Page 2 of The Mechanic's Secret Santa

“I’ll be back soon. Don’t touch my cocks!” I warn when Becky Sue reaches for one of the over-iced cookies. The last bit comes out loud enough to draw Aaron’s attention back to me. The corner of his mouth quirks up in a way too kissable smirk.

I run out the back door still wearing my apron, coat half-shrugged on and zipper left wide open. The combined heat from the ovens along with the heat of embarrassment is enough to make the chilly winter air inviting. I suck in a couple of deep breaths as I cut through the alley, hoping I’ve managed to avoid Aaron for the day.

The man is relentless.

The hopeless romantic in me is eating up his daily commitment to stop by the bakery, try one of my new creations, and ask me out. The man should look like the Goodyear blimp for as long as this has gone on. But no. He has theaudacityto look like a Greek god.

I can’t figure out why Aaron Montgomery—practically a celebrity in our little town—is fixated onme. He’s traveled all over the world. He’s lived a glamorous life. I give it a full year—two tops—before he realizes how bored he is in quiet Alpine Valley and leaves for bigger and better.

I, on the other hand,adoresmall town life.

No matter the amount of chemistry sizzling between us, we are completely wrong for one another.

Two feet from the door to the Alpine Valley Community Center, a rock version ofCarol of the Bellssounds from my pocket.

My shoulders tense with the warning, the familiar burn of acid reflux rising up my throat.

Mom.

Ignoring her call will only convince her that she’s right: that the bakery has taken over my life. My indecision wavers for one more beat as I yank open the door and step inside, my thumb still hovering over the button. If I want her to sign over the deed this summer, it’s imperative she believes I have a life outside of it.

“Hey, Mom.” Before she has a chance to say anything, I quickly toss in, “I’m at the community center for the local Secret Santa drawing. Can I call you back?” I mumble the last part, hoping she’ll ignore it and stay on long enough to consider the call a success andnotcall back later.

“I’ll make this quick,” she says as I step up to the table adorned in a red tablecloth.

Wilma holds out a metal bucket to me in offering, her kind smile a gesture of understanding that I’d get off the phone if I could. I mouthIt’s my momas I dip my hand in and draw out a wooden token with the number thirty-two etched on it. Confused, I turn it over, but there’s only a bit of decoupage décor on the other side. No name. I’m about to ask what the number means when Mom interrupts.

“I’ve been thinking I might sign over the bakery to you a little sooner than we discussed,” Mom says as Wilma exchanges the chip for a clipboard. My pulse quickens, waiting for the catch as Ifill out the odd list of questions that range from criminal history to my favorite Christmas song.Carol of the Bells. Duh.

“But?” I dare to ask. With Mom, there’salwaysa catch.

“ButI’m not convinced you aren’t living at that place.”

“Mom, I’m not even there right now. During actual working hours.” I can’t help the bubble of excitement expanding in my chest. If Mom signed over the bakery now, I might be able to score a small business loan to aid in my expansion plan. The credit card can only take me so far.

“Iamhappy to hear that,” she says, and I wriggle my too-tense shoulders.

I pass the clipboard back to Wilma, receiving a red gift bag decorated with gold snowflakes in exchange. “Everything you need is in the bag,” she says, a twinkle in her eye that I may or may not be reading into. There’s a silly rumor going around that Wilma’s a matchmaker. That she uses this event to lead her Secret Santas to true love. Last year’s event is rumored to have sparked five Alpine Valley weddings.

Considering my true love is the bakery, I’m not worried about falling in love this Christmas. I can be one of the patrons who help put those silly rumors to bed. Hopefully I’ve drawn the name of some sweet elderly person I can stuff full of sweets. Easy peasy.

The moment I’ve fully relaxed, Mom adds, “If you want me to sign over the deed, I’ll need to see it for myself.”

“Um, what’s that?” It’s suddenly hard to breathe. I seek refuge in the corner of the oversized room, dropping into an empty chair away from Wilma and the small crowd that’s suddenly gathered in the community center.Where did everyone come from?

“I’m visiting for Christmas.”

The blood drains from my face. My throat is uncomfortably dry and scratchy. Words become hard to form. This is a disaster.Panic seizes my body as I imagine her showing up to the bakery today and finding all those cock cookies donned in Santa hats. Shit, what if she’s calling mefromthe bakery?

“Um, how soon are you coming?” I manage to eek out.

“My flight gets in tomorrow. I can’t wait to see what you’ve done with the place. Gotta run. Love you, bye!”

The call ends before I can utter another word.

I stare at the red and gold gift bag, noticing the contents have spilled into my lap. Gold glitter dusts my frosting-stained apron hanging over my knees. For a moment, the Secret Santa thing sparks hope. Maybe I can use it to prove to Mom that I’m involved in thingsoutsidethe bakery. She’ll love that I’m participating in community events that don’t involve a bakery booth.

But the moment my tense shoulders start to relax, my gaze lands on a holiday notecard. “Kill me now,” I grumble under my breath. All feelings of hope die a swift death at the name handwritten in red marker:Aaron Montgomery.

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