Page 6 of Wicked Christmas Eve

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As I drove my car towards my appointment I found my mind wandering as I entered the historic village that served as our downtown. Rockridge wasn’t the tiniest, but neither was it even close to a metropolis.

While only the Inlets separated us from the beachside, we might as well have been a lifetime away. Same thing with the bigger cities, a little farther away in the west.

I’d always gotten the feeling that our town was stuck somewhere in the middle between the past and the present. One side of town was always looking to grow and change, no matter how hard it failed or succeeded and the other side remained rooted in history.

The historic village was living proof of that. Established more than a century ago, it had withstood the test of time and while filled with modern businesses and establishments it had retained its old-fashioned vintage charm. Which looked especially beautiful decked out for Christmas.

Even with more Crepe Myrtles than Christmas trees and not a speck of snow, it had been transformed into a festive winter wonderland—North Carolina coastal style.

My mind and gaze roamed over all of it until I came across Beatrice’s Bakery. The once bustling sweet shop, that I couldn’t imagine this town without, stood dark and empty in the midst of the liveliness.

I swerved to the curb and hit my brakes, grateful it was Christmas Eve and the streets were not filled with cars and eager shoppers to witness my recklessness.

Jesus. It really had closed. Beatrice had given up her life’s dream and retired to the beach. I still didn’t want to imagine the white haired lady in her mint green apron and matching crocs in some sort of torrid affair with a man. I couldn’t tarnish my childhood memories like that.

Instead I remembered her here, standing in front of the plate glass window filling it with her special treats. And all the times I’d come in after school for one of her sugar cookies or a piece of pie…

Normally, I didn’t consider myself all that sentimental, but today felt different. Christmas felt different without Beatrice’s Bakery available for a quick pit stop of black coffee and a piece of her famous monkey bread.

The recipe for which no one had been able to pry out of her no matter how hard they tried.

On that note I looked down at my clock and—shit—I was about to be late. There was no more time for memory lane or that wistful curl of something unfurling in my stomach. I restarted my car and quickly darted back out in the road. The address on the GPS screen was only a few more buildings down, but I didn’t have a second to waste. I hated being late for anything.

In a mad dash, I parked the car, grabbed my bag and shuffled as quickly as I could to the front door in three—nope, make that four inch heels. They’d been the best I could do besides converse and the glitter sandals I typically wore to the beach.

I hadn’t packed for a job interview. Hell, I hadn’t packed for anything. This was supposed to be a quick in and out trip with me back in Charlotte in two days. Thank God, I had shoved my last day on the job clothes in a hanging bag with plans to take them to the cleaners, or maybe Goodwill considering my luck, somewhere along the line.

The planned office party that afternoon meant I’d dressed for the occasion. Now, in my bright green silk two piece dress that hugged my torso to perfection and flared at the waist in a short and flirty skirt that came only to mid-thigh, and nude heels that accentuated my best feature (legs), I felt a bit like a prom reject doing the walk of shame the morning after.

It was also too warm today for tight three quarter sleeves. I figured at best I had three to five minutes to get through this before I turned into a hot and sweaty mess.

Good thing I didn’t plan on taking up too much of Mr. Theodore Jackson’s time. It was important that I explain to him the situation and my inevitable return to Charlotte. We both had better things to do on our Christmas Eve.

Those should have been labeled as famous last thoughts…

I rushed through the door marked Suite 650 without so much as a glance at the sign next to it, focused only on arriving on time.

And froze.

Like a deer in headlights, I couldn’t move.

There was a—uhh—a woman bent over the desk. Her skirt lifted. Her ass bare. Tears streaked across her face.

I couldn’t speak. Hell, I couldn’t think.

“Can I help you?” The low and steady male voice caught my attention as I turned from the woman who’d captured my attention so fully I’d failed to notice the man standing in the doorway to an office only a few feet away from the desk.

Big and imposing were my first thoughts as I took in the loosened tie, the broad chest straining the buttons of his shirt, all of which tapered down to a trim waist and thick legs.

But it was the hands that drew me to him like a moth to a flame. Or one hand actually, because in it he held his belt loosely looped together as if he’d been about to roll it up—

My gaze jerked back to the desk and the woman still laying unmoving atop it.

Oh God.

He was going to—

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