2. Moody

2

MOODY

O h. My. Gosh.

I’d just sent a cowboy off with a gay romance filled with some of the sexiest, blush-worthy intercourse scenes ever written. Two hunks with muscles to spare, tight jeans, bulging cocks, and penis parties galore! The part where Clive roughly shoves Boone’s Levi’s over his derriere as they kiss in a passionate swirl of tongues, then breaks for air and says, “Bend that fine ass over the fence, boy. I’m gonna fuck you till you see stars” still gave me vapors.

Yes, there were some conspicuous discrepancies. How did they manage to keep their hats on while they’d been busy cleaning each other’s tonsils and copulating in every corner of the barn and in the woods? If I wasn’t mistaken, they’d had a naked encounter in the shower with their hats and boots on. That was exceedingly unadvisable.

A man who owned a real live Stetson would either laugh like a loon or weep at the very idea. Assuming Hudson survived the shock of reading highly salacious material.

Breathe, Moody…breathe.

I fanned myself, blinking like an owl behind my glasses as I talked myself off the proverbial ledge. Sex was positive and life-affirming. And I had issued a content warning. Hudson had chosen to partake of his own volition, so…that was on him.

Okay, better. Much better.

I cast a wary glance through the sliding-glass window and spotted Hudson. I couldn’t see his face from this angle, but I hoped like heck he was contemplating lunch and not wondering about the weirdo pawning porny romance in a town dedicated to all things Christmas. At least I hadn’t given him the link for the naughty Santa novel I’d unintentionally—I swear, it was an accident—bumped into on an online site.

Santa and the naughty elf he’d taken over his knee and— Stop!

I swiped my clammy palms on my shirt, straightened my glasses, and sneaked another peek. Hudson was gone.

Phew! Nice guy and all—not to mention, exceedingly handsome—but he was just a tourist with sad eyes and “complicated” written in invisible ink across his forehead.

Not that it mattered. I’d probably never see the cowboy again.

That was the sobering, honest truth. So, cool your jets and get to work, Moody. There were orders to place, books to reshelve, and holiday inventory to sort through. I didn’t relish that last chore—however, it had to be done. Bah humbug .

Oh, no.

No, no, no. Not yet.

It was too early for bah humbugging. There was no reason for negativity in any way, shape, or form. Business was booming, the town was thriving, birds were singing, I had plenty of food, a warm bed, and thousands upon thousands of books to keep me company. Add a surprise cowboy sighting that made for delicious fantasy material…

Life was good.

“Yoo-hoo, Moody! I brought you a fresh blueberry muffin and your daily taste of soupy yumminess. Where are you, honey bun?”

“Be right there!”

I carried a box into the store, pausing to kiss Vicki’s cheek before rounding the register and setting my burden on the counter. I practically whimpered as I reached for the piping hot coffee and peeked into the bakery bag she’d brought me along with a mini container of her soup du jour . I cocked my head in wordless communication as I sipped the coffee.

“Leek and potato, garnished with rosemary, sage, parsley, and thyme. It’s life-changing, if I do say so myself,” she boasted, pulling out one of the stools behind the register to settle in for a chat.

“Splendiferous! I can’t wait to try it.” I peeled the top off and made a small production of sniffing the contents as per our usual morning routine.

Vicki had been bringing soup samples every day at eight a.m. since I’d bought the shop next door five years ago. I’d been too polite to decline her generous offerings at first, even though her admittedly wonderful specials like split pea and lentil with prosciutto were quite literally the last thing I wanted to eat that early on any day ending in Y.

I’d blown my top and told her how I really felt in December, which had only made me feel terrible in January. I’d had to grovel my way back into her good graces, and the price I paid now was soup. Every. Day.

On the plus side, she’d cut the portions and included a muffin and coffee, so no complaints.

The gold bangles on Vicki’s wrists jangled noisily as she lifted her cup to her red lips and eyed me over the rim. “How’d you sleep last night?”

“Fine. You?”

“Terrible. I dreamed that a giant squid slithered under the door and into my kitchen, then somehow ended up cooking in a pot on the stove. The squid seemed happy enough, but the whole town was up in arms. I agreed with them. I didn’t want to serve squid soup. I spent half the dream coaxing the squid to go read a book at your store,” she scoffed.

I chuckled lightly. “Sounds terrifying.”

“The worst part was that there was someone I wanted to talk to in the dining room, and I couldn’t get there. I thought it was your dad.”

My heart squeezed and contracted in my chest. I swallowed against the stab of pain as I picked a blueberry from the muffin top. “Oh.”

“But no…it was a cowboy,” Vicki continued, leaning across the scuffed wood counter, her bright-blue eyes twinkling mischievously. “Co-in-kee-dink? I think not. Did you meet that gorgeous hunk of man who moseyed into town yesterday? He popped into my store for lunch and popped directly into my dream.”

I coughed around a mouthful of coffee and reached for a napkin to dab the corners of my leaking eyes. “You don’t say.”

Vicki cackled merrily. “I do say! Something tells me you saw him too.”

“I might have caught a gander.”

She pursed her lips in barely contained glee. “Good gander, eh?”

“Uh, yes, as far as ganders go, it was more than satisfactory,” I replied awkwardly.

“Oh, Moody, you’re the best.” Vicki hooted, covering my hand with her manicured and heavily bejeweled one.

“Uh…thanks.”

A word about Vicki Sorensen Moody. She was a larger than life, former Vegas showgirl in her early sixties with red hair she usually wore in a loose bun. She had a heart-shaped face, mega-long lashes, and loved loud makeup and garish clothing. It didn’t matter that we lived in a tiny town where L.L. Bean casual attire made more sense than sequined jackets and faux-fur stiletto boots…Vicki didn’t subscribe to norms.

Moreover, she hated waste. She had gobs of gorgeous clothing from her former life and as long as she could squeeze her booty into her finery, she was going to damn well do so. Her words, not mine. My father had likened her to Ginger on Gilligan’s Island , the glamorous movie star who’d somehow found herself stuck on a deserted island, or in Vicki’s case, a showgirl stuck in a quaint town where it was Christmas every day.

Oh…one more thing: Vicki was my late father’s wife. Yes, my soup-loving, colorful friend was also my stepmom.

The super fun kind who supplied me with unsolicited condoms in spite of the fact that I was thirty-five years old and capable of purchasing my own—never mind that I hadn’t been on a date in ages. She also regularly brought me bottles of Pinot from her favorite local winery, even though I was a well-documented lightweight who preferred nonalcoholic beverages.

I amused Vicki, she befuddled me, and somehow that, plus a tight connection to a man we’d both adored bound us like peas and carrots, peanut butter and jelly, milk and cookies, and…you get the idea. Good thing too, since we practically lived in each other’s pockets.

Sometimes I wondered what my father would think if he could see us now, sipping coffee and chatting about cowboys and?—

“Premium package, from the looks of it,” Vicki hummed lasciviously. “Not that I was staring at his junk, but I’d have been hard-pressed not to notice the man is hung like a horse.”

I lost the battle, promptly sputtering and snorting coffee through my nose. “Geesh, Vicki! That’s…rude.”

“Very,” she agreed with a wink. “So what? I’m stating facts, honey. And I’m only sharing my thoughts with you.”

“And your soup-meliers?” That was what Vicki called her cooks, by the way. Sommelier, soup-melier…it sort of made sense.

“Okay, you got me. I have a big mouth, but don’t you worry, I’m not interested in wrangling a man. I had the best. No one can take your dad’s place.”

“Vicki…”

She held up her hand like a stop sign. “Try your soup while I bore you with town gossip. You’ll never guess who’s pregnant. Tiff Bautista. I called it, did I not?”

Vicki launched into storyteller mode and somehow managed to make the impending arrival of our local florist’s third child with her high-school-sweetheart-slash-husband-of-ten-years sound like front-page news. I oohed and ahhed while inwardly battling an unexpected bout of…let’s call it discombobulated duress—for no discernible reason.

I owned a dreamy bookstore and a cute cottage in a town that no doubt had inspired more than one Hallmark holiday movie. I had good friends, an interesting hobby, and I had Vicki. I had so much to be grateful for and yet, I was acutely aware of what was missing…and who was missing.

Ugh, I’d been afraid of this. My holiday blues were creeping up earlier than ever. It was a cycle, and I couldn’t seem to shake the blahs once they hit. First came sadness, then anger, followed by rueful acceptance, and finally…peace.

I could use a nice fantasy diversion in the form of a cowboy with calloused hands and a big dick and?—

Oh, boy.

I lifted the lid off the container and picked up the spoon Vicki always included, hiding my face in my soupy morning snack while silently cursing whatever impetuous force in the universe had encouraged me to give a complete stranger a saucy gay romance book. And him for taking it!

Add “horny” to my list of woes.