Page 6 of Seducing Daddy

Jolene

Distant thunder rumbled as I scrambled to load the last box of Peen-Unseen into the back of my car. “Great,” I muttered grumpily to myself. “Just what I needed.”

On top of being waylaid by Nonna and Jessica, who demanded I accompany them to The Saloon for hot toddies after the craft fair, the darkening night was redolent with an ominous oncoming storm.

And yet, Briarville stubbornly insisted on leading with holiday cheer despite the thunder cracking overhead.

Honestly, as if they had nothing better to do.

Every Victorian structure on Main Street was frosted with strands of twinkling white lights.

I slammed the trunk shut and gasped, realizing a shiver of panic as an angelic chorus of “Fah Who Foraze” from How the Grinch Stole Christmas! started up. It was the Briarville Repertory Children’s Choir singing just for me.

They had to be stopped.

The awning above clattered vigorously with the sound of a downpour. “Kids!” I exclaimed in irritation as I pulled the collar of my jacket over my head. “Sorry to interrupt, but you know what that wind and rain are all about.”

As if the wild airs filled their lungs, the tiny singers continued to burst out in song. “Welcome Christmas, come this way!”

I swear I saw slight smiles of defiance on all of their faces.

“It means if I don’t get up that hill now”—I gestured pointlessly toward the edge of town where I needed to head out ASAP—“falling tree branches could block the road and take out the power lines. I need to get home to feed my kitty and prep the generator.”

The lead singer boldly met my eyes and belted out, “Welcome, Welcome. Dah who dah-moose.”

A wet leaf blew down from a branch overhead, as if to emphasize the fact that nature was in charge, and gave me a slap in the face. I peeled the cool, soggy plant material off my cheek and tossed it on the ground.

Before I could stop them, the tiny troupe sucked a simultaneous deep breath from where they encircled me on the sidewalk and launched into, “Baby It’s Cold Outside.”

I sent an accusing gaze toward their leader, “Hey, now, that tune is about a guy who gets the girl drunk so he can take advantage of her.”

As if I held the song master’s baton and had suddenly signaled to stop the music, the choir came to an abrupt halt. One angelic creature with extremely healthy lungs piped up over the sound and fury of the winter gales. “What’s taking advantage, Ms. Paris?”

Then mother nature took pity on me, and it was as if someone were ringing out a giant wet washcloth in the sky. The rain dumped on us. The kiddy choir bolted and found shelter beneath the cover of the store canopy, while I headed towards the driver’s side of my ride, hoping to get home before things got even uglier.

If sexing and sinning had a voice, it would sound exactly like the latent sensuality of the words that rang out behind me, “Oh, the weather outside is frightful.”

There was no need to turn around and see who the seductive style belonged to. The same man people in town referred to as The Soapbox Silver Fox. Reverend Rex Pritchett, handsome enough to make nursing home residents drop their granny panties.

Not only did he spread the gospel at the chapel on Sundays, but he was also a genuine cowboy, who bucked enough hay to create bulging biceps that were the envy of every gym rat in town.

The children chimed in with him. If I had a heart, it would have warmed. “But the fire is so delightful.”

I couldn’t stop myself from rolling my eyes. Unless I left now, I’d never make it home, and it was dumbfounding to observe people so insistent on promoting festivity in defiance of the sucky winter weather.

Thank God for my small group of friends who didn’t expect me to pretend.

About anything.

Nonna and Jessica never expected me to be bubbly or any less crotchety than my normal, crabby self. They understood that once I was on the scent of a new undertaking, I’d forget to eat while I was chasing it down, pursuing it until I was cross-eyed with fatigue. It’s just how I was made. Anything that wasn’t directly related to one of my passion projects was an unwanted obstacle in my life.

None of my friends or blood relatives called me uptight because I struggled to relax and have fun.

The box of hand-crocheted peen sleeves in the trunk reminded me I was desperate to get home. Most people would be content with having a recent successful launch of a unique product like Passionate Potions, a 100 percent organic, homeopathic line of “enhancements” for lovers.

It was my idea, but Jessica and Nonna helped plenty. I’d given up my job at the Diamante to work full time on the business.

And that, my friends, was exactly why I had no time for a kiddy choir. Nor could I put up with the shenanigans of a male who was completely clueless about the ill-matched juxtaposition of his chosen profession and his handsome face. He was divine man-candy walking.

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