counter. “Here you go.”
“Will you put it on my tab?”
Samantha waved off the words. “Consider it a Christmas gift to the Bumblebees.”
Not a smart way to run a business, giving away profits like that, but Flynn kept that to himself. He wasn’t her financial consultant. “The interview, Miss Barnett?”
Behind them, the line groaned. Samantha brushed her bangs off her forehead. “Can I meet with you later today? Maybe after the shop closes? I’m swamped right now.”
She had help, didn’t she? On top of that, he had somewhere else he wanted to go before beginning that long drive back to Boston, not endless amounts of time to wait around for preschoolers to get their sugar rush. “And I’m on deadline.”
The next person had slipped into the space vacated by Miss Bumblebee, a tall senior citizen in a flap-eared flannel cap and a Carhartt jacket. He ambled up to the counter, leaned one arm on the glass case and made himself at home, like he was planning on spending an hour or two there. “Hiya, Samantha. Heard about the article in that airline magazine. Congratulations! You really put our town on the map, not that you weren’t a destination from the start, what with those cookies and all.” He leaned forward, cupping a beefy hand around his mouth. “Though I’m not so sure I want all these tourists to stay. They’re causing quite the traffic jam.”
Samantha chuckled. “Thanks, Earl. And sorry I can’t do anything about the traffic. Except fill the orders as fast as I can.” She slid a glance Flynn’s way.
“You give me my interview, Miss Barnett, and I’ll be out of your hair.”
“Give me a few hours, Mr. MacGregor, and I’ll give you whatever you want.”
He knew there was no innuendo in her words, but the male part of him heard one all the same. He cleared his throat and took a step back. “I have to get back on the road. Today. So why don’t you just cooperate with me and we can both be happy?”
“I have customers to wait on, and it looks like now you’re going to have a long wait either way.” She gestured toward the windows with her chin as her hands worked beneath the counter, shoveling muffins into a bag. “You might as well make yourself comfortable.”
Flynn turned and looked through the glass. And saw yet another reason to hate Riverbend.
A blizzard.
By noon, Sam was already so exhausted, she was sure she’d collapse face-first into the double-layer cinnamon streusel. But she pasted a smile on her face, kept handing out cookies and pastries, all while dispensing directions to her staff. She’d called in her seasonal part-timers, and everyone else she could think of, right down to Mary, who did the weekend cleaning, to help keep up with the sudden influx of tourists. It seemed every person in a three-state area had read the article and turned out to see if Joyful Creations would live up to its reputation of bringing love to people who tried Grandma Joy’s Secret Recipe Cherry Chocolate Chunk Cookies.
Sam had long heard the rumors about her grandmother’s cookies—after all, they were the very treats Grandma Joy had served to Grandpa Neil when they had first met—but had never quite believed all the people who credited the tiny desserts for their happy unions. Then a reporter from Travelers magazine had tried them on a trip through town and immediately fallen in love with one of the local women. The two of them had run off to Jamaica and gotten married the very next weekend. Afterward, the reporter had raved about the cookies and his happy ending in the airline publication, launching Sam’s shop to national fame, and turning a rumor into a fact.
Ever since, things hadn’t slowed down. Sam had worked a lot of hours before—but this was ridiculous. Nearly every spare moment was spent at the bakery, working, restocking and filling orders. But it was all for a larger goal, so she kept pushing, knowing the bigger reward was on the horizon.
“I can’t decide.” The platinum-blond woman, dressed head to toe in couture, put a leather-gloved finger to her lips. “How many calories did you say were in the peanut butter kiss cookies?”
The smile was beginning to hurt Sam’s face. “About one hundred and ten per cookie.”
“And those special cherry chocolate chunk ones?”
“About a hundred and fifty.”
“Do those cookies really work? Those love ones?”
“That’s what people say, ma’am.”
“Well, it would really have to be worth the calories. That’s a lot to work off in the gym, you know, if I don’t meet Mr. Right. And if I meet Mr. Wrong—” the woman threw up her hands “—well that’s even more time on the treadmill.”
Sam bit her lip, then pushed the smile up further.
“Do you happen to know the fat grams? I’m on a very strict diet. My doctor doesn’t want me to have more than twenty-two grams of fat per day.”
From what Sam could see, the woman didn’t have twenty-two grams of fat in her entire body, but she kept that to herself. “I don’t know the grams of fat offhand, ma’am, but I assure you, none of these cookies have that many per serving.”
The gloved finger to the lips again. She tipped her head to the right, then the left, her pageboy swinging with the indecision. Behind her, the entire line shifted and groaned in annoyance. “I still don’t know.”
“Why don’t you buy one of each?” Sam said. “Have one today and one tomorrow.”
“That’s a wonderful idea.” The woman beamed, as if Sam were Einstein. She handed her money across the glass case to Ginny while Sam wrapped the cookies in wax paper and slid them into a bright white Joyful Creations box, then tied a thin red ribbon around the box. “But…”
“But what?”
“How can I decide which one to have today?”
Sam just smiled, told the woman to have a merry Christmas, and moved on to the next customer. Four hundred of Grandma Joy’s secret recipe cherry chocolate chunk cookies later, the line had finally thinned. Sam bent over, taking a moment to straighten the trays, whisk away a few crumbs and bring order back to the display.
Then, through the glass she glimpsed a pair of designer men’s shoes, their glossy finish marred by road salt, dots of dried snow. Her gaze traveled upward. Pressed trousers, a dark gray cashmere dress coat. White shirt. Crimson tie.
He was back. Flynn MacGregor.
Blue eyes, so deep, so dark, they were the color of the sky when a thunderstorm came rolling through. Black, wavy hair that had been tamed with a close cut. And a face set in rigid stone. “I have waited. For hours. Watched dozens of customers come through here, thinking you have the answer to love, marriage and apparently the beginnings of the earth.” He let out a breath of displeasure. “I had no idea you could get such bonuses with your coffee cake.”
His droll manner told her it wasn’t a joke, nor a compliment. “I don’t purport to offer anything other than baked goods, Mr. MacGregor.”
“That’s not what the people in that line thought. That very long line, I might add. One that took nearly three hours to clear out. And
