1. Hudson

1

HUDSON

“ T he Grinch hated Christmas! The whole Christmas season! Now, please don’t ask why. No one quite knows the reason.” — How the Grinch Stole Christmas! , Dr. Seuss

Sunlight sparkled on the ocean like a golden curtain across the deep-blue water. The sand was warm and palm trees swayed in the light autumn breeze as seagulls surveyed the scene, prepared to swoop in for the kill or to claim an errant piece of crust from the trash. Someone blasted “Good Vibrations” from their car radio as they cruised Pacific Coast Highway, and you know…it was kind of perfect. Like a movie set or a photo shoot for a travel brochure.

I hated it.

The fact that my ex-fiancée thought a California beach resort would have made a great honeymoon spot for us was yet another missed red flag. I wasn’t a beach guy. At all. I loved mountains, valleys, and rugged wilderness. I loved being on the range, riding horses, minding cows, mending fences.

Don’t get me wrong, there was no denying the beauty here. It was fucking stunning. But it was too…lonely. Or maybe that was just a reflection of my current state of mind.

On that depressing note, I tipped my Stetson, hopped into my rental truck, and headed north, veering inland on Highway 154 toward Santa Ynez and Oak Ridge Ranch.

I’d done some homework and had recently been in touch with one of the owners regarding their aggressive expansion plans. They were looking for investors, and I was looking for…something of my own. A purpose? Nah, that sounded desperate. A new direction, maybe.

My mom worried that I was lost, and maybe she wasn’t totally wrong, but I wouldn’t have made the trip west if the business opportunity hadn’t been interesting. The fact that I was staying at the honeymoon getaway that never happened was a weird one. But Kylie was last year’s news. It was time to move on.

And since I was here, I figured I’d do a little sightseeing and check out the coastline, the local wineries, and get this…a place called Christmas Town in the hills that boasted a ginormous year-round Christmas tree and supposedly had the best homemade chicken noodle soup in the state. Or maybe the country. Sold.

The craggy incline was beautiful with hearty brush giving way to tall eucalyptus trees. When the highway narrowed abruptly in a series of hairpin turns, I lowered the volume on an old Johnny Cash classic as if that might help me concentrate.

Visibility sucked. Tendrils of fog gathered on the horizon, and within a mile, I couldn’t see more than a foot in front of the hood. I white-knuckled the wheel with sweaty palms, cursing Kylie, California, and my pride for staying at the five-star hotel she’d booked.

I could have stayed near the ranch, but I hadn’t wanted to lose my deposit. Smart, right? Not so much. I was exhausted, hungry, and in very real danger of wrapping my rental around a tree.

I didn’t mind a little combat driving, but I’d have preferred to be at home in the Rockies on familiar roads in my own truck. But this was me trying to prove I was fine. This was me trying to come out on top and?—

“Christmas Town, next off-ramp.”

Oh. Okay.

I followed the signage, exited the highway, and turned right onto Reindeer Lane.

No joke.

The two-lane road was lined with evergreens and deciduous trees bright with orange and yellow fall foliage. A few cottages with generous porches were tucked in between the trees and shaded by a layer of mist. The effect was picturesque and welcoming.

I continued on to Santa’s Corner, where the biggest Christmas tree in the west—or so the wooden plaque affixed to a stake in a bed of red geraniums claimed—stood sentry with a statue of Santa himself at the bottom of the slope leading to Holiday Lane, a.k.a., Main Street. At least I assumed it was the main road in town.

I spied a post office, a market, five tourist boutiques that sold holiday treats, a toy store called Elves R Us, Donner’s Diner, Rudolph’s Fudge Shop, Vicki the Vixen’s Coffee Café and Soup Cantina, and last but definitely not least, Moody’s Marvelous Bah Humbug Bookshop.

The street was awash with autumn leaves, but damn, they really wanted it to be Christmas here.

Every shop had a wreath; every other lamppost was adorned with garland. Granted, some went off brand with a nod to Halloween, which was a few weeks away, but the mistletoe and candy cane holiday vibes were strong. It was kitschy and a little kooky but thoroughly charming.

I parked in front of the bookshop and caught my reflection in the passenger’s side window as I paused to slip my cell into my pocket. My blue plaid flannel, basic white tee, worn Levi’s, and scuffed-up boots were my everyday uniform—the hat, too. I might have left my Stetson behind if I hadn’t finger-combed my dark hair till it stood on end, though. No point in scaring the natives.

According to my mother, that was a legit concern. I was a big guy with broad shoulders, thick biceps, and over the past six months or so, the consensus amongst those closest to me was that I looked mean as fuck and ready to choke a live rattlesnake.

“Smile, honey,” my mom had reminded me at the Denver airport. “I know you’re still hurting and I know it hasn’t been easy, but you’re better off now. And you’ll meet someone new.”

“I’m not hurting, and I’m not interested in meeting anyone at all, Ma. Thanks anyway.”

“Understandable,” she’d conceded. “Just do me a favor and practice smiling. You know, curve your lips on one side. That’s it. Now try the other side. Oooh, not quite. Keep tryin’, sugar.”

I nodded to a passerby, wrestling my mouth into something that felt like an approximation of a friendly expression as I pulled open the door to Vicki the Vixen’s Coffee Café and Soup Cantina .

On second thought, I’d try again later. The place was packed.

The shop was divided by a row of low bookshelves—coffee on the right, soup on the left, and bistro tables throughout the space. The soup section had a long-ass line that curved at the window. The blackboard above the marble counter gave a list of specials. Today’s soup du jour was Vicki’s famous chicken noodle. What do ya know?

An older gentleman with a handlebar mustache greeted me with an up nod. “Howdy.”

“Does it taste as good as it smells?”

“Better than, and worth the wait,” he replied, leaning in and cupping his hand to his mouth conspiratorially. “This is the lunchtime rush. In ten to fifteen minutes, you’ll get your soup and a window seat. Might want to head into the bookstore for a bit in the meantime. Tell ’em Bud sent ya.”

“Thanks for the tip. I’ll check it out.”

“Good idea. Moody has a nice selection and he’s a great guy…till Christmastime, that is. Then all bets are off.” Bud cackled uproariously as he pointed at the sliding glass door dividing Vicki the Vixen’s shop from Moody’s.

I wasn’t sure what to make of the warning, but I didn’t think much of it as I dodged a mom with a stroller and a couple decked in workout gear, and slid the door between the shops open.

Have you ever walked into a room and had an unexplainable sense of déjà vu?

I knew for a fact I’d never set foot into Moody’s Marvelous Bah Humbug Bookshop, but something here felt familiar. I chalked it up to the homey vibe of comfy leather chairs interspersed among the rows of curated books. I had a similar setup in my condo in Colorado, complete with a fireplace, but that wasn’t it.

This went beyond scent and ambience to something I couldn’t put a name to. I just knew that for the first time in days—no, a whole year—my shoulders slipped a few notches from my ears and I felt…relaxed.

“Hello!” a cheery voice called out from behind a stack of books. “Make yourself at home. If you have any questions, holler and I’ll be with you in a jiff.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled, a real smile playing at the corner of my mouth as I wandered down an aisle dedicated to a potpourri of subjects, ranging from self-help to gardening to travel to sexual health.

My gaze naturally drifted to the sexier titles like, The G Spot , Finding Your O , and How to Please Your Lover . I reached for the last one but quickly pivoted to the gardening section and grabbed a random book with flowers on it when two older women shuffled toward me, their heads bent in conversation.

“If Dot chooses another biography for the book club next month, I’m slipping a gummy in her iced tea.”

The other woman snickered. “What good would that do? A gummy would float to the top of her drink, and then she’d wonder who dunnit. No one causes a scene like Dot, and I’m hosting next month, so please…don’t.”

“I wouldn’t,” her friend grumbled without heat. “But I’m fairly certain a gummy bear would sink and dissolve.”

“No, it would float.”

“Sink.”

“Float. I’m sure of it. I bet Moody will know. He knows everything. Or…maybe you know?”

I glanced over at the two little old white-haired ladies and lifted my brows. “Uh…you want to know if a gummy will sink or float?”

“Yes, but the kind with marijuana in it. That makes it heavier, doesn’t it?”

“Uh…well, I?—”

“Halt!” A slight man with wild sandy blond hair whipped around the corner, shoving thick glasses to the bridge of his nose as he warily eyed the troublemaking octogenarians. “Gummy bears will not dissolve in water. Expand, yes. Dissolve, no. However, that’s neither here nor there. Mrs. Johnson, you must refrain from your tomfoolery, especially the potentially calamitous kind. Failure to do so will result in an enthusiastic suggestion to Dot that she might consider reviving her love of classic literature for book club. War and Peace is a sumptuous epic novel. Just saying…”

“Oh, now that’s just mean, Moody,” Mrs. Johnson huffed. “It’s too early for your usual holiday orneriness.”

“ Hmph .” The younger man snorted. “You should know that your trickery is unnecessary anyway. Dot loves gummies, so…behave.”

“Fine. I’ll behave and I’ll bake you some snickerdoodles if you encourage Dot to choose a short, fun, well-written book with a little sexy sauce for next month.”

Moody’s lips twitched. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Extra sexy sauce equals extra cookies,” the other woman singsonged as they toddled away, chattering like teenagers.

“Well played. That was a master class in dealing with—what did you call it?—tomfoolery.” I tucked the gardening book under my arm, chuckling as I tilted the brim of my hat and turned to get my first real look at Moody.

Objectively speaking, he was handsome in a boy-next-door way. Moody was maybe five inches shorter than my six two and skinny with big brown eyes, a pointed chin, porcelain skin, and pink cheeks.

And just like that, the earlier feeling of intense familiarity hit me with a strong dose of awareness that took me by surprise.

Moody straightened his spine. “Yes, no one wrangles eighty-year-old miscreants quite like me. I’m sorry you were privy to the uglier side of small-town book club politics. It’s a feisty crew. Now, how might I help you, good sir?”

Good sir? I bit the inside of my cheek to keep my monster grin in check.

“Honestly, I’m just passing through town. The soup next door looks good, but I thought I’d check out your shop first. I could use a good book. Can you recommend anything?”

He cocked his head and pursed his lips. “Of course. What are your interests? Are you in the mood for fiction, nonfiction, historical, contemporary, mystery-suspense, romance, biographies?—”

“Okay, okay.” I set the book I’d tucked under my arm onto the shelf and held my hands up in surrender. “I get it. Lots of choices.”

“An abundance,” he agreed in a prim and proper tone that seemed more suited to someone closer in age to the old ladies he’d scolded.

Not gonna lie, I was intrigued.

I pointed at the large M affixed to the wall behind the register. “You’re Moody?”

“I am. Louis R. Moody, PhD, MA, amateur ornithologist, and bookseller at your service,” he pronounced, extending his hand.

“Hudson. Nice to meet you.”

We established that I was a big guy, right? Well, my palm practically swallowed his. He glanced down at our joined hands and cleared his throat, blushing as he raked his teeth over his plump bottom lip.

Fuck, he had a pretty mouth. Perfect for sucking dick or?—

Whoa! Wait up. Where the hell did that come from?

Yes, it was true. Moody was pretty in a nerdy, kind of adorable way, but it was weird that his brand of hot registered with me at all. Christ, but I couldn’t recall the last time I’d noticed anyone new. Male or female.

I’d been afraid my shocking lack of libido would take a year or two to rebound after recent events.

Well, I guessed this was me rebounding.

Huh.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Hudson,” Moody replied, oblivious to my pervy internal sidebar.

“Actually, Hudson is my first name,” I corrected for no apparent reason. This guy didn’t need details. I was a potential customer, nothing more, so I should shut up already. Too late. I was yappin’ again. “Hudson Babineaux, rancher and occasional mystery novel fan…at your service.”

I winked.

Holy crap, I was flirting now too.

Me.

I couldn’t believe I still knew how to do that. Remarkable. Amazing. It needed to stop immediately, but hey…this was progress.

Moody inclined his head. “Did you say mystery? Come this way, please.”

He led me toward the rear of the store to a section dedicated to Mystery, Suspense, True Crime, and Moody’s Podcast Tips. He gave a mini dissertation on a few of his go-to authors in the genre, his voracious appetite for old-time thrillers, and his current obsession with murdery podcasts.

It was information overload at its finest. I didn’t have the heart to tell him he was wasting his breath. “Occasional mystery novel fan” was code for it was the genre of the last book I’d read all the way through. Truthfully, I rarely got through two paragraphs at the end of the night before conking out.

I juggled the stack of books he’d handed me, flipping the top one over to read the blurb. “This one looks good.”

Moody squealed in agreement. “It’s a roller-coaster ride of a thriller—fast-paced, buckle your seat belt, and be prepared to sleep with the lights on. I don’t spook easily, but that one scared the bejeezus out of me. You’ll love it!”

I smiled, something I’d done a lot of since I’d walked in his shop. And while it was a rusty gesture for me, it was genuine. “Cool. I’ll take it.”

“Terrific. I can ring you up now, if you’re ready.”

The bell at the front desk trilled on cue. “Yoo-hoo, Moody! Are you here?”

“Be there in two shakes of a lamb’s tail,” Moody called out.

I raised a brow at his old-fashioned phraseology. It was a tad jarring coming from someone who I’d guess was no older than thirty-five…tops.

“It’s okay. I’d like to look around,” I insisted.

“Excellent. Holler if you need anything.”

I gave a thumbs-up and perused the shelves while fellow shoppers filtered in and out of the store. Soft jazz drifted over Moody’s melodic voice as he chatted amicably with customers who seemed to know him well.

“Love this cookbook,” Moody commented as he rang up a sale.

“Did you try Sharon’s chili recipe yet?” someone asked.

“Affirmative. That chapter was called, ‘Death by Chili Powder.’ It was a disaster. Too spicy for this fella.” Moody held up another customer’s purchase. “You found the new Pumpkin Patch Posse book!”

“’Tis the season,” the woman replied. “I took my kids to the pumpkin patch in Solvang last weekend. I bought a few extra, if you’d like a couple for the store.”

Moody gasped. “I’d be tickled pink! You’re like…the real Great Pumpkin , First Edition , Chapter One.”

She cackled as if he’d told the funniest joke ever. Me? I didn’t get it. The dude was an oddball with a quirky sense of humor, but he was fascinating too. Moody was energetic and friendly, tailoring casual conversations to book purchases and weaving personal tidbits in along the way.

I’d spent less than fifteen minutes in his company, and I was bewitched…or maybe just bewildered.

Who was this guy? How old was he? Where was he from? Why books? Was he gay or straight or bi? Was he married or?—

Screech!

Nothing ruined a casually curious moment quite like the M word.

I stepped up to the register and set two thrillers on the counter. “I’ll take these.”

Moody placed the books side by side and tapped each of the covers. “Excellent choices. You’ll be spooktastically entertained. I questioned the author’s use of Greek mythology, but she ties it up beautifully and honestly, that’s just me. I always have questions.”

I pulled my card from my wallet. “Good to know. I have one for you.”

“Shoot.”

“Why do they call you Moody instead of Louis?” I tipped my hat and flashed a lazy half smile at him that once again felt more natural than the grimace I’d perfected recently. Yep, still flirting.

“It’s my name,” he stated matter-of-factly.

“Your last name. In my family, my brother was named after our dad, William. Dad was Bill, but for some reason, my brother’s football teammates call him Bano, a very rough squished-together version of our last name, and it stuck.”

Moody squinted thoughtfully. “I’ve always been Moody. I’m aware that being called by one’s surname evokes collegiate athletic synergy, but nothing could be further from the truth for me. I assure you, I did not play football or basketball or any sport involving a ball or a stick or sweat whilst in school. Do you play sports?”

“I played football in high school and for two years in college. But that was a dozen years ago or so.”

He ran my card and slipped the books into a paper bag. “And now you’re a rancher?”

“I am.”

Was it my imagination, or did Moody’s gaze roam my chest and biceps, traveling south for a beat before meeting my eyes?

“What does a rancher do, exactly? I assume there are horses and livestock and a lot of fences to repair.” He pushed his glasses into place and continued in a rush, “At least, that’s how it goes in romance novels.”

I snorted. “Is that right?”

“Oh, abso-posi-tootly! The cowboy with bulging muscles and a big belt buckle, the sassy damsel who’s never in any real distress, and a series of fences that are always falling the heck down. There’s usually a sex scene on a haystack in a barn or with someone bent over a fence and—” Moody slapped his hand on his mouth. “Oh, my gosh.”

I guffawed. I couldn’t help it. He was so freaking…adorkable. “Recommend one of those to me too, will ya?”

I was joking. Remember the guy who couldn’t get through a whole page without falling asleep? That was still me.

Moody gnawed his lip and closed his eyes briefly as if hoping for celestial intervention, then nodded curtly and disappeared.

He returned a minute later with two books.

“I’ve inserted my foot into my gob, and I’m not sure how to remove it, so I shall barrel forward. These are both super romantic, spicy reads. As you can probably ascertain, the one with two gentlemen on the cover is a gay romance and the other with the tough-looking cowgirl is a male-female romance. I’m queer as a maypole, but I’ve read and loved both. You choose what suits you best. Take one or take all…on the house. You won’t regret it.”

“I’ll happily pay. No freebies necessary.” I tried to give Moody my card, but he waved me off.

“No, no.”

I set a twenty on the counter instead. “I insist.”

“Okay, pick your poison while I get your change,” he said, opening the register.

“I’ll take this one.” I picked up the gay romance novel and dropped it into my bag.

And on that note, I tipped my hat and sauntered to the café door, cool as could be, as if I’d purchased a gallon of milk at the corner store from the most ordinary guy on the planet. Nothing could have been further from the truth.

In a twist, my impromptu side trip into the Santa Barbara valley might have been just what the doctor ordered.