Christmas In July (Juniper Falls #2)

PROLOGUE

Harper

“What’s it called again, the pumpkin-plosion?

” Steven asks on the other end of the phone.

“No, that’s not it, pumpaloosa? Wait, why does that sound sexual?

Pumptastic? Ha! That one too…” he goes on for a while, loving to hear himself talk.

I’m just barely managing to keep the phone wedged in between my ear and shoulder while I take a pan of quiches out of the oven, but I let him ramble until he’s ready for an actual response.

“Pumpapocalypse,” I say when I can get a word in.

“Yes, that! I need twenty-five of those.”

I almost drop the phone and the pan.

“Twenty-five?” I repeat quietly while screaming internally.

“Yes, honey, can you do it? I need one for each of the realtors that’ll be at this thing over in Cedar Point in an hour. Good exposure for you, right? I can be there in ten!”

“Uh huh…” He is right. Cedar Point is Juniper Falls’ bigger, better sister city to the north. “Okay, we can swing at it.”

“Just swing it, Harp.”

“Right, yeah,” I mumble. My brain has moved on from the conversation.

Steven and I hang up and I take a deep breath.

It’s not like the bakery is slammed, which is why it’s sweet of my old high school friend to call in and order it.

But it’s only me and DJ here today, which is why this is going to be difficult.

I walk out from the back kitchen to the storefront and glance around.

My dad’s dream, The Roasted Chestnut, has seen better days.

If a patron looks closely, they’ll see the Christmas stripe wallpaper is stained in some spots, peeling in others.

The fixtures and furniture are outdated.

The display cases are ancient and some of the lights go on flickering sprees that Carl, the town electrician, cannot figure out.

But the confections in said cases, Dad’s food, now my food, are still delicious.

Plus, I’ve gotten good at the adorable little flower arrangements on the table that add some cheer. I reworked the merch section with more mugs and t-shirts, either Christmas themed or with inspirational quotes my father loved.

And the sun streams in and catches sugar dust like happy fireflies. Mr. and Mrs. Newman are in the corner having their usual and being generally adorable. It’s happy, homey and…quiet in here today. Like every day.

Way too quiet, my dad would say.

I wipe my hands on my apron and force a smile.

Okay, not your dream, but it’s someone’s! You get to run your own business, Harp! You have a cute little bakery!

“Deej, we’ve got a big order, I’m going to need your help, okay?” I say tentatively to my sweet, scrawny, wanna-be-emo sidekick. When his mom asked if he could work part time at a discounted hourly pay rate in order to work on his interpersonal skills, I couldn’t say no.

His eyes go wide.

Yeah, you and me too, buddy.

I’m about to talk him down, calm us both, when my cell phone buzzes in my back pocket.

Janie: Down bad. Flu. Need some stuff from the pharmacy ASAP.

Another message comes through with a list of items, likely written by her new husband, billionaire Englishman Benedict Clark. The “post haste” gives him away. I write out the list on a scrap of receipt paper and stick it in my apron pocket.

“H-help with w-w-what?” DJ asks, cheeks almost as red as my unruly curls.

He reminds me so much of me, and Janie too, now that I think of it.

She and I became fast friends in second grade.

She had a stutter and I was totally non-speaking back then.

We huddled in the corner of the lunch room, silent, together and blissfully unbothered by the other kids.

DJ’s mom didn’t go into specifics but she didn’t need too.

He’s shy. I’m shy. He needs to be able to go to college next fall and speak up for himself.

Or at least speak out loud. Not mutter his thoughts under his breath, or snap and yell at everyone, his two extremes.

He needs to learn to just speak. Easier said than done, I know this full well.

I used to be mute. I now run a bakery. For DJ’s mom, the math was computing.

“Ugh. Mathing,” I whisper out loud, correcting my annoying brain. “It’s ‘the math was mathing.’”

“W-w-what math?”

“Sorry, buddy,” I shake my head clear and make eye contact with my teenage sidekick. “I need your help with a big order. Twenty five pumpapocalpyses.”

“T-t-t-t-” he starts panicking.

“We can do it. There aren’t any customers at the register right now, so we’ll just get started and work together, okay?”

Wow, so many blinks of his big blue eyes, peeking out from behind jet-black-dyed hair, in just a few seconds. Poor guy is short circuiting like the display case behind him.

“Okay,” I answer for him. No need to make him talk on top of the pressure. “First is the cardboard, you start assembling the boxes, then put them in a line and fill them up. You’ve done it before.”

Never twenty-freaking-five of them, but I don’t mention that part. He nods and almost melts with gratitude. Clear directions, and a task that doesn’t require talking. Ideal.

But my phone buzzes again. Janie’s urgent meds are going to have to wait.

The pharmacy is a few doors down, so it’s not absurd for her to randomly ask.

On a normal, nearly-dead day, I would just ask Mrs. Newman to hang with DJ for ten minutes so I could run a quick errand. But today is no longer normal.

Ding!

The doorbell chimes over the entrance.

“Door!” DJ squeaks.

“It’s okay,” I whisper to him and also to myself.

It’s not Steven yet, thank goodness. But it’s a stranger. Meaning I can’t do my practiced We Need a Minute Smile with a wink. This lady is probably a tourist, hopefully one who leaves glowing reviews on Yelp and Google.

She walks right up and starts ordering. Okay, then. At least that means I don’t have to initiate the conversation, a skill I’m still working on.

“Yeah I need uh…well, hmm. See this is the problem with mom and pops, I don’t know what I need. I guess can you tell me how your coffees relate to Starbucks coffees? Like is a large a venti and…”

She goes on, frowning up at the menu board and voicing all of her questions and concerns. So far, she doesn’t appear to be a fan of what we offer. So hopefully she’s not a review girlie.

She brought in a palpable, unpleased vibe with her, so now DJ has started dropping boxes, which only irks the woman further. I can feel myself and my one employee filling with anxiety. The little area behind the register is expanding with terror like an overfilled balloon.

By the time she stops what I think most would agree is a rant, I’m sweating. And I’ve totally lost track of what she’s said. Was there a question in there?

“Here,” I say too quietly, gesturing to the three cups in front of her with a smile I hope is not a grimace.

“No, but, like, the milk?”

“Sorry, I missed the milk question?” I try.

She looks around in disgust, “Do you have soy here?”

“Yes,” I smile with relief.

“Okay, with soy then.”

A soy what? What did she say?

Plop!

Another box down.

Ding!

“Door!” DJ says.

Buzz goes my pocket.

A man enters, head ducked, with a bigger man behind him. More strangers.

The wind from outside blows over a stack of napkins. They land all around DJ.

The balloon of panic expands.

“A soy latte?” I try, voice shaky.

“No. Soy chai with the local honey, I said.”

I nod, deciding fewer words are better. “Size?”

“Medium! Twooo of theeem.” She sounds out slowly.

Well. That was unkind and unnecessary. Maybe she’s been having a rough morning.

I nod and tap as fast as I can on the iPad before swiveling it around to face her. We don’t have to talk for her to swipe her card. And I don’t have to guess what the tip amount will be.

I turn to the machines behind me and start on her lattes.

Ding!

“DOOR!” DJ squawks. He has maybe half the boxes assembled so far.

“How’s it coming?” Steven calls. We don’t reply. He’s a regular, and a pushy one at that, so I’m surprised he didn’t just hop into DJ’s assembly line. But I don’t catch a glimpse of his average—average, yet muscular, he’d say—frame or his chestnut head of well-styled hair. I have lattes to finish.

Ding!

“Babe, what’s taking so long with the lattes?” A dude bro guy calls from the door.

“You know, small towns, ugh!” She almost yells back.

“Excuse me,” says one of the men who must be at the counter now, but I’m not turning to look. I’ve only got one latte done.

This is now the perfect 1-star-yelp-storm.

God, why do you hate me?

“Pumpkinapocolypse is a muffin and a cookie and a fudge,” DJ recites out loud. He has all the orders memorized, he’s just malfunctioning because of the balloon.

“Rip!” I reply. My brain mixes right and yup. Because of course it does.

“Rip?” DJ asks me.

“I don’t want any pumpkin, thank you,” says the deep voice.

“They have soy here, believe it or not,” Upset Tourist Lady snorts. I notice her voice has changed, though. Softer, smiley.

“I’ll just need a quick, large house blend black coffee,” the man says to DJ. I turn, knowing this balloon is about to blow. I look up at the man and…

I…

The…

The guy from Bridgerton is in the bakery?

The guy from Bridgerton is in the bakery!

No.

No, it just looks a lot like him. A bigger, darker version.

Almost black eyes. Scowl. But a fancy suit and a pristine wool overcoat with the collar flipped up.

Like the evil version of Lord Anthony. Old money.

Amazing bronzed skin and thick dark hair that looks perfect without being styled.

And easily the most handsome human being I’ve ever seen in real life. Sorry Benedict.

Ding!

“Door!”

“Excuse me, I really need those lattes.”

“Just the coffee for me, please”

Buzz

Plop!

“A pump apocalypse has a muffin, a cookie and a fudge!”

“No, I don’t want any pump—”

“Like, the lattes are just sitting right there if—”

“HARPER! A BLACK COFFEE FOR THIS STRANGER MAN!” DJ screams.

“Hey, kid! Whoa! No need to be an ass. Honestly.”

“HEY! DO NOT CALL HIM THAT! YOU CLASS ACTION JERKHOLE!”

Oh. I’m yelling now. Whoops.

Buzz

Buzz

Buzz

More texts come through from Bened…

“YOU!” I squeak and point at the man, having a rare moment of clarity while also losing my actual mind. “You know Benedict!”

“Yes?”

“Here! He needs you to get this for him! It’s an emergency!”

I shove the list across the counter at him.

“Emergen—”

“And no, you cannot have a coffee, you puffed up, Lady Bridgerton Dark Lord.”

“What?”

Did you just call him a lady?

I go on,“You don’t insult the staff and get a beverage! Now please go!”

I turn and shake myself out, ignoring his staring, and smile as politely as I can at Tourist Lady.

“Sorry for the delay. I’ll add in some pumpkins.”

“Pu—”

“Muffins!” I say too brightly. “I meant muffins.”

But she is staring at Evil Lord of the Mansion who is staring at me, while DJ stares at her, because she isn’t acknowledging my apology.

“Deej, please go in the back and get two fresh blueberry muffins. Right now. Then we’ll finish the big order.”

He goes.

The Dark Lord storms off, muttering something to the bigger man about small towns on their way out.

I hand Tourist Woman her lattes, DJ shoves her bag of muffins into my back and Steven appears behind the counter, fresh faced and happy as ever.

He chirps, “Alright, here I am! How can I help?”

_____

MONTHS LATER

Aiden

“But you’re not honestly going to live in that dreadful town,” I respond to Ben.

“‘Course I am. Part time, at least. That’s where Janie is,” he says. “And don’t call it dreadful.”

I huff, “And what would you call it then?”

He pauses to think and I wait, watching the clouds pass by as the jet rockets me across the continental US for the fourth time this week.

“Just in need of some TLC,” he says, with a smile, I’m sure.

Idiot is always smiling lately.

“In need of demolition,” I snipe back.

He laughs, annoyingly happy, and says, “You would say that. You’d tear down the whole place and put in an obscenely large ski resort.”

“And a spa,” I deadpan. He laughs again. Moron.

But it’s not actually the worst idea.

“Anyway, just wanted to tell you the good news. We’re staying married.”

I nod, then realize he can’t see me. So I murmur back, “Congratulations.”

“You’ll find someone and become a lovesick pup too, mate,” he says, overconfident. “Just wait.”

“We both know I’m more of a lone wolf.”

He laughs again, droning on about wolves being dogs too until finally releasing me from the conversation. I sigh with relief as I tuck my phone away.

Love, romance, feelings. Ben’s genuine joy and his hope for me. It all makes me twitchy.

Like that awful town, Juniper Falls. Benedict’s new home base, apparently. I pull up some data on my laptop. Even the photos make me feel the need to loosen my collar. Turn up the AC overhead.

Everywhere you turn is a damn gingerbread man or decorated Christmas tree. Who enjoys that much kitsch? That much cheese? It’s not real, the charm.

Crazy Baker Lady proved that point.

I had been so eager to see the place with that coffee.

Ben had brought me a few different varieties from the bakery while I was stuck in town during an ice storm and they were divine.

Smooth and sweet and bitter in equal measures.

I’m a connoisseur, yet I cannot find a brew that compares at home in my machine or in other coffee shops. Internationally.

But the baker behind the coffee…

I’ve never seen eyes bulge like that. I’ve also never seen a set of irises so green. In the few moments before she shape shifted into her dragon form, I thought she was quite cute. Hard to look away from. Red curls under a bandanna, fair skin, wide-set doe eyes and petite features dusted in flour.

Then she opened her mouth.

Bit of an odd duck, to be sure, and she confirmed my ongoing conclusion about humanity. The happy little town is full of depressed, grumpy…what was the ridiculous insult she came up with? Jerkholes. Class Action Jerkhole. I’ve since puzzled out she must’ve meant Class A? And jerkoff? Or Asshole?

No matter.

My point stands; underneath, the town is full of jerkholes, just like the rest of the developed western world. People are, categorically, horrible.

Still…the actual land…if you imagine it without all the buildings and trappings, silly gazebo and townspeople and such…it’s gorgeous. I scroll through images and maps as the plane barrels on. I get the familiar itch to dig further.

I pull up listings, tax information, reports.

I open another tab and start a spreadsheet without even realizing what I’m doing.

I run some conservative numbers. Adjust. Calculate again.

Ballpark. A rough idea. I consider all the puzzle pieces I’ve got on the board currently, strategies across the US like a game of Risk.

I loved that game as a kid.

And who would have thought Juniper Falls could be my last offensive in the Northeast. My final move. The nail in the coffin of my adversary…

Just in need of some TLC.

Indeed.