Chapter 2
two
. . .
Rosalie
Naughty List Ticket: One Way Only
“Gramps, I think this may just be the very best candy you’ve ever made,” I mumble around a mouthful of the creamiest chocolate I’ve ever tasted, my taste buds exploding with the decadent flavor.
My grandfather chuckles, his rotund belly shaking with the motion, green eyes twinkling as he stares back at me. “Well, my darling girl, I’d believe you if that wasn’t the same thing you say every time.”
I smirk. “Okay, but I’m really serious this time. I swear, you have some kind of magic in your fingertips.”
Not only because it’s without a doubt the most delicious chocolate in the world, but because eating a piece never fails to bring a rush of nostalgia back, a tangible reminder of all of the love and happiness that I’ve felt growing up here, a shadow of Grams and Gramps.
It’s so delicious that I don’t even allow myself time to feel guilty about the calories or the fact that I’ll likely have to skip dinner later because of all of the candy he’s talked me into eating today.
He carefully places the remaining bell-shaped toffee onto the sheet pan to cool and chuckles once more. “Nothing magical about it, darling. Just when you’ve been doing it as long as I have, it becomes like second nature. I could probably make these candies with my eyes closed.”
Without another thought, I plop the rest of the candy in my mouth and savor every single second of chewing it until Grams walks through the kitchen doorway, a small smile on her face.
There’s a smear of chocolate clinging to her rosy cheeks, the front of her old, red-and-white striped apron dusted in powdered sugar, a wisp of gray hair escaping out of the low bun at the nape of her neck.
As always, Gramps’ eyes light up when he sees her. It makes my heart ache as a sigh slips out of my lips.
When I try to imagine being as in love as my grandparents have always been, it truly seems impossible. Like the universe doesn’t make love, relationships, or people the way that it used to.
Because I know without a doubt that no one has ever looked at me the way that he looks at her, and I realize maybe there is a small, tiny, little part of me that wants to experience it.
To experience love the way that Kennedy describes it and the way that I witness daily with my grandparents.
If it’s anything like what they share, then falling in love wouldn’t be so bad.
“What are you two doing in here?” Grams says as she stops in front of me, her warm, soft hand finding my cheek in an affectionate pat. “I see your Gramps has started on another batch of caramel trees and bell toffee.”
I nod. “Thankfully. I’m not sure Kennedy was going to make it another second. She’s ready for more because she demolished the ones I gave her a few days ago.”
“That girl,” Gramps murmurs. “She’s been crazy about those since she was just a little one, running around here with you.
” He finishes setting them to cool along the pan and walks over to Grams, pressing his lips to her cheek in a quick kiss.
“I’m going to go check the cases before the evening rush. ”
She hums, turning back to the counter, where she’s prepping another batch of cinnamon red-hot candies. They’re Sweet Sullivan’s best seller and the one thing we can never seem to have enough of.
While Gramps’ specialty is the toffee and chocolate, Grams’ is the red-hot candy hearts and candy canes.
Everyone at the shop has something they do best. Mine is the business aspect, like social media.
And decorating and, of course, responding to Santa letters, and I love that part of things.
But I also love to make cookies. One of my favorite things to do is to come up with new combinations of flavors.
My dream is to one day have the cookies in store too.
Another thing that we make homemade here at Sweet Sullivan’s.
I follow Gramps out of the kitchen back into the store, my shoulder brushing his as I fall into step next to him. We stop inside the front of the store, both of us gazing around the room, and a swell of pride surges behind my chest as I take in all of my work.
The inside of the candy shop has been transformed into something even more magical than it was before.
That in and of itself seems impossible when you live in a place like Mistletoe Falls, a town that feels like it’s stepped off the pages of a cozy, picturesque movie all year round, and I truly couldn’t imagine a more magical place to live.
And now, Sweet Sullivan’s has that extra-special touch of magic. There are decorations touching nearly everything inside. The walls, the ceiling, the space around the candy cases—a whimsical Christmas display.
The large window nook facing the street is full of fluffy, fake snow, with a variety of nutcrackers lining the glass beside the glass jars of different heights, colors, and styles, all full of our signature candies.
My grandparents have been collecting them for over twenty years, getting a new one to represent each year that has passed, and they’re one of my favorite things about the shop.
They’re not just a decoration. Each piece tells a story, a memory of the time that’s past.
There’s a large fir tree in the corner, sparkling with the golden hue of twinkling lights that bring out the warmth in the room, adorned with handmade ornaments from children who come into the shop.
Some are new, most of them old. Another testament to the love that constantly fills Sweet Sullivan’s.
Glass cases full of bright homemade candy sit on every shelf, a string of our signature candy canes draped over the front in traditional red and white that make the greenery of the tree and garlands adorned with deep red velvet bows brighter, more rich.
It’s cozy and nostalgic, bringing me back to my childhood just by stepping into the room.
“You truly outdid yourself this year, Rosie girl. I’m so proud of you,” Gramps says from beside me, the corner of his lips pulled into a pleased smile.
I roll my lips together, nodding. “It feels… just right this year. Like everything just fell into place. Maybe this year is going to be something unforgettable, Gramps.”
The bell over the front door dings loudly, pulling our attention to it. The moment I see Howard, our deliveryman, step through the door, I duck behind the counter and pull off my apron, then grab my purse and trench coat from the hook. I reach into the pocket and pull out my warm wool gloves.
“Anddddd that’s my cue,” I mutter more to myself than anything, but Gramps laughs before he greets Howard with a friendly wave.
“Howard, how are you, fella? Sure is getting chilly out there already, isn’t it?”
I offer him a small smile before slipping quickly past him toward the front door.
I wish I were joking when I put that in the letter to Santa with Kennedy the other night. Both of my grandparents have taken to attempting to matchmake me with every single man in town, including the mailman, for years now.
The mailman who’s pushing forty, balding, and smells suspiciously like vienna sausages.
Gag.
A shiver travels down the length of my spine, a flurry of goose bumps erupting on my skin even beneath the warmth of my coat.
Sure, Howard is a nice guy. There are lots of nice guys, but honestly, I couldn’t imagine anyone further from my vision of a “dream man,” even if I tried.
Speaking of…
I turn to look at the bright red mailbox that sits just outside the striped awning in front of the shop, my mind once again flitting back to that silly, stupid letter I wrote with Kennedy.
It’s December first, so I probably need to go ahead and check it. I’m sure there are probably already a few letters inside from the kids.
Small snow flurries coat my cheeks as I step out onto the icy, slick sidewalk, pulling my coat tighter around me as I reach the box and open it, shoving my gloved hand inside…
… and coming up empty.
Not a single letter.
My brows pull tightly together in confusion as I move my finger around, feeling around the metal box.
Still, there’s nothing. Which makes absolutely zero sense because if anything, there should at least be Kennedy’s and my letters inside.
We placed them in there that night. And no one checks the box but me.
Bending, I try to peer down into the slot to check one more time, but I’m not losing my mind because there’s not a single letter inside the mailbox.
Okay, what in the hell is happening?
I huff, running my fingers through my hair.
This is… strange.
I know that we put them in there, so where did they go? Did someone… take the letters?
My eyes widen at the thought.
Oh, Kristopher freaking Kringle.
Imagine if someone actually saw the absolute ridiculousness that I wrote on that stupid paper. I’m pretty sure I’ll actually die of embarrassment.
I’m not usually the dramatic one—that’s reserved for Kennedy—but the thought of anyone reading that letter sends me into a slight panic.
It was just meant to be some stupid thing no one would ever actually see. Something just to appease my bestie. And because honestly, why not? We were having wine, having fun, and there’s nothing wrong with a little… silliness.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
My internal freak-out is suddenly interrupted by a loud banging sound coming from inside the shop next to Sweet Sullivan’s… which has been vacant for the last five or so years.
The front door is propped open with a wooden barstool, and the banging inside seems to only be getting louder.
Swallowing, I hesitantly walk toward the noise. I mean, what if it’s being, I dunno, burglarized? Wouldn’t it be my duty as a concerned Mistletoe Falls citizen to prevent that from happening?
Yes, Rosalie, because someone who is burglarizing a building in broad daylight is going to prop the door open with a barstool for the entire town to witness it.
Fine, okay… I’m just a little curious.
Mistletoe Falls is a tiny, tight-knit town. Surely, if something were happening, wouldn’t we be the first to know? Being that we’re neighbors and share a freakin’ wall?
I peek my head in the open door, and my confusion quickly multiplies.
It looks like there’s a crew of workers in here renovating things.
The air still smells stale and slightly moldy after being closed up and dark for all of these years, but also the smell of sawdust and something else lingers with it.
They’re working on hanging up what looks to be new light fixtures, and there are a few other guys on the floor, working on restoring the original hardwood floors.
Leaning in further, I step inside, my hands fisting tightly in the pocket of my coat as my gaze lands on a man standing in the center of the room.
He’s what commands my attention, my gaze drawn to him as if we’re two ends of a magnet. Not only because he’s one of the most attractive men I’ve ever seen in my lifetime, but because…
He’s tall. At least six foot, maybe as tall as six four, if I had to guess, with impossibly broad shoulders and what I can already see are flawlessly sculpted muscles beneath the fabric of his dark brown henley shirt.
His unruly hair is a warm chocolate brown, and the thick, scruffy beard on his face is giving lumbersexual. In the very best way.
And just like that, I let out a combination of something between a scoff and a laugh. Because logically, I know it’s not at all possible. I can say with a hundred percent certainty that I couldn’t be looking at the manifestation of my dream man from a stupid freaking Santa letter.
Right?
It is… weird.
Like… really weird.
This building has been vacant for years and years, and suddenly, after writing Santa a letter… there’s now a man standing here who is checking off way more of those boxes than feels coincidental.
Tall… check.
Lumbersexual… check.
EVEN WEARING FLANNEL… check.
Muscles for all of the nice (and probably naughty too) list… check.
His gaze whips to mine, his eyes a gooey chocolate color that feels endless and makes my heart pick up speed in my chest.
“Can I help you?” he murmurs roughly.
Oh God. Every single syllable that falls from his mouth is like warm, coated whiskey, sliding along my skin in a caress that I should not feel in the pit of my stomach, but somehow, I do.
I realize that I’m standing there gaping at him as if he didn’t just ask me a question. My cheeks flame, burning a path down my neck, and I’m suddenly feeling incredibly stupid for accidentally standing here just gawking at him.
I blame that, and the fact that I’m so taken off guard by his hotness, as well as my mind’s correlation to that damn letter, for what comes out of my mouth next.
“Did you steal my letter?”
Immediately, I want to kick myself for that being my response. Jesus.
Did I seriously just blurt that out?
Rosalie, you freakin’ idiot.
His thick, dark brows pinch while he makes his way over to where I’m standing. With each step closer, I feel the flutter in my stomach tightening.
“Sorry, your… letter?” he asks, that deep baritone dropping even lower, the thick, heavy soles of his work boots thudding across the floor before he comes to a stop in front of me.
“I…” I start, but trail off and clear my throat, trying to get it together.
I think my brain is just blanking, a combination of how insanely hot this man is and because he has to be the culprit.
New guy on the block, and suddenly, our Santa mailbox has been raided for the first time ever?
Or at least the first time that I’m aware of.
Because I know that we put those letters in there.
We’ve been doing these letters since Grams was a kid, and now…
The math on this is not mathing.
“Yes, my letter. The mailbox between our buildings. Did you take any letters out of it?”
He peers over at me for longer than what feels socially acceptable, gaze dipping down my body, doing a slow, unhurried perusal before his gaze meets mine again. “Not in the habit of stealing other people’s mail, darlin’.”
Before I can say something back, his brow lifts. “And who are you again? Didn’t catch your name when you were accusing me of theft. That or the reason why you’re in my bar.”