A Gingerbread Café Christmas. Rebecca Raisin

smiling he has these teeny tiny little dimples, which are inordinately adorable on a fully grown man.

      Damon takes the tart from the oven, and begins slicing it. The scent of roasted turkey makes my mouth water. Before I know it, Damon’s beside me again. “Here, try it.” He slides a small corner of the tart into my mouth. It takes me by surprise and, in a rush to close my mouth lest I stand gawping, I feel my lips brush his fingertips. He leaves them there for what feels like for ever.

      “Good?” he asks.

      I nod. Unable to speak and not only because I’m chewing.

      His expression changes, to something more serious. “You have to try new things once in a while, don’t you think?”

      I mumble agreement, and look down to the smoked-salmon blinis I’m making. Damon knows I always try my food before I send it out, so I know he isn’t talking about the canapés. He goes back to the tart, and I let out a breath I’ve been holding.

      The evening progresses so fast, I’m almost sad to think we’re just about done.

      Damon has a tea towel slung over his shoulder and is busy stacking the multitude of dishes into the industrial-sized dishwasher.

      “Glad to see you know how to work one of those,” I say. “You’ll make someone a mighty fine husband one day.”

      He takes the tea towel from his shoulder and hangs it on the oven rail. “Oh, yeah? A man who cooks and cleans — you think there’s a market out there for that?”

      “Depends — what else can you do that might satisfy a lady?” The words tumble from my mouth before I’m able to stop them. I spin on my heel and head to the bathroom before he can respond. As I reach the door, laughter spills from me. I can’t believe I just said that.

       Chapter Eight

      Christmas Eve and the excitement is palpable. The magic of Christmas never fails to amaze me. I bawled like a baby not two hours ago, when we delivered our gingerbread house to the children’s hospital in Springfield. Damon came up with the idea when we were musing what to do with it. Those courageous kids’ eyes went so wide when they saw four of us carry it in. We set it up nice and pretty in the games room. CeeCee made the kids gift bags full of treats, and they were so excited, it made my heart skip a beat. Just thinking of them being away from home at Christmas, and being so brave, made me appreciate everything I had in my life. I gave them all great big hugs before we left, and promised them we’d return for new year with some party supplies.

      It’s arctic out. I shrug down into my jacket as CeeCee and I close the shop, and breathe a sigh of relief. That’s work over for us for a few days. No more baking and no more late nights.

      “So,” CeeCee says. “I’ll see you tonight at the carols. I’m gonna make us a little feast, so you two lovebirds don’t worry about a thing. Just concentrate on getting yourself prettied up.” She casts a cursory glance from my head to my toes. “You not gonna wear jeans, sugar plum.”

      “Firstly, we’re not lovebirds. Secondly, I’m planning on wearing a dress, but not if you’re going to make it into something it isn’t.” I arch my brow, and try to stare CeeCee down, but I know from experience I won’t win this battle.

      “Most the girls in town would give their eye teeth to have your figure, and you hide it behind those old jeans, and scruffy sweaters. You got it, flaunt it, I say.”

      “Oh, please, CeeCee…”

      “There’s not a man gonna be able to resist you, especially the fine thing across the way, mmm hmm.”

      “You sound like you want to eat him.”

      She guffaws, her beautiful face crinkling up like paper. “You got that right — like gooey caramel, that boy.”

      Laughter barrels out of us, and I know we don’t sound very gentle.

      “You go on now, and get yourself ready. I’ll see you at the town hall.”

      I lean down to kiss CeeCee’s soft cheek; she smells like cinnamon and honey. “Thanks, Cee. I’ll meet you there later, then.”

      Damon’s shop is dark. He must have locked up while we were hooting and hollering.

      Walking home from town, I notice it’s gone quiet, sleepy. People have left for home to get ready for tonight; the schoolkids on holidays are probably toasting marshmallows by the fire. It’s a nice feeling, the town relaxing in on itself. There’s something incredibly sweet about small towns at this time of year. People look out for one another, and any tensions fall by the wayside. It’s a nice place, old Ashford, and I can’t imagine living anywhere else.

      Jogging the few blocks to my house, I feel light as a feather. My weary legs don’t ache any more. Funny how knowing I have a few days off energizes me.

      Inside, my red dress lies sprawled over my lounge like a crimson wave, and my boots sit patiently on the floor. I know I’ll be toasty warm inside the town hall; it’ll just be a matter of not turning into an icicle walking there. We used to suffer in an amphitheater, year after year, each hoping the carols would end so we could go home and warm up. Until last year it was decided the carols, and all the Christmas festivities, would be held in the town hall from now on. It’s a wonder no one thought of it sooner.

      I head straight to the tub for a good soak. Who knows, I might even consider putting some gloop on my face. Just a small amount, mind.

      Once the bath is run, I undress and survey my body in the mirror. I’m not thin; I have proper country-girl curves, but they seem to suit me, I think. I rub the soft swell of my belly, thinking about Joel, and our plans to start trying for babies just before he walked out. I wonder if that’s what frightened him off, all that responsibility. He was never one to be tied down, always scheming to make millions. Grand plans to get rich quick. I listened to him intently, and I supported him, because he loved me.

      I’ve never been attracted to the bright lights of a big city. All I crave is a happy, simple life. I have my job, and good friends, and family. Babies would be nice somewhere down the track. There’s nothing I don’t have right here in Ashford. Well, except love. And babies.

      I scold myself for all this soppy thinking, and plunge myself into the bath. Tonight the town will come together and we’ll sing and be content with what we have, and it’ll be enough.

      My red dress fits snugly, and my boots clack as I walk around fussing with the rest of the outfit. I’m not sure about the gloop. Scarlet lipstick smears my lips, and it just feels wrong, as if I’ve gone and dunked my mouth in lard. Mascara coats my lashes and it’s all I can do to see past them; I get the heebie-jeebies when I glance upward and it looks as if I’ve got spiders’ legs poking out of my eyes. And women do this every day? A knock at the door startles me. Damon. Groaning, I peep at myself once more. I’m worried I look like a clown with so much stuff on my face. And I’ve spritzed on too much perfume, I’m sure of it.

      I fan myself with my hands to dispel the scent as I walk to the door.

      “Well, look at you.” His gooey caramel-colored eyes hone in on my face.

      “Too much?” I ask. He ignores me and his gaze travels down my body, making me squirm.

      “You look beautiful. Truly beautiful.”

      “Thank you.”

      I shift my feet and try not to stare at the floor. It’s not a date; it’s simply an escort to a public event. It’s not a date. Damon’s grinning like a fool, and he’s dressed up for the occasion too. He’s still wearing super-snug jeans, which I don’t rightly oppose, but he’s swapped those awful checker shirts for a tight sweater that stretches over his stomach. I can see the outline of his muscles. He’s holding a thick black jacket over his shoulder. And a grey woolen scarf is wound