“My work cut out for me? No, my friend, getting her to the table isn’t going to take work, it’s going to take a Christmas miracle.”
“Are you saying you can’t do it? That the infamous Sweet Talker can’t sweet talk his way into any woman’s life?” He turns and heads down the street, stopping outside a coffee shop.
I make a move to go when my foot knocks something loose in the snow. I glanced down and spot something shiny lodged between the bank and a lamppost. I snatch the object up, and the second I realize what I’m holding, a wide smile crosses my face.
“Not saying that at all,” I shoot back.
He pulls open the coffee shop door, pausing to look back at me. “Then it’s on?”
I grin, as I shove my ticket to winning this challenge into my pocket. “It’s already done.”
2
Josie
I step into the warmth of my shop, the delicious scent of chocolate doing little to soothe the deep-seated pain that lives inside of me as my assistant Kayley takes one look at me and gasps.
“Are you okay?” Wiping her hands on a cloth, she comes out from behind the counter to get a better look at me. Stupid tears prick my eyes, and I try to fight them back as I hold my hand up to wave her off, like what just happened out on the street was nothing more than an unfortunate incident. But it wasn’t an unfortunate incident. Not to me. No, to me I’d just lost a huge part of my soul in that snowbank, and nothing or no one can bring it back now.
“It was an accident,” I say, working to push down my anguish and hating myself for the way I treated a complete stranger. Mr. Pothole, or whatever his name was, never meant any harm, and he definitely didn’t drive into that puddle on purpose. I hold one finger up in front of Kayley’s worried face. “Pothole, one.” My thumb and index form a circle. “Josie, zero.” I struggle to project my best happy voice despite the storm going on inside me.
Another customer enters the store as she shoos me away. “Go get changed, I’ve got this.”
With little choice in the matter, I nod, walking to the back of the chocolate shop, thankful that my apartment is above it and I don’t need to go outside again. I was on my way to Coffee Klatch to grab a couple of lattes for Kayley and me—Christmas time is crazy busy at the shop, giving us little time for breaks—when I accidently dropped my phone into a snowbank.
I was seconds from fishing it from the slush when I was assaulted by a cold puddle. Some might say after that incident, the rest of the day could only go uphill, right? Heck, right up until that moment, I tried to be one of those positive people—despite the pain I’d been through over the last year. But this time, I couldn’t summon any glass-half-full attitude. Watching that plow drop its blade, and undoubtedly scoop up my phone and carry it away, sliced my already wounded heart in two. I’m surprised I didn’t bleed out on the ground. I know, I know, you’re probably thinking, it’s just a phone, it’s replaceable. You’d be right. The one thing that’s not replaceable, however, is the voice message my late husband sent me last year before he passed away.
I haven’t been able to bring myself to listen to it, and that’s why I packed up my store in Boston, moving to Holiday Peak. A fresh start. A fresh town. A fresh—or rather not so fresh—puddle of dirty slush in the face, and everywhere else.
“I’ll be right back,” I say to Kayley, pretending to brush remnants of snow from my face. It’s a week from Christmas, the holiday spirit is high here in Holiday Peak, and tears are the last thing anyone needs to see. I’m not a girl to bring anyone down. Before I can make it to the back room, the bell over the door jingles and I spin, half expecting to see Mr. Pothole. My gut clenches as the town’s sheriff, Patrick McCullum walks in. His eyes go wide at my disarrayed state.
“Josie, what happened?”
“Fight with a pothole, the pothole won,” I explain. Maybe if he sees me like this, he’ll stop asking me out. He’s a nice man, as sweet as can be, but I’m just not attracted to him. Not that I’d go out with him even if I did like him. That would dishonor my late husband’s memory. Since it’s not in my nature to hurt anyone, a couple of months back, I told a little-white lie, just to preserve his feelings. I point to the back steps. “I’m just going to go get changed.”
“Yes, go. Wouldn’t want your boyfriend showing up for the holidays seeing you like this. He’d think we weren’t taking good care of you in this town.” The fine lines below his eyes crinkle, a light dusting of snow in his salt and pepper hair. As I take in his smile, there is a part of me that suspects he doesn’t believe I have a boyfriend in Boston. He’d be right. Who knows, as a sheriff, maybe he even did a bit of digging.
“He would never think that. He knows how much I love Holiday Peak.”
His brows raise. “He is coming for the holidays, right? I’m looking forward to meeting him.”
“Yeah, uh sure, that’s the plan. I’d better go get changed.”
As I head up the steps, I berate myself for lying. Nothing good can come from it, and now I’m caught in a web of deceit, with Patrick expecting my boyfriend to visit over Christmas. As I scold myself for that fib, my thoughts switch to my behavior on the street. I was upset and angry, not so much at being soaked, but at the loss of my phone. I never should have taken my troubles out on Mr. Pothole. He offered to make things right, pay for dry cleaning, buy me dinner, and weirdly, take me axe throwing. Strange, but nice, and there was something about his eyes—a kindness in them that really caught me off guard—that drew me in. That could also be why I lashed out. Everything about him triggered a reaction in me—desire. Guilt quickly followed.
Since he was with Declan, the town’s hockey hero, I can only assume he plays for the Seattle Shooters too. From his physique, his body all strength and power—not that I was really looking, it’s just a hard thing not to notice when a guy is that built—I can only assume he’s a defenseman. I’ll have to get a hold of Declan’s mother, find out who the guy was and send him a box of chocolates as an apology. That almost makes me laugh. I’m soaked because of him and I’m the one apologizing? But seriously, I should have handled the situation better. He’s not the reason my phone is gone. Why the heck didn’t I listen to the message? I had a whole year. But I already know the answer to that. I couldn’t bear to hear Jon’s dying words. Maybe in some way that kept him with me, gave me some twisted sort of hope that he wasn’t really gone. Unfortunately, that thinking is unhealthy and damaging, and keeps me stuck in the past, yet there is nothing I can, or want, to do about it. Moving onward and forward would be a dishonor to Jon and our marriage.
I hurry up the last steps and push open my apartment door. I’m instantly greeted with a bark and a wagging tail. Miss Mabel, named after Mabel, a lovely lady at Coffee Klatch who took me under her wing when I moved here, is quite happy at the unexpected sight of me. Mabel was the one who suggested a puppy, a chocolate lab, like the name of my shop. It’s like she could see the loss deep inside me, the need for something to love. Mabel had lost her own husband years ago, and if there was one person who knew what I was going through, it was her.
I drop to my knees as Miss Mabel licks at my jacket. “That’s yucky, Miss Mabel.” I give her a kiss, and stand to check her water bowl, which is almost full. “Would you like to get out for a quick walk before I have to go back to work?” Her tail wags faster and I hurry out of my damp jeans and coat. At least my sweater survived. I tug on yoga pants, a heavy vest, and a different pair of boots as I hang my clothes to dry.
I snatch her leash. “Come on, girl.”
Outside she drags me down the sidewalk, wanting to sniff everything. I really need to find the time to get obedience classes. Everyone wants to stop to see the fifty-pound puppy, and she soaks up the attention. As we get closer to Coffee Klatch, she begins to sniff harder, and like a dog on a mission, she makes a beeline for the shop, knowing Mabel will always have a treat for her.
The door opens, and a man steps out, his back to us. Miss Mabel breaks free from me, and I call out to her, but it’s too late. The guy turns, something in his hands, and Miss Mabel jumps up on him, knocking him to the wet sidewalk. Mortified, I run and the second I see exactly who she knocked over, the world closes in on me. I’ve been a good person. I pay my taxes on time. Donate to charities and help my neighbors. Why does life keep throwing me curveballs that knock me on my ass? Or in this case, Mr. Pothole on his ass.
“I’m so sorry,” I say and try to drag my big pup off, but the guy is holding her favorite bear claw and she’s drooling all over it as he tries to hold it out of her reach.