Chapter 5

I ’m staring down at the broken remains of the seven hundred thousandth gingerbread house I’ve knocked off the prep counter.

I wish I’d never volunteered to help with this stupid competition. Or come up with the idea in the first place.

“Oh, goddamn it,” I hiss under my breath, but everyone is far too busy to hear me, and no one even so much as glances up from whatever mixing bowl they’re in charge of today.

I’m very tempted to kick it under the counter. It would be so easy. But I’d only have to deal with it later when Kyle, the head baker, notices. He got annoyed when I broke the first one. He was super annoyed when I broke the tenth one. It’s anyone’s guess what will happen if he sees this.

At this point I don’t know why he’s not moved them someplace safer. At least this batch will be sold and out of here by lunchtime.

Saylor’s head pops around the door frame just as I’m resting mine against the wall, because honestly, I. Am. Exhausted.

“You want a coffee?”

I crack one eye. “It’s like you’re inside my brain.”

“Ew.” Her face screws up in disgust, which, quite frankly, I take offense to because my brain is a delight to be inside of most of the time. Some of the time.

“Yes, I want a coffee.” I push off the wall and grab the broom, quickly disposing of the evidence.

“Really you should be making me one, ya know,” she mutters as we walk onto the bakery floor.

“Yeah, how’d you figure that one?”

“I’d still be in bed if it weren’t for you.”

I have no response. The girl ain’t lying.

Here’s the problem. Both of us are suckers.

This bakery, in which the pair of us are currently standing at 6:05 a.m., belongs to Mrs. Loughty, a seventy-two-year-old Aspen native. She set the bakery up thirty years ago, and it’s been a flagship of the community ever since. Her cinnamon buns, I swear to god, people have murdered over them—well, committed a low-grade felony, but that’s another story.

The bakery grew over the years and started serving drinks. Now by six thirty every morning, there’s a fully formed line around the block for the first hot chocolates and buns of the day to take up the mountain. In the summer, it’s strawberry iced tea.

Tourists come for the canvas store bags, which became a coveted item after Vogue featured them a few years ago in a round-up of the best local Aspen hot spots.

Anyway, I digress.

Sadly, Mrs. Loughty’s husband, Chip, died at the end of last year, and since the two of them never had kids, she’s found herself with a lot more time on her hands. I always liked the Loughtys; Chip worked with my dad a little, and when Saylor and I were younger, Mrs. L would let us pick out one thing from behind the counter every time we came in for a fresh loaf of bread. I always picked a cinnamon bun.

Therefore, when he died, I said I would help her with anything she wanted. She just had to let me know.

In October, she cashed my promise in big time and asked me to help out during the holidays.

Of course , I had said. And Saylor’s around to help too. Whatever you need, Mrs. Loughty.

Six weeks ago, she handed us the keys and promptly took off on a three-month round-the-world cruise with her sister. She didn’t want to spend Christmas in Aspen without Chip.

Five weeks ago, I was reminded about the annual gingerbread competition, which the bakery runs every year. An idea I’d come up with as a teenager.

If time travel were a thing, I’d go back and tape my mouth shut.

The only saving grace about this entire situation is the team of bakers who come in on rotation starting at four a.m. No way I could bake two thousand gingerbread kits. Saylor and I only have the admin to deal with.

Oh, and all the customers who want the early morning hot chocolates.

Thankfully the place closes at lunchtime. It’s probably why there’s always such a rush in the mornings, but no matter how many times she’s been begged to keep the bakery open for longer, the hours have always remained the same. Seven a.m. to twelve p.m.

I’ve gotten through the last month by choosing to believe Mrs. Loughty forgot I also have my own store to run. On the flip side, I really need the money. I’m not sure how Saylor’s dealt with the early mornings—mostly on coffee and cinnamon buns I think. Plus, she gets to nap in the afternoon once she’s closed the store.

Me, I leave here at nine a.m. to go and open the tree shop, then come back here to straighten up after the baking crew is done at five p.m.

Saylor hands me a steaming cup of coffee I willingly admit is the best coffee in Colorado. Maybe the United States. Everything about this store is amazing. When you don’t have to open up at the ass crack of dawn, that is.

“Thanks.” I lift my cup to knock against hers. “I need this.”

She groans so loudly I’m tempted to add another shot of caffeine to her cup. “Excited for the competition?”

I shrug, but I can’t hold back the smile that breaks the solemn line of my mouth.

Christmas is my favorite time of year. Period.

There’s nothing about it I don’t love. The cold, the constant scent of cinnamon and spice in the air, the twinkle and glitter, carols…all of it.

My parents loved it, and every year grew more and more excited as the year came to a close. My mom would start hanging winter decorations on November 1, replacing the ones she’d put up for Halloween. Once Thanksgiving was over, the real Christmassy ones would come out. We’re talking life-sized Santa and a full sleigh in the driveway, nutcrackers flanking the front porch, and twinkle lights on every tree around the house to shine through the snowy branches.

When I was little, we would always decorate a gingerbread house, which is where the gingerbread competition came in. So, yeah, this is the week I look forward to most in December.

“Of course I am. It’s the gingerbread house competition . But…” I hold a finger in the air and pout. “I’m bummed we can’t take part.”

“We should sneak one in.” Saylor grins, because this year will be the first year we won’t have entered, because we’re running it instead. “We can come up with a fake name.”

I lift an eyebrow. I’m tempted. Very tempted.

I’m trying not to think about it.

The competition runs for three days, and during that time, it’s the most talked about event in Aspen. The rules are simple:

1. Collect your gingerbread house frame and icing tubes from the bakery for $50 (proceeds to the local charity)

2. Bring back a fully decorated house by the end of the week.*

3. Judges decision is final

*Entries can only include regular baking or household products that are readily available to be bought from a store.

Mrs. Loughty had to add that last point when the competition started to get out of hand.

One year, a couple of dads had a game of one-upmanship for their daughters to win the gingerbread house trophy. What had begun as a day on the mountains turned into a competition of who attended the best school, drove the newest car, had the most ponies, and descended into outright warfare when one of the girls declared she was going to win the gingerbread prize, and the rest of them started crying.

One dad rolled up several thousand-dollar bills into the dough to use as drainpipes around the house and told Mrs. L she could keep it. Another dropped by the store after hours and not-so-subtly offered his Caribbean island to her for vacation, while a third said she could use his plane.

It all went in the charity box.

Part of me wonders if Mrs. Loughty knew exactly what she was doing when she left before the holiday rush.

I’m about to reply to Saylor when the scent of a new batch of hot cinnamon buns hits me, and Brock, one of the bakers, appears from the kitchen looking flustered. “Kyle says five minutes to opening. And he knows you broke another house, Haven.”

My eyes practically roll to the heavens. I take the tray he’s holding and slide it into place on the counter pain, giving one last glance around. Everything is ready.

Pastry boxes are stacked and waiting to be filled. Beans are ground. Croissants, plain and flavored, sit next to the cinnamon buns, English scones, brownies, meringues, and assorted other pastries. On the next row of trays sits decorated Christmas gingerbread—reindeer, Santas, candy canes, stockings…five different types of bread are neatly stacked on the shelves behind us.

Most importantly, the first set of canvas bags containing the gingerbread house building kit—four walls and the roof, plus all the icing—are all stored on the center table, set around a beautifully festive, finished, and extra Christmassy house Kyle made yesterday.

Saylor eyes the long line outside and snatches up the store keys, twirling the keyring around her index finger. “Okay. I’m opening.”

It only takes ten minutes before the trays are being refilled.

Between us, Saylor and I almost holler ourselves hoarse as we let the guys in the kitchen know the bread, buns, croissants, cookies, or gingerbread are nearly out. Brock comes out with a third batch of cinnamon buns, and it’s so busy that Saylor refuses to let him go, so he’s now making the drinks while she packs the boxes.

Forty-five minutes in, and there’s finally a lull as the end of the line is reached, even though it’s still busy. Brock gets called back to the mixing bowls, but only until we need him again. Half the gingerbread houses have been sold, and I’m tidying up the table when a deep voice injects me with so much energy it feels like I’ve got a sugar rush.

I spin around and come face to face with Alex, The Christmas Hater, and his very wide chest.

It must be the tiredness I feel acutely in the back of my brain that caused me to forget about this insanely hot guy, with the sexiest accent I’ve ever heard. Like Theo James soaked himself in a vat of honey. Is it possible to be turned on by an accent?

And the way he smells…maybe I didn’t notice yesterday because the smell of pine in my shop is so overpowering, but here, among the sugar and spice, he’s the all things nice. A delicious, earthy scent, like leather and ivy, evoking cozy nights camping under the stars.

I’m fighting a desperate urge to lick him, which I hope is because I’ve been living solely on gingerbread and need to refresh my palate.

Why is every cell in my body throbbing?

“I thought it was you.” He grins, and I find myself stuck in that same spell as yesterday. The one that stopped me from looking away from him. Because all I can do is stare into his deep blue eyes. “Don’t tell me you own this place too? In fact, is this town just run by one person? Are you Aspen?”

A laugh escapes me. “No, sadly. I’m just regular Haven.”

“I don’t think there’s anything regular about you?” he replies without any hesitation, and the way he holds my gaze makes me feel like I’ve stepped into one of Kyle’s ovens. Naked.

I’m feverishly hot.

Was that coffee double strength? There’s no way my heart would be pounding this hard otherwise, that would account for the weird sugar rush too.

Is he ever going to look away?

“Um…well, I am, and, uh…no.” I scratch my head, trying to remember what he just asked. “I’m just helping out a friend for the season.”

His smile widens. “That’s very kind of you.”

“Aren’t you going heli-skiing today?” I blurt.

“Yes, we are. But I volunteered to come down to the bakery— this bakery— we saw yesterday and pick up whatever you’re selling.” His gaze slowly roams around the shop floor. “I can understand why there was such a huge queue.”

“Yeah, it’s only open in the mornings, so everyone comes early before it runs out. You got here just in time.”

“Thank goodness.” He grins, his focus finding me again, and I forget what I was going to say.

“Hey, Al…” One of the twins steps in next to Alex. “What are we buying? This place is bloody packed. I’m getting in the line, otherwise we’ll be here forever.”

“Hendricks,”—Alex nudges his brother and nods toward me—“remember Haven?”

Hendricks’s double take is just like the one I gave him and his twin. Guess he wasn’t expecting to see me here either. His eyes flick from me back to Alex, his grin widening, and I feel like I’m on the outside of a joke. “Of course…Haven. How could I forget the Christmas tree lady?”

I curtsey, and immediately wish I hadn’t because what the fuck …

I’ve never curtsied in my life. I only know how to do it because I’ve seen it on Bridgerton . And Downton Abbey. It has to be that accent.

“The very one,” I finally answer.

But Hendricks’s attention is now on the table. “Huh, that’s cool. Al…check out the gingerbread house.”

“Yeah, Hen. It’s cool,” Alex replies, but barely looks at it because he’s too busy looking at me.

Which is flattering and all, but not this week.

Not gingerbread house week. He might be a Christmas hater but he’s going to have to take that Grinch energy somewhere else.

“Kyle, our head baker, made it. The competition opened today.”

“Competition?”

“Yep, the gingerbread house competition. It’s all anyone will talk about for the next three days. It’s for real Christmas lovers .” I grin wide. “Not for Grinches.”

Hendricks barks a laugh, and slaps Alex on the back. “She got you there, Al.”

“It’s a big, big deal. Lots of pressure.”

But then their expressions change from amusement to skepticism. Doesn’t stop them from being less extraordinarily good looking though. Not at all.

“Pressure? For gingerbread?” Alex smirks, his blue eyes glittering in amusement and those dimples of his are on full display. My body heats up another degree. Tiny pulses clench in my core when he curls his fingers in a gimme gesture, because I’m imagining him doing it in a very different scenario. “Okay, tree lady, give me the sales pitch.”

“There’s no pitch.” I pick up one of the competition fliers I was straightening and hand it over. “You buy one of the house kits. You have the next three days to assemble it and drop it back here with your name badge attached. Each house is judged, and the winners are announced on Saturday morning.”

Hendricks leans into Alex, both of them reading the rules. “What do we win?”

“The honor of winning, plus a trophy.”

Hendricks barks another laugh, while Alex’s smile broadens.

Crossing my arms, I take a step back and throw him my own humoring smirk. “About two thousand people will enter.”

Hendricks’s air of indifference drops. “What?! Two thousand? That’s more than the whole of Valentine Nook.”

I don’t know what that means, but I give the pair of them my most smug expression, anyway. “Hey, we’re a competitive bunch in Aspen. Winning the title of Best Gingerbread House means something.”

I can tell from the look on both their faces they don’t believe me. Though I forget all about the gingerbread house when Alex sucks in his plump lower lip, adding a head tilt.

I need to schedule an early night with my vibrator, stat.

“Okay. You’re on. I’ll take four kits.”

Hendricks scoffs. “Al, seriously, c’mon?—”

“Hey, you and Miles aren’t the only ones who can plan fun. I’m buying them, and we’re doing it. You made me decorate the stupid…” His eyes slice to mine, and back to Hendricks. “Um, I mean…you made me decorate the tree yesterday, you’re doing this .”

This time Hendricks stays silent. His eyes are doing all the talking as they flick between Alex and me; 50 percent confused, 50 percent amused, and I’ve no doubt it’s the exact same look Saylor is giving me.

I can feel it from where she’s standing behind the counter, because miraculously the store is now empty, so she’s got nothing to do except watch this entire interaction.

I turn around, and yup, I’m correct. She’s even got one eyebrow raised.

Alex gathers up four gingerbread house kits and drops them into Hendricks’s arms. “That’s that, now what else do we have to buy in here?”

He sweeps a discerning eye around the room, over every stacked table, shelf, and finally, a fully replenished counter, before landing back on me expectantly.

“What do you like?”

“Anything and everything. We walked past yesterday, and it looked fun.” He grins at me. Hendricks drops his head with a subtle shake. Not that subtle though. “I have three hungry brothers to feed.”

I guide the pair of them over to my favorite part of the store, the counter. “Okay, you need to try our cinnamon buns. They’re what people come for the most. Plus, the hot chocolate.”

“Okay, four of each. What else?”

“Um…” I start, my mouth filling with cotton wool and I completely blank on what we sell, even as I’m looking at it. But there’s something about this guy that’s made me lose all my words this morning.

“Our sourdough is awesome. The chocolate croissants are fresh from the oven, and we have Christmas cookies, and some authentic English scones. You folks are English, right? You can give us your verdict,” Saylor interrupts.

“Excellent. We’ll take four of everything.”

Behind Alex, Hendricks is openly laughing though he doesn’t seem to notice, and his broad smile never drops as Saylor and I pack the boxes and boxes of everything they’ve bought, and ring up the total.

“Hang on.” Hendricks looks at me as I scan in the final gingerbread kit. “How long do these things keep for?”

“You have to bring it back by Thursday.”

“But they won’t go stale if I take one back to England?”

“Um…no. It’ll be fine. You want to make it at home?”

“I’ll make it with my son.”

“You have a son?” I blurt before I can stop myself, because even I can hear it’s a weird question. Why couldn’t he have a son?

Nothing to do with the fact it’s automatically made me wonder if Alex has a son too. And if he’s even single. And why am I thinking about him naked?

Shut up, Haven.

But Hendricks doesn’t notice if it’s weird. In fact, his face lights up with so much love it punches me right in the chest.

“I do, he’s three.”

“Tell you what…” Rushing to pick up a fifth kit, before I make things more weird, I place it in the tote bag on top of the rest. “I’ll throw it in for free, seeing as you’re not entering, and you’ve bought half the store.”

“That’s very kind, thank you.” He smiles.

Interestingly, this smile does nothing for me.

No, the core-clenching, butterfly-fluttering feeling I get seems to be solely reserved for Alex’s.

“You’re welcome.”

“Hendricks is the only one of us responsible enough to have a kid,” Alex adds, except the way he says it makes me wonder if he just read my mind and he’s trying to tell me he’s single, especially when he adds, “Are you going to meet me at the jukebox later? I need that code to save me from the Christmas music.”

As I pass him the final store bag, his thumb brushes over mine and my entire body zings with electricity.

“Maybe.”

“Then maybe I’ll see you later. If not, I’ll be back to drop off my house.”

“I saw those guys in the bar the other night,” hisses Saylor right in my ear as Alex and Hendricks step to one side and let another group of customers in before they leave. “They’re super hot.”

“Uh-hmm.”

“And the one with the stubble is definitely into you,” she continues. “And you know what?”

“What?”

“You’re into him too. You should totally hook up with him.”

Saylor dodges the elbow I try to jab her with and goes back to stocking the shelves. Except she’s singing Haven’s gonna have sex while she does.

It’s not the worst idea.