Page 13 of Mad About Yule

“It doesn’t matter anyway. His reaction to that whole thing was enough of a red flag, I’m glad it worked out that way.”Now,anyway. Over the summer, I’d marinated in humiliation. And I’ve gone on soaking in it every time someone around town brings up my supposed fiancé.

Two women walk through The Daisy’s door and start a slow browse up the aisles.

“I’ve got to go, Lila, I’ve got customers.”

“Let me know if you need anything with the festival!” she chirps.

I greet the women with a warm smile, tucking away my frustration at the one-two punch of Lila fishing for information for our mother. As much as Mom wants me to succeed with this project, digging for information and offering to call in favors tells me she doesn’t think I can.

Just once, it would be nice to hear her say “I know you can do it” without abutat the end of that sentence.

Wren steps over to lean against the pass-through. “So who did Kat find for you? Some hunky handyman ripped from the pages of a romance novel?”

My lips pull back into a sour face like I’ve had a sip of Sarah Gould’s eggnog. Pretty sure bourbon makes up eighty percent of her recipe.

“Too close to the truth,” Wren says, “or too far?”

Somehow both at once.

“She asked Griffin.”

Her smile turns into a toothy cringe. “You’re joking.”

“Nope. He’s in the warehouse right now. I assume.” I’ve lost volunteers left and right, but quitting after a couple of hours would be a record.

“This is going to be an interesting Christmas.”

“No kidding. Santa came early, and he brought me a big lump of arrogant coal.”

She laughs, but we hush our gossip as one of the two women brings her purchase to me. I ring up the items while Wren loiters in the doorway, no doubt waiting to hear more about my surprise handyman.

“I love these little coin purses,” the woman says. “It was hard to choose just one.”

“The artist lives right here in town, and she gets all her fabric from estate sales and thrift stores.” Also, my mother and sister are both getting one of these coin purses for Christmas.

“Oh, I like that. I like knowing I’m supporting local artists.”

Pride glows through me like a Christmas candle. That’s exactly why I opened my store.

“If you have time, you should stop in next door for a slice of pie.”

The delicious smells of a dozen varieties of pies and cupcakes drift through The Painted Daisy, making it impossible to forget Blackbird’s Bakery next door. Sometimes customers wander over for treats before they can buy anything from me. Heck, I nip over there for a goody most days, too.

As soon as the women cross the threshold into the bakery, Wren moves closer to me. “So how is this going to go? You working side by side with Griffin for the next three weeks?”

A jolt of excitement shimmers through me at the image of us close together, huddled over blueprints and designs, our arms brushing as we make plans.

Uh—no. The picture of us getting cozy is unexpected and totally unwelcome. I need to derail that train of thought ASAP. Push it off the tracks and into an abyss.

A handsome face doesn’t make a guygood, as I learned with Mark.

“I don’t even want to think about it. This was supposed to be my big moment, and now I have to deal withhim.”

“Yeah.” Her slow nod goes on way too long. “He’s looking good though, right?”

I try for my best angry romance hero growl, but I just sound like a frightened baby animal. “You’re a traitor. You have no loyalty.”

“I’m just saying. He’s stopped in the bakery a few times, and…yowza.”

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