manicured.

I noticed this because I was looking down at my lap where he was holding my hand. Why was he holding my hand?


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