Page 7 of Merry with a Grumpy Boss

Aha. Someone had been checking him out online.

“My fiancée cheated on me. With my older brother. Now they’re married.”

“Your family didn’t have an issue with that?”

The offense in her tone, on his behalf, triggered a blast of fire in his chest. Something hard and jagged-edged softened, and for the first time in months, he could breathe. Figuratively. Mentally. Emotionally. He’d walked out Christmas Eve and cut all ties with his family, so in truth, he didn’t know how his parents or sisters felt about Margo and Johnston getting married.

“I haven’t spoken to my family in almost a year.” There. He finally admitted the truth out loud, and the sky had not fallen.

“That’s sad. Especially during the holidays.” She cocked her head a tiny bit, considering. “Real life isn’t like a movie or storybook. I wish it were.”

“Is everyone in your family a Christmas fanatic like you?” he teased, still intrigued but wanting to lighten the mood.

“It’s just me.” She slowed as they approached the center of town, mindful of pedestrians as she scouted out a parking spot. Even on a Monday morning, there was sidewalk traffic. Love Beach might be a small town, but it was bustling.

“The only fanatic?”

“No, the only Folly.” She nosed into a vertical space and twisted the key. “My grandfather raised me after my parents died in a car accident. He passed away during my second year of college. It’s been ten years, but I miss him every day. Especially during Christmas.”

“Was he a fanatic, too?”

Her smile was soft and pained, the combination of memories and grief twisted into a single strand. “I still have several of his ugly Christmas sweaters. I donated more than a hundred to the thrift store after he died. They also got a good portion of his decoration collection. I kept our favorites.”

Haywood couldn’t ignore the sting of envy when he compared their legacies. She’d lost a beloved grandfather who taught her to embrace the joy and true meaning of Christmas. What did he have? A legacy that valued outward appearances and imposed oppressive expectations that weighed down dreams and goals.

“Ready?” She held Max’s leash in one hand, keys in the other, ready to exit the SUV.

When he arrived in Love Beach, Dayton’s assignment felt like another distraction. Something to keep him busy until he made a decision about what to do with the rest of his life. Should he return to Charleston and fall back into line…or was something bigger and better, beyond all his expectations, out there waiting for him.

It was time to find out.

4

The abrupt shift in Haywood’s demeanor unsettled Ginger. She was prepared for the all-business, no-Christmas version, not this candid, curious oh-so-appealing version. He’d even loosened his tie as they walked side by side, the gusty breeze disheveling his hair and adding color to his smooth cheeks.

She pointed out some of the most popular businesses as they strolled through town. Book & Barrel, the bookstore and wine bar where she and her girlfriends attended the monthly Flip and Sip book club. Giancarlo's, an Italian restaurant that served to-die-for veal scallopini. The Driftwood, a dive bar favored by locals. There were bakeries and candy stores and florists and other specialty shops, all of which did a booming business during the holiday season.

“This is a good place to start introductions.” She stopped in front of a shop with a wooden sign suspended over the front door announcing Whittle a While.

Long and narrow, the front of the store had floor to ceiling shelves filled with hand-carved items—bowls, picture frames, cutting boards, decorative wall plaques, figurines. Swingingdoors divided the space in two, and from the rear came the sound of power tools and laughter.

“Monty!” She called out to the back of the shop. “Got a minute?”

A tall, well-built Black man passed through the swinging doors, smiling broadly. “Ginger! A delightful surprise on this glorious Monday morn.” His flowery prose and lilting Bahamian accent was a pleasure to her ears.

“Fremont Toussaint, meet Haywood Holloway. He’s doing some work at the showroom.” She lifted her cheek for one of Monty’s effusive kisses.

“Are you taking over for Arthur?” Monty gripped Haywood’s hand in a powerful grip.

“Just until February.” Haywood looked around. “Is this your shop?”

“Indeed, it is!” Monty glowed with pride. “Three years and going strong.”

“Do you carve everything yourself?”

“God has blessed no man with such abundant talent.” Monty gestured over his shoulder. “This is more a classroom than a gallery of craftsmanship. The public high school no longer offers skilled education such as automotive repair or woodworking, and university is not an option for many of our young people, especially in the immigrant community. I learned the trade, thanks to a mentoring program Arthur Calhoun offered years ago. Now, through a generous grant secured with the assistance of Ginger and Marietta, I pay it forward. Three mornings a week, a few seniors from the high school intern here in my shop. Their work is sold in the shop under an equal-share split. They have been working like—how do the Americans say it?—little beavers to stockpile sufficient inventory for the Jingle Bell Festival this weekend. Our booth must be overflowing with beautiful pieces to entice shoppers to spend a little, which then goes a long way.”

Haywood raised his brows and fixed his gaze on Ginger. Her cheeks heated, but she just grinned at him.

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