Ginger Snapped

Chapter 1

CAMERON

The thud of something heavy hitting the floor had me lurching upright in my bed faster than any alarm clock could.

Shit.

I knew that sound. I groaned and threw back the quilt, shivering in the cold morning air. I hurried through to the kitchen where I found my cat, Asshole, sitting on my kitchen island and grooming herself placidly like she hadn’t just pushed a ten-pound bag of flour onto the floor.

I couldn’t even blame the cat. I mean I could, but really this was on me. I knew Asshole had a habit of sending things flying off the counter any chance she got. She was the reason I was down to only two coffee mugs.

But I’d been tweaking my gingerbread recipe last night, chasing a mix that gave me better structural integrity.

It had taken three batches and had been close to midnight by the time I was satisfied with the results, and I’d been tired enough that I’d told myself the age-old lie—that I’d get up early and clean up.

And I hadn’t really thought a five-pound cat could push over a ten-pound bag of flour.

Obviously, I’d underestimated the power of feline spite.

I peered carefully over the edge of the kitchen island, praying the paper bag hadn’t split this time, and breathed out a sigh of relief when I found it mostly intact.

The floor was a mess, though, and a plume of flour had settled around the bag, making it look like my kitchen was a host to some sort of magical fae circle—if the fae were sponsored by King Arthur Baking.

Asshole leaped gracefully off the counter and walked through the mess, tracking white powder across the floor like it was her right.

I ignored the flour and scooped up the cat.

She purred and tilted her head back in a demand for affection, and I obediently petted her under her chin.

“You really are an asshole,” I murmured as I carried her out of the kitchen and into the laundry room.

I filled her food bowl with a tin of expensive wet food, the only type she tolerated.

I petted her once more and quickly closed the door, trapping her in there before she could escape and ignoring her outraged meowls.

Experience had taught me that cleaning up spills with a cat in attendance was a Sisyphean task, and I wasn’t in the mood to wipe up an endless trail of floury paw prints today.

I cranked up the heat, then swept up the mess quickly and wiped the counter clean before starting the coffee maker and letting the cat out of the laundry. She gave me a judgmental stare, then stalked off to go and sleep on my bed.

One of the bonuses of being single was that nobody could tell me I wasn’t allowed to have a cat, let alone allow a cat on my bed. Looking at you, ex-boyfriend Andrew.

The downside of being single was that Asshole was the only one currently gracing my bed.

Andrew had had a lot of faults—so, so many—but at least he’d been someone warm to cling to on the cold winter mornings.

It was just a shame he’d felt the need to cling to my next-door neighbor’s dick with his mouth—and that he’d done it in our bed.

I didn’t know why it was a surprise when I caught them. My neighbor Jim was a personal trainer—and Andrew always had been shallow as fuck.

Well, I was better off alone. I’d survived the Sugar Hollow gossip mill running hot for a few weeks, and I’d survived moving out of the apartment we’d shared.

In fact, it had been the motivation I’d needed to buy my own place.

And sure, my cabin was small and had come with an inherited cat from the previous owner, but I had no regrets.

It was all I needed. It had an open-plan living area with exposed log walls and a woodstove in the living room that added to that rustic feel, and it had recently been renovated, so it boasted a modern kitchen and bathroom.

It only had one bedroom plus a bathroom and a laundry, but what it lacked in size it made up for in charm—and more importantly, in privacy.

The fact there were no neighbors for a half mile on either side suited me perfectly.

It wasn’t that I was antisocial exactly.

I was just selective about who I shared my space with.

Although some days I did think it might be nice to have someone to share it with.

But the chances of finding a decent single guy in a small town like Sugar Hollow were about as good as the chances of a snowstorm in June.

I poured myself a cup of coffee, opened the round cookie tin on the counter, and took out a piece of the gingerbread I’d made the night before.

When I took a bite, I hummed with pleasure as the combined flavors of golden syrup, spice, and brown sugar flooded my tastebuds.

Other people used honey or molasses in their recipes, but once I’d discovered golden syrup it had become my secret ingredient, and there was no going back.

Every cookie was a little bite of happiness.

Who needed a man when I had gingerbread?

I’d planned to spend my Saturday practicing sculpting reindeer, but on checking the refrigerator I remembered that I was out of fondant.

I suppressed a sigh, and without bothering to change out of my Saturday sweats and ratty black sweater, I bundled up in a thick coat and scarf, then added a beanie.

There was a vicious bite to the air, enough to have me shivering through my layers, but I knew this was nothing compared to how cold it would get once December hit.

Still, the beauty of the Vermont scenery more than made up for the freezing temperatures, and when the snow arrived, I knew I’d soak up the sight of white-covered branches and a clean, empty landscape.

A snowy winter wonderland was still a week or two off, though, according to the weather forecast. For now, it was just fucking cold.

My breath came out in little clouds, and I pulled my beanie farther down over my ears.

I drove to town, mentally running through my shopping list as I passed the cheerful sign that proclaimed Welcome to Sugar Hollow, VT (Pop.

2167) and headed down Gingerbread Street.

Yes, you heard that right. Somewhere back in the annals of Sugar Hollow history, one of the town’s founding fathers had really had a thing for gingerbread, and now gingerbread and Sugar Hollow went together like Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham—or Bert and Ernie, if you wanted to be normal about it.

I parked in front of Wilson’s Grocery, and the bell over the door jangled merrily when I stepped inside. If this was a normal grocery run, I would have driven over to Burlington and gone to Hannaford or Costco, but the local store had what I needed for today.

“Hey, Cameron. Signed up for the competition this year?” the store owner, Morris Wilson, asked cheerfully.

“Absolutely,” I said, returning his smile.

I didn’t need to ask which competition he meant. The highlight of the Sugar Hollow Festival was the annual Gingerbread House Competition—and I was the reigning Gingerbread King. I’d won four years running, and I was confident I could scoop the title again.

“Reckon you’ll be five for five?” Morris asked, echoing my own thoughts. “No pressure, but I’ve placed my wager already.”

He was only half joking. The betting was always fierce, even though the prize for the competition itself was only a cheap trophy and a grocery voucher.

“We’ll see,” I said, giving him a teasing smile.

We both knew I was a shoo-in for another win.

I’d been making gingerbread houses my whole life.

I’d learned from my grandma, and even as a kid I’d had a talent for it.

As I’d gotten older, I’d kept up the tradition even when Grandma had passed on, adding to my skills every year, and now decorating and constructing gingerbread houses was my jam.

The competition was my happy place, the one time of year I was able to show off my talents.

The thrill I got from people enjoying my creations was enough to coax me out of my shell, and for at least one month of the year I had something resembling a social life.

Not to boast, but my cookies were legendary, and they were great conversation starters, so my baking sheets came out every year at around the same time as Mariah started warming up her vocal cords.

“Well, you know where everything is,” Morris said, nodding toward the rear of the store.

He was smart enough to stock his shelves with every baking and decorating supply known to man just as soon as Halloween was over, because people didn’t just make gingerbread houses.

They made cookies and candy and brownies and cupcakes, and the town was flooded with baked goods for weeks leading up to the festival.

I personally made sure that the library and attached town clerk’s office where I worked had a fresh supply of cookies.

And Morris knew that no matter how prepared people thought they were, every baker in town would make at least one visit to his store for some last-minute sugar pearls or sanding sugar, or an emergency tube of gel food coloring when they discovered the one from two Christmases ago had dried out—or in my case today, an emergency tub of fondant after Asshole had managed to get the lid off the container and stick her paws in it.

That cat had earned her name, trust me.

I made my way down the aisle to the baking section at the back of the store, and just as I turned the corner a body smacked into me, sending me flying.

I landed on the floor with a jolt to my ass that I suspected I’d still be feeling tomorrow.

Scrambling to sit up, I opened my mouth to give a piece of my mind to whoever hadn’t been looking where they were going.

The words died in my throat as I stared up at the man who’d knocked me over.

He was a stranger. But more importantly, he was cute.

As in, exactly-my-type cute. I was weak for tall guys and redheads, and he was tall and lean and he had deep red hair that peeked out from under his beanie.

The stranger had warm brown eyes that made me think of caramel, pale skin that was currently flushed pink, and a mouth that looked like it was made for kissing.

I probably would have stared at him for longer except a bag of confectioners’ sugar slipped from his grip, letting out a puff of white powder as it landed next to me with a soft whump.

I reached out and picked it up, holding it up to him wordlessly.

“Thanks!” he said, his eyes bright as he retrieved the package. He set his handful of items on a stack of canned beans and extended a hand down toward me. “Need a hand?”

I gripped it and hauled myself up off the floor, then let go and rubbed my ass through my sweats and winced. I looked at him expectantly. Any minute now he’d say he was sorry for knocking me down, right? That was just common courtesy.

But instead he extended his hand again. “I’m Finn.”

I was tempted to snap at him, but I was aware that Morris was watching us with interest from over by the counter, and he was one of the biggest gossips in Sugar Hollow, so I forced a smile and shook his hand. “Cameron.”

Finn flashed me a brilliant smile that hinted at mischief—and okay, he was definitely my type. But he was also probably straight, because I couldn’t be that lucky.

But the way his gaze traveled over me slowly, combined with that charming smile, made me think he might actually be interested.

My heart beat faster, and I wished I wasn’t wearing these ratty old Saturday sweats and my black sweater with the frayed neckline, because yeah, he was giving me the look of a man who was definitely interested.

And then I spotted it. A rainbow flag pin, shining out from among the folds in his scarf like a beacon.

Maybe I could be that lucky.

I indicated his pile of groceries. “So, uh, shopping?”

Jesus, Cam. What else would he be doing, scuba diving?

See, this was why I kept to myself. I had all the social skills of a potato—less, probably, because potatoes were universally loved.

But Finn’s smile widened and he said, “Yeah. Sorry I ran you down, but I got distracted by the baking stuff. I wasn’t expecting to find fondant molds and powdered food coloring in a town this size, I guess, and I got overexcited.

” He let out a soft chuckle, and his cheeks got pinker.

It might have been embarrassment, but I liked to think it was because he was as attracted to me as I was to him.

“You, um, you bake?” That was… better. Still hardly sparkling repartee, but I at least sounded like I knew how conversations worked.

Finn ran a hand over the back of his neck and looked down. “Yeah. You?”

Was there a way to say I’m the best baker in town without sounding like an arrogant asshole? Asking for me.

“Yeah. Cookies and gingerbread houses,” I finally said, offering a smile of my own.

We stood there awkwardly for a few seconds while I tried to think of something else to say, but my mind had gone blank.

Finally, Finn gathered up his armful of shopping, hooking his fingers through the handles of two buckets of fondant.

“It was good to meet you, Cameron. Hopefully, I’ll run into you again. ”

“Hopefully, you won’t. Run into me, I mean,” I said drily and he let out another chuckle, low and musical.

I allowed myself a flicker of hope. Maybe we could be friends—more than friends, even. Then I glanced past him to the baking display and saw that the fondant was sold out. A disappointed noise escaped me. “Oh,” I said. “I needed some of that, but it looks like it’s all gone.”

I gestured at the two buckets Finn had dangling from his fingertips and waited for him to offer me one—that would be the decent thing to do, right?

But Finn just gave me a breezy smile and said, “Maybe they’ll get more in,” before strolling up to the counter, leaving me staring after him, confused and annoyed.

Could I make my own fondant? Of course I could, and it would be better than anything Morris was selling.

But it was a pain in the ass to do, and more importantly, Finn didn’t know I could make my own.

And yet it hadn’t even occurred to him to offer to share his haul.

No, he’d just waltzed in and scooped up the entire stock without a thought for anyone else.

Obviously, the guy was a self-absorbed jerk.

I left the store empty-handed and spent the entire fifteen-mile drive over to the Walmart in Burlington fuming.

I should have known meeting a handsome, charming gay guy and expecting him to be a decent human being was too much to ask. Because Finn might be cute and flirty, but he was also an asshole.

And I already had one of those in my life.