Marry-Me Christmas. Shirley Jump

hummed snippets of Christmas carols as she filled a holly-decorated plate with a variety of the bakery’s best treats. Gingerbread cookies, pecan bars, cranberry orange muffins, white mocha fudge, peppermint chocolate bark, frosted sugar Santa cookies—she piled them all on until the plate threatened to spill.

      “Don’t forget some of these,” Ginny said, handing Sam a couple cherry chocolate chunk cookies.

      “Aunt Ginny, I don’t think he needs—”

      “He came here for the story about the special cookies, didn’t he?” Her great-aunt gave her a wide smile. “And if the stories are true, you never know what might happen if he takes a bite.”

      “You don’t seriously believe—”

      “I do, and you should, too.” Ginny wagged a finger. “Why, your grandmother and grandfather never would have fallen in love if not for this recipe. I wouldn’t have married your Uncle Larry if it hadn’t been for these cookies. Why, look at all the proof around you in this town. You just don’t believe in them because you’ve never tried them.”

      “That’s because I’m too busy baking to eat.” Sam sighed, accepted the two cookies and added them to the plate. What was the harm, really? There was nothing to that legend. Regardless of what Aunt Ginny thought.

      Balancing the plate, Sam crossed the room and placed the treats and a steaming mug of coffee before the reporter. “Here you are, Mr.—”

      And she lost the next word. Completely forgot his name.

      He had taken off his coat and was sitting at one of the small round café tables in the corner, by the plate-glass windows that faced the town square. He had that air about him of wealth, all in the telltale signs of expensive fabric, perfectly fitting clothing, the way he carried himself. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing defined, muscled hands and forearms, fingers long enough to play piano, touch a woman and—

      Whoa. She was staring.

      “Mr. MacGregor,” she finished. Fast. “Enjoy.” Sam took a couple steps back. “Uh, enjoy.”

      He turned to her and a grin flashed across his face so quickly, she could have almost sworn she’d imagined it. But no, it had been there. A thank-you, perhaps. Or maybe amusement at her discomfit?

      Either way, his smile changed his entire face. Softened his features. Made Sam’s pulse race in a way it hadn’t in a long time.

      “You already said that,” he said.

      Okay, it had been amusement. Now she was embarrassed.

      “Did I? Sorry. You, ah, make me nervous.” No way would she admit public humiliation.

      “I do? Why?”

      “I haven’t had a real reporter in the shop before. Well, except for Joey from the Riverbend Times, but that doesn’t count. He’s nineteen and still in college, and he’s usually just here to get a cup of decaf because regular coffee makes him so hyper he can hardly write.” She was babbling. What was wrong with her? Samantha Barnett never babbled. Never got unnerved.

      Way to make a first impression, Sam.

      “I should get back in the kitchen,” Sam said, thumbing in that direction.

      “I need to interview you. Remember? And I’d prefer not to shout my questions.”

      Now she’d annoyed him. “All right. Let me grab a cup of coffee. Unlike Joey, I do need the caffeine.”

      He let out a laugh. Okay, so it had been about a half a syllable long, but still, Sam took that as a good sign. A beginning. If he liked her and liked the food, maybe this Flynn guy would write a kick-butt review, and all her Christmas wishes would be granted.

      But as she walked away, he started drumming his fingers on the table, tapping out his impatience one digit at a time.

      Ginny tapped her on the shoulder when she reached the coffeepot. “Sam, I forget to mention something earlier.”

      “If it’s about getting me to share Grandma’s special recipe cookies with a man again—”

      “No, no, it’s about that magazine he’s with. He said Food Lovers, didn’t he?”

      Sam poured some coffee into a mug. “Yes. It’s huge. Everybody reads it, well, except for me. I never get time to read anything.”

      Ginny made a face. “Well, I read it, or at least I used to. Years ago, Food Lovers used to just be about food, you know, recipes and things like that, but lately, it’s become more…”

      “More what?” Sam prompted.

      Her aunt paused a moment longer, then let out a breath. “Like those newspapers you see in the checkout stand. A lot of the stories are about the personal lives of the people who own the restaurants and the bakeries, not the food they serve. It’s kind of…intrusive.”

      “What’s wrong with writing stories about the people who own the businesses?”

      Ginny shrugged. “Just be careful,” she said, laying a hand on Sam’s. “I know how you guard your privacy, and your grandmother’s. I might not agree with your decision, but you’re my niece, so I support you no matter what.”

      Sam drew Aunt Ginny into a hug. “Thank you.”

      “Anything for you, Sam,” she said, then drew back. She glanced over the counter at Flynn MacGregor. “There’s one other thing you need to be careful of, too.”

      “What’s that?”

      Ginny grinned. “He’s awfully cute. That could be the kind of trouble you’ve been needing, dear niece, for a long time.”

      Sam grabbed her coffee mug. “Adding a relationship into my life, as busy as it is?” She shook her head. “That would be like adding way too much yeast to a batter. In the end, you get nothing but a mess.”

      CHAPTER TWO

      SAM RETURNED with her coffee, Aunt Ginny’s words of wisdom still ringing in her head, and slipped into the opposite seat from Flynn MacGregor. He had a pad of paper open beside him, turned to a blank page, with a ready pen. He’d sampled the coffee, but none of the baked goods. Not so much as a crumb of Santa’s beard on the frosted sugar cookies. Nary a bite from Grandma’s special cookies—the ones he’d presumably come all this way to write about.

      Sam’s spirits fell, but she didn’t let it show. Maybe he wanted to talk to her first. Or maybe he was, as Aunt Ginny had cautioned, here solely for the story behind the bakery.

      Her story.

      “Are you ready now?” he asked.

      “Completely.”

      “Good. Tell me the history of the bakery.”

      Sam folded her hands on the table. “Joyful Creations was opened in 1948 by my grandmother Joy and grandfather Neil Barnett. My grandmother was an amazing cook. She made the most incredible cookies for our family every holiday. I remember one time I went over to her house, and she had ‘invent a cookie’ day. She just opened her cabinets, and she and I—”

      “The bakery, Miss Barnett. Can we stick to that topic?”

      “Oh, yes. Of course.” Sam wanted to kick herself. Babbling again. “My grandfather thought my grandmother was so good, she should share those talents with Riverbend. So they opened the bakery.”

      He jotted down the information as she talked, his pen skimming across the page in an indecipherable scrawl.

      Sam leaned forward. “Are you going to be able to read that later?”

      He looked up. “This? It’s my own kind of shorthand. No vowels, abbreviations only I know for certain words.”

      She chuckled. “It’s like my recipes. Some of them