5. Chapter 5
CHAPTER 5
MADDIE
C avell, my boss, also known as Duffy, cups my cheek so tenderly that I almost don’t believe he’s the same person. Must be a lookalike. Or a dream. Is this the Land of Sweets? Did I travel here on the Polar Express?
No matter how much that little voice of insecurity tries to talk me out of this—okay, there might be some logic piping up, too—my body knows what it wants.
My mouth melts into his and everything turns to liquid—my thoughts, my pulse, my entire body puddles into his embrace as his palms find the small of my back and tug me closer.
The kiss deepens for three, two, one, and then my awareness slips back.
Ordinarily, I’d never do something so bold and brazen, but mistletoe rules are rules and maybe this is a minor Christmas miracle.
Cavell is incredibly handsome.
And a grump.
But an amazing kisser.
And my boss .
My thoughts slide back and forth like a snowball in a pinball machine.
The sparks were flying and now they’re fizzling as I draw away and back to sanity.
Our eyes meet and linger for a long beat before I search his for recognition. Does he know that I’m 00M ? Guilt takes the shape of a black lump of coal in my belly. I have to tell him the truth.
The whole room is quiet for the length of a breath, then they erupt into cheers, with Carol being the loudest of all. She got her Christmas wish, that’s for sure.
Don’t get me wrong, I understand why the guy is single, at least from working as his assistant, but I don’t see why he’s single.
Cavell is fit, his posture is pure confidence, and his lips are what dreams are made of. Only, I’m awake and we kissed.
I kissed my boss.
Panic replaces the warm, cozy feeling from under the mistletoe.
A flush creeps along his neck. I’m certain my cheeks match at least a third of the Christmas décor in this room with the red, white, and green theme—I’m a mishmash of warm all over, white as a sheet, and green around the gills.
When everyone goes back to their merry-making, Cavell—or is it Duffy?—says, “I have to admit, we make a good team.”
Being his employee and all, I bite my tongue, afraid now is not the moment to reveal my identity with Carol glowing at the good news that her son has a girlfriend. A fake one who also happens to work for him, but they don’t know that . . . yet.
I exhale a nervous laugh. “I couldn’t agree more.”
“Thank you for going along with it.”
I poke him in the stomach. My finger springs back from his rock-solid abs and stings a little. “Ouch.” I rub it, then say, “So you do have manners. ”
The space between his eyebrows pinches. “You met my mother at the market?”
“Earlier today.”
“Are you from town?”
“No, I’m visiting on assignment through Christmas. I take it you’re from here.” Which defies everything I assumed about this man. I imagined him living in a sterile, impersonal chamber made for vampires.
“Born and raised, if you can believe that.”
“I cannot,” I mutter. Then louder, I say, “So is it Cavell or Duffy?”
He winces and then tilts his head for me to follow him out of the living room. The house is best described as grand, and I imagine there’s a body of water nearby with a dock and a beautiful view.
Oh, Cavell—or Duffy—who are you?
We pass through the kitchen, where festive platters, plates, and bowls cover every surface and are filled with everything from fruit compote with brie to fudge. My mouth waters, but my healthy appetite takes the backseat because I need answers. I should also ’fess up, but why ruin a good thing even if it’s fake?
Are my ethics and morals in the dumpster by not telling my boss who I really am? Maybe for one night, I can pretend I have my life together.
Is that so bad? Probably. Definitely.
I promise myself I’ll fix it. However, the little matter of omission with the tall, broad-shouldered man makes me fear I’ll soon get a visit from the ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future if I’m not careful.
We exit the warm kitchen into the chilly night on the back deck. My breath instantly clouds as Cavell-Duffy inhales deeply. Jaw set, he doesn’t speak right away. Given what I know about him, he’s a man of few words.
“So, it’s casual, huh?” I say, breaking the silence.
“Huh?” he repeats, perhaps not recalling his earlier comment.
“Our fake relationship,” I add.
He brushes his hand across his forehead. “When I saw Porsha?—”
“Porsha? I thought her name was Lexus.”
“My mother intentionally doesn’t remember her name. She’d like to forget about my ex altogether. I would. Then you came over, and something came over me.” He shifts uncomfortably, “I’m not usually like this. It’s this place. . .”
“Christmas Town?”
“Being back in North Pole, I can’t explain it. But I can explain the kiss.”
“Is that so? If fireworks were a classic Christmas tradition, they would’ve blown off the roof, which would be a shame because this is a lovely home.” I admire our surroundings.
His eyes widen as if he’s not easily surprised and a faint smile feathers his lips. “You’re not wrong.”
“So casual . . .” I repeat, struggling with how to broach the subject of being 00M .
Letting out a foggy breath, he says, “Serious. Casual. I don’t know. Porsha was the first woman I brought home. I thought she was the one and then learned she was cheating on me.”
Not seeing any residual pain in his expression, I say, “You probably dodged a snowball with that one.”
He snorts a laugh. “You got that right.”
His blue eyes sweep mine, snagging me in the best of ways and making me want to linger.
“While we’re on the topic of exes, I recently got let down hard as opposed to being let down easy.” I tell him about the best friend-to-not-love situation.
“Sorry about that, but I’m glad you were available for the kiss.”
“Happy to help. Now what?” I ask vaguely, knowing the end of the sentence dangles with what I should be telling him about being his assistant.
He puffs his cheeks.
Silence threads between us as the happy sounds of the party filter from inside.
I bounce a little, chilly. “So, are you Cavell or Duffy?”
This would be a moment for him to answer, offer me a jacket, or both. Instead, he plants his hand on my lower back.
A ray of warmth beams through me.
He says, “We should go inside.”
“’Tis the season to be freezin,’” I say, teeth chattering.
The corner of his lip lifts.
Back in the cozy kitchen, he pours me a mug of warm mulled cider and fixes me a plate. “I know you’re perfectly capable of picking out the foods you’d like, but I’ve been attending these shindigs all my life. You want to avoid the calamari salad and if you’re not quick, you’ll miss the pecan bacon pinwheels which only appear once a year.”
Touched by his thoughtfulness, I happily take the plate. Where I expect him to excuse himself and mingle with the guests, he guides me through a door off the kitchen and into a library with floor-to-ceiling shelves and a stained glass lamp between two comfy-looking chairs.
He closes the door, muffling the faint strains of “Deck the Halls” playing and the laughter overflowing from the party. A fire crackles in the hearth.
“Sorry about the chill. I needed a breath of fresh air.”
“It’s toasty in here.”
“Always my favorite room.” Then, as if getting down to business, he says, “My name is Cavell Duibhshíth Stone—my father was Irish.”
“He was Cavell Senior?”
Bristling slightly, he nods. “Correct. Professionally, I go by Cavell. Everyone here calls me Duffy—a shortened version of my middle name.”
With the warm firelight scene, I don’t want to ruin the moment, so like a liar, liar, pants on fire for omitting our connection, I ask, “Can I call you Duffy?”
He smirks. “Sure.”
Extending my hand to shake, he clasps it, defrosting my cold fingers and sending a thrill of warmth across my skin.
“It’s nice to meet you, Duffy. I’m Madeleine Tinsel, but my family and friends call me Maddie, Maddiesaurus, or Maddie Cakes.”
His chuckle lengthens a little like he’s knocking the ice off it.
“What brings you here for the holidays, Maddie?”
Not sure how much I should reveal, I answer, “I was hired to do some baking. It’s not the usual arrangement, but I couldn’t say no.”
“So you’re a baker?”
“Among other things. I have a few jobs. Technically, I’m a ghost baker. Clients hire me to bake cookies when they aren’t able for a host of reasons, but they get the credit.”
“Like a ghostwriter?”
I tap the air. “You get the concept.”
“It’s genius.”
I tuck my chin with surprise. “Thank you. My ex-best friend said the idea was ‘half baked.’”
He frowns, “Since you won’t be with your family for Christmas Eve or Christmas Day, you’re welcome to join us.”
Cavell Duffy Stone—I’m not going to attempt his middle name—is not who I expected. I have to come clean. But I can’t, instead of confessing. I say, “Thank you. That would be lovely.”
I should be thinking about how wrong our mistletoe moment was, but I can’t help wonder about the mistletoe potential.