Page 1 of The Mechanic's Secret Santa

Chapter One

MEG

“When you said you were making Santa cookies, this isn’t quite what I pictured,” Becky Sue says, leaning her elbows on the metal baking table and eyeing my latest creation. When I don’t immediately respond, Becky Sue, who’s been a bakery employee since I was eight years old, catches my gaze with what appears to be fascination twinkling in her eyes. We both know my momneverwould’ve accepted this special order. “What’s with all the cocks?”

“It’s for a bachelorette party.” Now that the cookies have cooled and the first layer of icing has dried, I’m moving on to the finer details. I reposition the piping bag in my hands and concentrate on outlining the cock-shaped gingerbread cookie.

“Slathering the top half in white icing first was pretty genius,” Becky Sue says approvingly.

“Get your mind out of the gutter. I’m topping them with Santa hats.” I switch out the black piping bag for red and fill in a stocking hat with icing to prove my point. “See?Santahat.”

“Either way, this givesjust the tipa whole new meaning.” Becky Sue’s giggle is contagious. Besides, she’s right. This is kind of hilarious, and I’m secretly thrilled that I was given a generous amount of creative liberty with this order. I hope the maid of honor approves. If these cookies are a hit, bachelorette cookies might be something I can add to the online store I plan to open after the holidays.

“Thisis what I love about baking,” I admit with a happy sigh.

“Cocks? Cocks are what you love about baking?” Becky Sue’s infectious laugh causes me to join her. This woman’s laughter is the best cure for any bad day. I’m so grateful she stayed on at the bakery when Mom handed me the keys a year and a half ago. “Please tell me you’re sending a picture of this to your mom.”

My chest tightens instantly, my laughter dying a swift death. “I don’t think this is what Mom meant when she told me to make the bakery my own.”

Mom would probably be mortified to discover cock cookies leavingherbakery. She spent years building this place from the ground up. I doubt she’d be eager to sign over the deed if she thought I was going to ruin the bakery’s reputation with mycreative liberty. It’s why I took out a secret business credit card. To avoid explaining unusual charges that support my unconventional stretching of traditional parameters.

Never mind that I also promised to have a lifeoutsidethis all-consuming small town bakery. I’m sure these cookies would only serve as proof that I haven’t managed to find that “work-life balance” – yes, she used air quotes — she preached about before handing over the keys.

If she discovers the huge gamble I’ve made—thank you bank for upping my secret credit card limit to an insane amount without me even having to ask—she’d rather shut the place down than see me lose myself in a risky expansion that will most definitely consume even more of my limited time.

But it’s too late now.

Besides, Ilovethis life.

By summer, when the agreed upon two years is up, I hope to show her just how successful my expansion plan is. Until then, I’m keeping this secret close to the vest. Becky Sue is one of only two others who know about it.

“Hey, speaking of cocks.” Becky Sue nods to the open doorway that partitions the kitchen from the selling floor.

My gaze lifts automatically, falling immediately on the tall, broad-shouldered, rugged man standing at the counter. My pulse doubles, then it doubles again. The man’s effortless sexiness should be against the law.

“You should just go out with him,” Becky Sue insists.

“Yeah, not happening.”

“Helikesyou, Meg.”

“Hethinkshe likes me.”

“He comes in here every day to ask you out.” It’s no question that Becky Sue, along with most of my bakery employees, are strongly Team Aaron. I can’t blame them. The former NASCAR car chief for one of the most famous racecar drivers in history can melt panties with little more than a half-smile. My nipples pebble at his presence. Traitors.

Those cobalt blue eyes shift, and his gaze locks ever so briefly with mine.

I squeeze the piping bag. Red icing gushes. “Dammit!” I gasp, turning my back to the sexy distraction up front.

Thankfully, only two of the cocks were hit with streams of red icing where a hat doesnotbelong. It looks a little…gruesome. “Should’ve gone with the green,” I mumble under my breath. Thankfully, I baked a few spares. Mom always said, if you need three dozen, bake four.

“Wouldn’t it be fun if Aaron drew your name for the Secret Santa event?” Becky Sue coos.

Realization strikes me. “Crapskies, I haven’t drawnmyname yet!”

This morning, I, along with my four-plex neighbors, discovered a card in our mailbox from our sweet landlord promising a free month of rent if we participated in the local Secret Santa event she hosts. I felt so relieved, knowing I’d be able to give out the Christmas bonuses I forgot to budget. I’m surprised I spaced it. Ifthatisn’t proof that I love this bakery life…

“You still have time to make it over there,” Becky Sue says, her lips tipped up into a smirk. She knows exactly why I’m going now, but I won’t give her the satisfaction of admitting it.

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