7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

MADDIE

T he main downtown area of North Pole is relatively compact, but with Duffy in the passenger seat, I find my way to Stone’s Coal Company on the outskirts.

“What are we doing here?” he asks.

Taking a deep breath, I answer, “Remember how Porsha said your virtual assistant hired her PR firm to improve media relations and increase content marketing?”

“Wait. How’d you know those details?”

I wince. Here goes. “Because I’m 00M . I hired Porsha, which means I’m firing her, but?—”

He goes stone still. “If you’re my virtual assistant. That means I’m your boss.”

“Technically, it’s contractual work, but?—”

Duffy’s expression cycles through surprise, disbelief, and lands somewhere undefined. “But you’re on vacation.”

“You are, too.”

He wipes his brow. “This is?—”

“A small world?”

“When did you realize?—?”

“At the Christmas party. ”

“Why’d you go along with it?”

“Because I need the job and you needed help.”

“This is outrageous.”

“I understand if you want to fire me.”

He scrubs his hand through his hair. “Technically, your contract renews on January first. You’re a free agent.”

“True. I forgot about that since you’d sent me a task the other day. I hope there are no hard feelings.”

He grunts. “There are feelings, alright.”

I nod slowly, entirely unsure where this is going. “Am I getting Cavell, stone-cold businessman, or Duffy, the fun Christmas fan?”

He gazes fixedly out the window.

When he doesn’t answer, I offer a sincere apology. “I’m sorry.”

He nods sharply. “I still need the cookies. Are you okay with that?”

My stomach drops like I unwrapped a gift to find the box empty. Joshy thought that would be funny one year. “Yes. Of course. For your part, I want you to attempt to make your coal cookie which will give us a starting point.”

He shakes his head, then shifts to nodding. “But where does this leave us?”

“Do you mean as a fake couple?”

He nods.

“Game on.”

That afternoon, I go on autopilot while baking and twisting the candy cane dough in Nicholls’ kitchen. I don’t think about Duffy when a man in flannel enters the shop, looking for a gift or when a couple nuzzles noses while waiting to check out. Nope. This is a Duffy and me free zone.

He said he had feelings. Knowing him, they’re probably icy. Although, he did accept my apology.

The baking timer buzzes, and I startle, realizing it’s been going off like an alarm. I could use my lucky apron right now . . . or my sisters. But there’s no time to stop if I’m going to stay on schedule and have time to help Duffy later.

When later comes, nerves jangle around inside, following me from the Sleigh Bell Lodge, where I freshen up and get Pop Tart through town to Balsam Lane.

I park in the driveway and take a few deep breaths. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Pop Tart tilts her head and barks.

“You’re right. I already had a mistletoe meet-cute with the guy who turned out to be my boss, and for the last twenty-four hours, I’ve been faking a relationship with him. Could this go further south? Considering we’re in North Pole, technically, yes, so please don’t answer that question.”

My Chorkie remains quiet.

Drawing a deep breath, I say, “Let’s do this.”

I expect Carol to greet me at the door, but it’s Duffy, wearing a slate gray V-neck sweater with a white dress shirt underneath and deep cranberry pants. He seems subdued, which is exactly what I’d expect from Cavell. When I set down Pop Tart, she rushes toward him. He crouches and proceeds to do what can best be described as “playing dog.”

It’s adorable.

Two points for Pop Tart. At least he likes her. I tell myself I only care because I’m his virtual assistant and can’t afford to lose my job.

“Is something cooking, er, burning?”

He rubs the back of his neck. “My mother is at an ornament exchange, leaving me alone in the kitchen as you requested.”

“Don’t tell me you?—?”

He frowns. “I don’t know what I did, but it’s not good.”

“Let’s see the damage.”

I follow Duffy toward the kitchen and he stops abruptly in the entryway. I bump into him and stagger backward at the same time he reaches for my arm. Jolly little jingle tingles rush through me, but they’re at odds with his grave expression.

“Sorry about that,” he says.

“No, I bumped into you and?—”

At the same time, we both notice what hangs from the ceiling.

His eyes shadow with concern. “Not sure how that got there.”

“The mystery of the moving mistletoe,” I joke.

Duffy almost smiles. Then he straightens and says, “About the cookies. I tried. Honest.”

“You mean you didn’t purposefully bake a bad batch so I’d make them for you?”

“Definitely not. But . . .”

“Can I see?”

“First, I want to apologize for how I was acting earlier. Coming back here is like a throat punch.”

“That’s extreme. Nothing about North Pole comes across as particularly dangerous.”

“You do want to watch out for moose, especially during mating season.”

He cracked a joke.

“I always thought this place, my family, was untouchable. Last Christmas, I found out my father cheated repeatedly.”

“On Carol?! She could be Mrs. Claus’s twin.”

“Exactly. Throat punch. Being here brings that to the surface. But this year, it’s different, which confuses me.”

“Are you trying to say we made a terrible first impression in the virtual world, we were both mistaken and want to try again in real life?”

A broad grin spreads across Duffy’s mouth. “Yes, that.”

I slip under his arm and into the kitchen. He rushes after me, tickling my sides, but before I writhe with laughter, I stop short. I half expect a disaster, like a snow squall with legs passed through the room, but everything is tidy except for the contents of the serving platter on the counter.

I gasp. “What. Are. Those?”

“Coal cookies,” Duffy murmurs.

Pop Tart, ever the fan of being underfoot for scraps, marches in and then right back out.

I examine the brown, lumpen shapes. “They look like?—”

He rushes toward me, shaking his head. “Don’t say it.”

“But I can’t unsee it.”

“Can we pretend this never happened?”

I cast my gaze upward, meeting his eyes. “Which part?”

He bites the corner of his lip and marches me backward. “Everything before we met under the mistletoe.”

“I did get a terrible first impression of you. A cold, calculating, miserly businessman,” I say playfully, tugging on his shirt.

He taps my nose. “You were a flighty, not very efficient virtual assistant who sent me a social media post about a kissing scene.”

I bite my lip.

His eyelids get heavy and his focus drops to my mouth.

Once more, we’re under the mistletoe.

My heart races as I suck in a breath.

He leans forward and then the door flies open.