Santa’s Pregnant Bride

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Samantha

The industrial oven decides to give up the ghost on a Tuesday afternoon in late March, right when I'm supposed to be baking three dozen cupcakes for the Carmichael wedding and two sheet cakes for the elementary school fundraiser.

The temperature gauge spins like a possessed carnival ride, and a smell that can only be described as "electrical fire meets burnt sugar" fills my bakery.

I should probably be panicking about the oven. Instead, I'm thinking about how if anyone ever tried to hurt me again, I'd have a two-hundred-pound piece of defunct machinery to hide the body behind.

Dark humor. It's gotten me through worse.

"Sam?" Ella's voice cuts through my spiral. She's appeared in the kitchen doorway, her auburn hair pulled back in a messy bun, concern etched across her face. "I heard the commotion. What? Oh no. Not the oven."

"The oven," I confirm, pressing my palms against the stainless steel counter. The metal is cool and grounding. "I don't know what I'm going to do, El. I'm so strapped for cash right now. If I have to call a professional repairman—"

"You'll figure it out. You always do." But even Ella's optimism sounds strained.

The bell above the front door chimes, and I'm about to call out that we're experiencing technical difficulties when I hear his voice.

"Everything alright back there?"

Nick.

Of course it's Nick. The universe has a sense of humor that borders on sadistic.

He appears in the kitchen doorway behind Ella, and I'm struck by how he manages to make a simple Henley and worn jeans look like they belong in a magazine spread.

Silver-threaded hair, broad shoulders, and those eyes.

God, those eyes. Blue-gray like the ocean before a storm, with crinkles at the corners that suggest he smiles often and means it.

Every woman in Caraway Cove has noticed Nick since he drifted into town a few weeks ago. The difference is I've been trying very hard not to notice.

"The oven died," Ella announces, and I shoot her a look that she blithely ignores. "Samantha was just lamenting her financial situation."

"Ella," I warn.

"What? I'm providing context." She turns to Nick with a smile that I know far too well. It's her matchmaking smile, and I want to sink through the floor. "You're handy, aren't you? I've heard you fixed Carol Markham's water heater last week."

Nick steps further into the kitchen, and the space suddenly feels smaller. Warmer. "I could take a look if you'd like."

"I can't afford—"

"No charge," he says, and his voice is gentle, the kind of gentle that makes something in my chest crack open just slightly. "Consider it a neighborly favor."

I should say no. I should maintain boundaries and professional distance, and all the other things my therapist recommended after I fled to Caraway Cove three years ago. But the Carmichael wedding is in four days, and pride doesn't pay the bills.

"Okay," I hear myself say. "Thank you."

Ella's grin could power the entire town. "Well, I'll just leave you two to it. I have that thing. You know, that very important thing I definitely didn't just make up."

She winks, actually winks, and disappears before I can murder her.

Nick's mouth quirks. "Your friend is subtle."

"As a freight train." I push my hair back, suddenly aware of the flour on my apron and probably on my face. "The oven's all yours. I'll just…be out front if you need anything."

But as I turn to head out, Nick steps toward the oven, blocking my path while rolling up his sleeves. "Tell me what happened before it quit on you."

So I do. And somehow, telling him about temperature fluctuations and strange grinding noises turns into a conversation about the bakery, about how I bought it with insurance money and sheer determination, about the way the morning light hits the display cases just right.

He works while I talk, his hands confident and sure as he examines the oven's innards. There's something mesmerizing about watching someone who knows exactly what they're doing, who moves with purpose and precision.

"Hand me that wrench?" he asks, and I realize I've been standing here staring.

I grab the tool from his bag, and when our fingers brush during the exchange, heat spirals up my arm. His gaze flicks to mine, holds for a breath too long, then returns to the oven.

Three hours later, the oven hums to life.

"You're a miracle worker," I breathe, running my hand along the now-cool exterior. "Seriously, I don't know how to thank you."

"It wasn't that complicated. Just some worn wiring and a blown heating element." He wipes his hands on a rag, and I notice the late afternoon has surrendered to evening. The bakery's front windows glow softly in the dimming light.

"Let me at least make you coffee," I offer. "It's the least I can do."

He glances toward the door, and for a moment I think he'll decline. Then that smile appears, the one that makes those eye-crinkles deepen. "I'd like that."

I brew a fresh pot while he washes his hands at the industrial sink. The bakery feels different with just the two of us here after hours, intimate in a way that makes my pulse quicken. I pour two mugs and lead him to my favorite table by the window.

We talk. About everything and nothing. About the way small towns have their own rhythm, slower and more deliberate than city life. About favorite books and terrible movies and whether pineapple belongs on pizza (it doesn't, we both agree, and the alignment feels significant somehow).

He tells me about his work, hands wrapped around his coffee mug, and I'm struck by how he makes even the mundane sound fascinating. There's a weight to him, something ancient and knowing, but also a lightness that makes me feel like I could float.

"You make me feel safe," I blurt out, then immediately want to take it back.

But Nick doesn't laugh or deflect. He just looks at me with those storm-colored eyes and says, "Good. You should feel safe."

I start to gather our mugs, needing to move, to do something with my hands. That's when I feel his gaze shift, sharpening.

"Samantha." His voice has changed, gone lower. Careful. "Your wrist."

I glance down. My sleeve has ridden up during the movement, exposing the scar tissue on the inside of my left wrist. It's faded now, three years old, but still visible. Still there.

I try to tug the sleeve down, but Nick's hand catches mine. His touch is feather-light, asking permission, and I find myself frozen as he gently turns my wrist to examine the scar more closely.

"What happened?" he asks.

"It's nothing. Ancient history."

"That's not nothing." His thumb brushes just below the scarred skin, and the tenderness of the gesture makes my throat tight. When I don't answer, he looks up at me, and something fierce flashes in his expression. "Who did this to you?"

The question steals my breath. Not "how did you get this" or "what happened. He knows. Somehow, he knows.

I should pull away. I should shut down this conversation, usher him out, and pretend we didn't just cross some invisible line.

Instead, I hear myself whisper, "My ex."

I hate even referring to him as "my ex" out loud. It reminds me of every nightmare I left behind when I came to Caraway Cove with nothing but a duffel bag and a desperate hope for something better.

"He's gone," I add quickly, needing Nick to understand. "He's the reason I came here. Started over. Built this life." I gesture around the bakery, this place I've made mine through sheer force of will. "Only Ella knows. I don't usually tell people."

Nick's hand still cradles my wrist, protective and impossibly gentle. "Thank you for telling me."

And here's the strange thing: I don't feel exposed or vulnerable or any of the things I should feel. I feel lighter. Seen. Safe in a way that defies logic, given that I met this man a few weeks ago and know next to nothing about him.

I sink back into my chair across from him. "Your turn."

He raises an eyebrow. "My turn?"

"To tell me something. You drifted into town, fixed half the appliances in Caraway Cove, and have every woman within a ten-mile radius sighing whenever you walk by.

" I wrap my hands around my now-cool mug.

"But you don't talk about where you came from or why you're here. So tell me, what's your story, Nick?"

For a moment, I think he'll deflect. But then he leans back, that slight smile playing at his mouth.

"I work up north. Way up north. Winters are brutal.

Long hours, heavy obligations, lots of people depending on me.

" He pauses, his gaze distant. "I needed a break.

Somewhere sunnier. Somewhere I could remember why I do what I do. "

"Did you find it?"

His eyes meet mine, and the intensity there makes me feel like I'm floating.

"I did."

The air between us shifts, charged with something electric.

Something inevitable. I'm acutely aware of the empty bakery around us and the darkness pressing against the windows.

More than anything, I'm aware of the way his attention feels hyper-focused on me.

Like I couldn't pull away even if I wanted to.

I don't want to.

"I should let you get home," I say, but I don't move to stand.

"You should," he agrees, but he doesn't move either.

Instead, his gaze drops to my mouth, just for a second. Just long enough for heat to pool low in my belly and for every rational thought to scatter like flour dust.

The silence stretches between us, taut as a wire. Outside, Caraway Cove sleeps. Inside, something wakes.

"Or," I hear myself say, my voice barely above a whisper, "you could stay."

Nick goes very still. "Samantha…”

"I live upstairs." The words tumble out before I can stop them, reckless and honest and terrifying. "I have wine. Better coffee. A view of the harbor that's actually worth seeing in the moonlight."

His jaw tightens, and I watch him wage some internal war. When he speaks, his voice is strained. "I don't want you to think—"

"I know exactly what I'm thinking." I stand, pulse hammering in my throat. "I haven't let anyone close in three years. Haven't wanted to. But you—" I break off, searching for words that won't sound desperate or damaged or like I'm moving too fast. "You make me want to be brave again."

Something fierce and hungry flashes across his face. He rises from his chair with deliberate slowness, and the air itself seems to thicken.

"If I come upstairs," he says, each word carefully measured, "I'm not sure I'll want to leave."

The promise in those words sends heat spiraling through me. I should be scared. Should protect the careful life I've built here, guard the heart I've worked so hard to heal.

Instead, I find myself stepping closer, close enough to catch the scent of him. It's like sawdust and winter air and something indefinably him. "Good."

His control visibly fractures. "Samantha," he breathes, and then his hand is cupping my jaw, thumb tracing my cheekbone with devastating gentleness. "Tell me to stop."

But I don't want him to stop. I want his hands on me, want to know if his mouth tastes as good as I've imagined for weeks now, want to feel something other than careful and cautious and safe.

I want to feel alive.

"Don't stop," I whisper.

The last thread snaps. His mouth crashes against mine, and the world tilts sideways. The kiss is everything. It's hungry and tender and claiming all at once. My hands find his shoulders, solid and real, and I press closer, desperate to eliminate every inch of space between us.

When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard.

"Upstairs," I manage.

His eyes are molten, pupils blown wide. "Lead the way."

I take his hand, this man who fixed my oven and saw my scars and makes me believe I could be whole again, and guide him toward the back staircase that leads to my apartment. Each step feels weighted with promise, with the absolute certainty that everything is about to change.

At the landing, I pause, key in hand. One last chance to be sensible. To protect myself.

But then Nick's hand settles on my hip, and he leans in to murmur against my ear: "I've got you."

And I believe him.

I unlock the door.