Marry-Me Christmas. Shirley Jump

industry.

      “How am I supposed to work without an Internet connection?” he said.

      “We have electricity,” Betsy said, her voice high and helpful. “You can plug in a computer. That’s good enough, isn’t it?” Upstairs, someone called Betsy’s name, mentioning an emergency. She sighed. “Oh, Lord, not again.” She toodled a wave, then headed up the stairs, while her slippers sang their jarring song.

      Flynn turned back to Samantha. “If Scrooge’s ghosts do come visit me, they better bring a connection to civilization. And if they can’t, just put me out of my misery. Because this place is Jingle Hell.”

      “He’s awful, Aunt Ginny.” Sam shuddered. “He hates this town, hates me, I think, and even hates Christmas.”

      “But he’s easy on the eyes. That kind of evens things out, doesn’t it?” Ginny Weatherby, who had worked at Joyful Creations for nearly twelve years, smiled at her niece. The two of them were in the back of the bakery, cleaning up and putting it to rights after the busy day. The front half of Joyful Creations was dark, silent, the sign in the window turned to Closed, leaving them in relative peace and quiet. “Your grandmother would have agreed.”

      “Grandma liked everyone who came through this door.” Sam groaned. “I think he purposely sets out to frustrate me. How am I supposed to give him a good interview? I’m afraid I’ll say something I’ll regret.”

      “Oh, you’re smart enough not to do that, Sam. I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

      “I don’t want him to find out about Grandma,” Sam said.

      Ginny’s gaze softened. “Would it be so bad for people to know?”

      Sam toyed with the handle on the sprayer. “I just want people to remember her the way she was, Aunt Ginny.”

      “They will, Sam.” She put a hand on her niece’s shoulder. “You need to trust that people of this town are your friends, that they love and care about you, and your grandmother.”

      “I’ll think about it,” Sam said. Though she had thought about the same question a hundred times over the past five years, and come back to the same answer. She didn’t want people’s pity. And most of all, she didn’t want them to be hurt when they found out the Joy Barnett they knew and loved was no longer there. “For now, I’m more worried about that Flynn guy. He gets on my last nerve, I swear.”

      Ginny loaded the dishwasher and pushed a few buttons. “Give him cookies. That’ll sweeten him up.”

      “I did. He wouldn’t eat them.” Sam sprayed disinfectant on the countertops and wiped them down, using the opportunity to work out some of her frustrations.

      Aunt Ginny made a face. “Well, then I don’t trust him. Any man who won’t eat a plate of cookies, there’s something wrong. Unless he’s diabetic, then he has an excuse. Did you check for a medical ID bracelet?”

      “No. Maybe I should have looked for a jerk bracelet.”

      “Have some patience, dear.” She patted her niece’s hand. “This guy could give the shop lots of great publicity.”

      “I’m trying to be patient.”

      “And you never know, he could be the one.”

      Sam rolled her eyes. “Stop trying to fix me up with every man who walks through that door.”

      Aunt Ginny took off her apron and hung it on a hook by the door, then crossed to her niece. The gentle twinkle of love shone in her light green eyes. “Your mother wouldn’t want to see you living your life alone, dear, and neither would your grandmother.”

      “I’m not alone. I have you.”

      Sam would forever be grateful to her Aunt Ginny, who had moved to Riverbend from Florida a few months after Sam took over the bakery. Not much of a baker, she hadn’t exactly stepped into her sister Joy’s shoes, instead becoming the friend and helper Sam needed most. Though making cookies had never been her favorite thing to do, she’d been an enthusiastic supporter of the business, and especially of Sam.

      Ginny pursed her lips. “Not the same thing and you know it.”

      “It’s good enough for now. You know why I have to pour everything into the business.” Sam went back to wiping, concentrating on creating concentric circles of shine, instead of the thoughts weighing on her. The ones that crept up when she least expected them—reminding her that she had stayed in this shop instead of going to college, getting married, having a family. The part that every so often wondered what if…she didn’t have these responsibilities, these expectations?

      But she did, so she kept on wiping, and cleaning.

      Ginny’s hand on her shoulder was a soft reminder that they had visited this topic dozens of times. “You don’t have to pour everything into here, dear. Leave some room for you.”

      “I will,” Sam promised, though she didn’t mean it. Ginny didn’t understand—and never really had—the all-consuming pressure Sam felt to increase business, and revenues. Grandma Joy deserved the best care—and the only way to pay for that was by bringing in more money. Not think about possibilities that couldn’t happen.

      “And as far as this reporter goes,” Ginny said, grabbing her coat as she waited for Sam to finish putting away the cleaning products, “I think it’s time you tried the cranberry orange bread. The frosted loaf, not the plain one. I haven’t met a person yet that didn’t rave about it.”

      Sam let out a breath, relieved Ginny hadn’t suggested sweetening him up with a date, or something else Sam definitely didn’t have time or room in her life for. “Okay. I’ll bring some over to Betsy’s in the morning. Try to sweeten him up.”

      “And wear your hair up. Put in your hoop earrings, and for God’s sake,” Aunt Ginny added, wagging a finger, “wear some lipstick.”

      “Ginny, this isn’t a beauty contest, it’s an interview.”

      Ginny grinned. “I didn’t get to this age without learning a thing or two about men. And if there’s one thing I know, it’s to use your assets, Sam,” she said, shutting off the lights and closing the shop but not the subject, “every last one.”

      Flynn woke up in a bad mood.

      He flipped open his cell phone, prayed for at least one signal bar, and got none. Moved around the frilly room, over to the lace-curtained window, still nothing. Pushing aside a trio of chubby Santas on the sill, Flynn opened the window, stuck the phone outside as far as his arm would reach and still had zero signal. Where was he? Mars? Soon as he got back to Boston, he was switching wireless carriers. Apparently this one’s promise of service “anywhere” didn’t include small Indiana towns in the middle of nowhere.