Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

“ C ome on, Bizzy,” Georgie shouts from the back of an out-of-control conga line. “Don’t be an elf on the shelf! Be an elf on the dance floor !”

“Don’t do it, Bizzy,” Mom calls out next as Georgie holds her hostage in that dancing, prancing line of people all wearing their very best ugly Christmas sweaters—and with all the flashing lights and glitter, it’s more like obnoxious Christmas sweaters. “I’ve already thrown my back out in three places,” she shouts. “At least one of us should be able-bodied to cook Christmas dinner. Besides, you have the baby to think about!”

They sail off toward the other end of the ballroom with about forty people in tow and I make a face at the entire lot of them.

My mother knows I’m a disaster in the kitchen. She must be desperate if she’s relegating Christmas dinner to me. And if it was relegated to me, we’d be forced to start a new Chinese takeout tradition. Not a bad idea, now that I think about it.

Speaking of thinking about things… There is one thing that I can’t seem to get off my mind.

The baby.

I place my hand instinctively over my nearly flat belly. I just found out the good news a couple of weeks ago and I’m still floating above the ground just thinking about it. Although at the rate I’ve been using this as an excuse to eat any and everything, I’ll be anchored to earth soon enough—and the size of the inn to boot.

I can’t help it. I’ve always been a foodie, and what better time to enjoy a meal or two than when you’re eating for two . Okay, so my meal portions have been more apt to feed twenty-two , but I’m new at this.

It’s about a week before the big day and the Cider Cove Cookie Company is hosting its annual office Christmas party right here in the ballroom of the Country Cottage Inn.

I’ve been the manager of the inn for almost ten years now—and the owner for about half that time. This isn’t the first Christmas office party we’ve hosted, but I’ll admit, this is the first time ever that my staff and I have been asked to dress up like elves.

Yes. Elves—as in a pointed hat, pointed ears, and a ridiculously short green dress paired with lime green tights. All of the above are happening, and I’m not proud of a single one. The pointed ears happen to be gifted to me by nature, but it’s times like these that I’m glad I can make them work.

“Jingle Bells” blares over the speakers as a giant Christmas tree sits at the front of the room, bejeweled with shiny red ornaments and red bows to match. That glorious evergreen is strung with about a million white twinkle lights, making it look like a giant star bursting to life, and underneath it are dozens of presents just waiting to be opened.

The owners of the cookie company had the gifts delivered for their employees, and each one is wrapped in red paper with a shiny silver bow. Next to the tree sits an ornate red velvet, gold-trimmed throne where the jolliest elf of them all will preside at some point this evening. But at the moment, good old St. Nick is leading that infamous conga line and grabbing every woman in his line of vision to play along with his holiday shenanigans.

An older woman—blonde, plain but pretty—stands nearby, no ugly knitwear for her. She’s opted for a green and white fair isle sweater with a matching forest green skirt. She’s standing next to the elongated dessert table that I had my staff line with a pressed red tablecloth and bushels of fresh poinsettias.

In hindsight, there’s not a lot of contrast in my decorating. And I think I may have gone overboard with the sanguine hue.

Is there such a thing as too much red at Christmas? Not to mention how easy it will be to parlay those tablecloths into my Valentine’s Day décor. I may not be big on saving calories these days, but I can still pinch a penny with the best of them.

Regardless, there are dozens of shiny red tins filled with yummy cookies from the Cider Cove Cookie Company spread all along the dessert buffet. And the banner on the wall above bears their logo, Merry Christmas from the Cider Cove Cookie Company! Made in Maine with cookie pride!

When I was growing up, it was all the rage to have a membership to the cookie-of-the-month club. On the first Monday of every month, another shiny red tin would magically appear on your doorstep. And it’s still all the rage to this day. To say they’re doing well would be an understatement. Word on the street is, they distribute more packages during the holiday season than Santa himself.

The older blonde sips her eggnog while taking a moment to glower at the growing boisterous line of holiday cheer that seems to have absorbed half the room.

Look at him. She shakes her head. Not only doesn’t he have any common sense, but he doesn’t have any shame. But I already knew that.

I tip my head her way. I don’t make it a point to pry into people’s gray matter, but then again, I can’t seem to find the shut-off valve either.

Bizzy! My sweet cat, Fish, traipses over and jumps right in front of me. Fish is a long-haired black and white tabby that I’ve had for years. She’s not only sweet as Christmas fudge, but she’s sharp as an icicle. There’s another pooch on the loose. Isn’t it bad enough we’ve got Sherlock to contend with? Do something about this, Bizzy, or mark my meow, Christmas will be ruined .

Sherlock Bones would be my husband’s sweet pup, a red and white freckled mutt who stole my heart long before his daddy did.

My name is Bizzy Baker Wilder, and I can read minds—not every mind, not every time, but it happens, and believe me, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. And yes, I can read the minds of animals, too. And almost always they have far better things to say than most people.

Sherlock bounds this way, and on his heels is a furry dog with long reddish-brown hair and dark button eyes. He looks like a purebred Havanese, one of the most adorable breeds known to man.

I made a friend, Bizzy. Sherlock jumps and barks with excitement. His name is Jingle, and you’ll never guess who he belongs to!

Fish swats a paw his way. He belongs to Santa. And I think it’s high time they both hitch a ride on a herd of reindeer and fly back to the North Pole.

“Judging by the size of this crowd, I don’t think anyone is flying anywhere any time soon.”

I’m not sure how it works, but the animals always seem to know what one another is saying.

I glance over at the conga line as it grows ten times more boisterous, with the man dressed as head elf howling and stomping like mad. The entire room is shaking with their less-than-rhythmic gyrations and I have half a mind to switch the music to something less jovial—like a Gregorian chant—before the walls collapse around us. Although I have a feeling they’d find a way to get their groove on to it. There’s clearly no stopping this sugar-fueled good time.

A pair of arms wrap themselves around me from behind before I can ruin anyone’s good mood or good time, and I turn to see the most handsome man in the room, Detective Jasper Wilder, the man who not only stole my heart, but locked it up in his own beating heart and threw away the key.

Jasper is tall, dark, and classically handsome with black hair and light gray eyes, and he happens to be wearing a red pointed hat with a jingle bell attached, which only adds to his sharp good looks.

“Here’s the Santa I’m interested in,” I say, spinning in his arms. “How about we sneak a kiss under the mistletoe before my husband gets back? He’s a detective with the Seaview Sheriff’s Department and he happens to be packing some serious heat.”

Jasper waggles his brows. “I say we work quickly. If Mrs. Claus finds out, it will be a frosty night for both of us.”

“Very funny,” I say as he lands a kiss on my lips.

A sudden wave of queasiness rolls through me, and I pull back, trying to keep my stomach in check. Thankfully, I haven’t had too much of a battle with nausea, but it turns out, that whole morning sickness thing is a total lie from the pit of the hot place. Come to find out, “morning sickness” can strike at any time—and often does just that.

“Love the costume,” he says, pulling back to get a look at me in full elf regalia. “Keep that on when you head back to the cottage later. I think I can work with this.”

“Careful what you wish for, Detective. I’ve been known to be a naughty elf.”

“Don’t worry. I know just what to do with those on my naughty list.”

“Don’t write checks you can’t cash,” I tease and we share a dark laugh.

Sherlock gives another bark and we look down as that hairy cutie, Jingle, sits by his side.

“Aren’t you the sweetest thing around,” I say, quickly giving the cute pup a pat between the ears. “My name is Bizzy, and this is my husband Jasper.”

Sherlock gives a soft bark at the pooch. Bizzy can hear our thoughts. She can hear almost everybody’s thoughts. But it’s our little secret. Only a few people know, like Jasper, Georgie, and Emmie and Leo—those are Bizzy and Jasper’s besties. How about we head over to the cookie table? I bet if we moan and whimper they’ll toss us the good stuff.

They take off with tails a wagging.

“No chocolate,” I call out after them.

Fish groans. I’ll keep an eye on them. I’ve already eaten two snowball cookies. I don’t see why I shouldn’t go for three.

I make a face. Snowball cookies aren’t exactly a part of her regular diet.

They’re not a part of mine either, but that hasn’t stopped me from polishing off ten—or fifteen. I can’t help it, the Cider Cove Cookie Company knows what they’re doing in the kitchen. Those cookies should come with an addiction warning label.

Speaking of my newfound addiction, I’ll have to secure myself a stash that can last all nine months. I’d hate to run out and have to break into the factory. Although I’m not above petty theft when it comes to meeting the needs of my child.

See that? I’m already a gold-star mother.

“What’s on your mind?” Jasper asks as we begin to sway to the cheery holiday music.

“Cookies,” I say, just as a craving for a peppermint bark brownie hits me like a freight train.

“I’ll steal a tin. You bring the costume.” A sly smile glides up his cheek. Our cottage is a quick walk and I can land us in front of the fireplace within three minutes.

“I’d ask what was on your mind, but I already know,” I say with a laugh trapped in my throat. I’m about to agree to his terms when I pick up on an errant internal voice nearby.

Laugh all you want. You won’t be laughing when I’m through with you. Santa might be here now, but another guest will be here soon enough—the Grim Reaper.