Chapter 7 Dane

Chapter 7

Dane

Amanda tastes like eggnog frosting on a gingerbread cookie.

It’s the only thing on my brain for the entirety of my swim. Through a shower accompanied by a boner that I rub out while trying not to think about her. While I handle a few emails from work and spend half an hour on a project that will be overdue at the rate I’m going. As I convince Chili to get in the car to go hang with Aunt Lorelei.

While I’m facing my sister at the rear of the small ornament shop next door to the Fruitcake Emporium.

“You should’ve told me,” she whispers.

“If it didn’t work, you would’ve had to pick sides, and neither one of us wanted you to feel like you had to.”

She rolls her eyes and tugs on Chili’s leash. “C’mon, you big old fluffy rug. I have a fan with your name on it.”

“Amanda wanted to tell you.” The fib slides off my tongue like I’m a natural-born liar. But I believe it’s likely true, so it’s close enough to satisfy the guilt weighing down my iced eggnog latte. “I’m the problem.”

Lorelei eyes me.

I stare back without blinking. “Also, she wants to keep things small with the wedding.”

“Oh, no freaking way.”

“What the bride wants . . .”

My sister pulls me into the doorway of the ornament shop and lowers her voice to barely above a whisper. “Zero chance, Dane. Zero. If you want a small wedding, elope tonight and never come back.”

I wince. If I leave town ... I might not ever come back. Which means I’d see Lorelei even less.

She doesn’t notice. “Everyone in town wants to see this wedding. There’s not a single person here who doesn’t have a story about how they’ve broken up fights between our families at some point. The people who aren’t rooting for full reconciliation between all of us are showing up with popcorn to see whose grandparents throw fists first.”

I wince again, and this time, she sees it.

“They’re not throwing fists.” She pulls a face. “Esme and I are on it on our side, anyway.”

“Appreciate the help.”

“We’re doing what we can.” She blows out a breath. “Regardless of whether or not you told me when you should’ve, I’m thrilled for you. There’s nothing I love more than two people I adore finding happiness together. Don’t let our families get you down. Concentrate on the happiness.”

Yep.

She’s going to throttle us when we break up.

Both of us.

Especially if she ever finds out this is fake.

“Thanks for keeping Chili for a while,” I say. “I don’t think he’d eat everything in the bakery if I took him there, but I also didn’t think he’d chase a squirrel. Ever. So I’m not taking any chances.”

“Have you met Amanda’s family yet?”

“Nope. You all got the honor of both of us first.”

Huh.

That lovely eggnog-iced-gingerbread flavor doesn’t taste so good when I’m lying to my sister. Not that I’m lying about Amanda meeting our family first.

More that I’m lying about us being in a relationship at all.

Lorelei gives me one last long eyebrow-arched look. “Don’t fuck this up.”

“She wouldn’t have said yes if she didn’t mean it.”

That part, at least, is true.

I give Lorelei a quick hug. Not too long—the morning’s already steamy hot—but hard enough that she should know I don’t want to fuck anything up.

That I don’t want to cause her any pain.

“Grandma and Grandpa are convinced that Vicki Anderson’s timing her anniversary party with their anniversary party to steal their thunder,” Lorelei murmurs to me.

“I’m aware.”

“Just saying. I have no idea what you’re walking into on the other side.”

“Have you ever heard the real reason our families hate each other?” I ask her.

“They sometimes talk about the fit the Andersons threw the year Grandpa made a fruitcake house and won the gingerbread house contest, but just like you, I have no idea why they’d been fighting for the decades before that.”

The fruitcake house happened before Lorelei and I were born.

I’ve seen faded pictures, though.

It was epic. A glorious monstrosity. No idea how the whole thing held together, but it will be family legend for generations to come still.

Pretty sure it won for the mere fact that it was outlandish and shouldn’t have made it to the contest at all.

And we can’t talk about how epic it was without also talking about how glad we are that it made the Andersons furious.

Is it possible to have been born the wrong species? I’d rather be a dog.

I rub Chili’s fur once more, then head around the building and across the street.

The Gingerbread House looks exactly as you’d expect. The plastered exterior walls are painted to look like a gingerbread house with candy canes “growing” among the poinsettias in the flower boxes beneath the picture windows flanking the door. Surfer nutcrackers stand guard too. The angled roof has bright-white globs of frosting dripping over the edges. Painted fiberglass, I’m sure. Large, multicolored holiday bulbs line the roofline, real lights intermixed with painted fiberglass bulbs so that it looks lit up, even in the daytime.

The building itself is a work of art.

Grandpa tried to make the Fruitcake Emporium just as quaintly themed for a few years there. One year he painted cherries on the windows that looked like giant bloody butts. Another year, he tried raisins.

Don’t ask what people said about that. Just don’t.

He finally conceded that there’s not a lot you can do to compete with a real-life gingerbread house, so instead, he replaces the red-and-green awnings as soon as there’s a hint of fading, he keeps the windows spotless, and he and Grandma go overboard with even more poinsettias and shaped rosemary bushes and Christmas cacti in their flower boxes.

Plus the red bench with a fiberglass Santa for anyone to sit next to and take pictures with all year round.

Get that free advertising with the store name right behind them, he says.

I push into the gingerbread bakery, expecting bells to jingle, and instead, a hearty Ho ho ho interrupts the country Christmas music.

Dolly Parton.

Just like Uncle Rob likes to complain about.

Cinnamon and ginger linger in the air. It’s cool inside, but nearly as bright under the lights as it is outside under the sun. One wall is covered in pictures of kids holding their gingerbread creations. Another has shelves with knickknacks for sale. There’s a train running around the shop close to the ceiling, and the floor, which is likely painted stamped concrete, looks like a flat layer of gingerbread. Gumdrops of all colors—the fake, foot-high kind—are positioned around the perimeter of the dining room. The back wall menu, behind the register and the display cases, looks like it was written by an elf, with curlicue letters and snowflakes.

The woman behind the counter gawks at me. Another woman in an apron pauses and makes a you shouldn’t be here face at me too. She’s helping a table full of kids assemble gingerbread houses on one side of the bakery while the adults that I assume are their parents sip out of mugs on the other side of the café.

I nod to both of them and stroll toward the hallway along the side wall.

Sign says R ESTROOMS AND A P EEK AT THE M AGIC . Cute sign too. Just as ornate as you’d expect inside a gingerbread house.

Logic says this is the only way to get to the kitchen.

And sure enough, there’s a large window next to the door where anyone can watch what’s happening in the back.

I pause to take in the hallway and the kitchen itself.

Even the kitchen door looks like it belongs in a gingerbread house.

You are Amanda’s fiancé and you are allowed to go in there, I remind myself.

I wonder if I need to put on disposable booties over my shoes. Do I need a hairnet? Where’s the nearest sink for washing my hands?

Overthinking time.

Awesome.

I spot Amanda as she walks by the window. She’s grimacing with a fresh trash bag in one hand, but she freezes, looks fully at me, and makes a face so comical that I smile despite myself.

And then it’s all whirlwind action.

She charges the door. “Dane! You’re here. I told them you were coming , but they think since I don’t have a ring, that somehow means you don’t care.” Her eyes roll so hard I’m temporarily worried she’ll pull something in her eye sockets, but they seem fine when she meets my gaze again. “And I still can’t freaking bake,” she adds in a whisper. “I never could.”

Oh.

Huh.

That’s ... a new smell coming out of the kitchen.

Little smoky.

Not oven smoky, though.

More like burned-out-appliance smoky.

She grabs me by the hand and pulls me into the kitchen.

No orders to wash my hands. No disposable booties to cover my shoes. No hairnets.

Definitely overthinking.

“Mom? Grandma? Meet Dane. And be nice or I’ll tell Santa to bring you coal in your stockings. Dane, my mom, Kimberly, and my grandma Vicki.”

Two women turn and look at me.

They’re related by marriage, not blood, but they could pass for mom and daughter.

They’re both white, pleasantly plump, and average height. They’re both wearing candy cane earrings. They’re both in jeans and T-shirts covered with aprons decorated with snowmen.

They even both have red and green stripes in their hair, which you can see through their hairnets.

Kimberly has maybe two inches on Grandma Vicki. Her hair is in a bun under her hairnet, though, whereas Grandma Vicki’s hair seems short and curly. Kimberly has Amanda’s brown eyes. Grandma Vicki’s are ice blue.

And they’re both watching me like they’ll destroy me if I make one wrong move.

“Morning, ladies. It’s a pleasure to—”

Grandma Vicki snorts.

Kimberly nudges her.

“ Grandma. Be nice.” Amanda slips her hand into mine and leans into me. “Until you can tell me what Dane’s done to you that’s so horrible, you can keep your opinions to yourself.”

“He’s trying to steal my bakery,” Grandma Vicki says.

“The Silvers aren’t stealing the bakery,” Kimberly says. “We won’t let them.”

Amanda sighs a sigh so deep and heavy that I feel it in my own gut. I squeeze her hand, and she leans more heavily onto me.

We were never friends, exactly, in high school, but we weren’t enemies.

I’d definitely say we’re friends now.

No matter what happens next.

“I don’t want your bakery,” I tell her family. “It’s a very nice bakery. But gingerbread isn’t in my life plan.”

They narrow their eyes as one.

Shit.

Amanda hasn’t told them she doesn’t want the bakery.

She made up being engaged to me to get out of it.

And now I’m the guy taking away their retirement plan.

“There won’t be a bakery if we don’t get the mixer fixed,” Amanda says. Under her breath, she adds, “Or if I touch it again.”

The mixer.

That’s what’s smoking.

Or was.

“Anything I can do to help?” I ask.

I’m playing with fire.

They think I want to steal their bakery.

I don’t, even if my wheels are spinning trying to find a solution for them that doesn’t involve Amanda moving back to Tinsel.

Or me. I am definitely never moving back to Tinsel.

But I’m the fall guy now if Amanda doesn’t want it. That’s why we’re faking this engagement.

So is it better for me to be helpful and feed their suspicions to win them over, or is it better for me to stay out of it?

If we want everyone to get along, I have to prove I’m a nice person.

Best way to do that is to be helpful.

“You can stay out of my kitchen,” Grandma Vicki mutters.

“Did I tell you the Silvers are getting us a wedding cake from Reindeer Bakes? Oh, I did, didn’t I?” Amanda says. “That’s why you’re doing the flowers. Right. But I don’t think I mentioned that I saw Dane’s sister this morning on my way in. She offered to shop for a wedding dress with me. I’m thinking tomorrow or Thursday would be good for that. Can’t put it off much longer, can I?”

Kimberly and Grandma Vicki both suck in a breath.

It’s uncanny.

There are clear differences in their facial structures and their builds now that I’m looking closer, but their mannerisms are so similar. Amanda said at some point in the past day or so that Grandma Vicki won the daughter-in-law lottery when Kimberly married her dad.

I can see it.

“I’m taking you shopping for your wedding dress,” Kimberly says.

“And I’m making the wedding favors for the guests in addition to handling the flowers.” Grandma Vicki snorts softly. “Can’t have his family giving everyone fruitcake at my granddaughter’s wedding.”

“I like fruitcake,” Amanda says.

Kimberly gasps.

Grandma Vicki puts a hand to her heart.

“Oh, no, ma’am.” Amanda shakes her finger at her grandmother like she’s scolding a dog, and I have to suppress a smile. “You’re not pulling that baloney two days in a row. Go take your antacids and do whatever you have to do to come to terms with the fact that I love this man, I don’t care who his family is. And considering you can’t even tell me what they did that was so horrible, it’s high time you got over it.”

Both older women gawk at her.

I clear my throat and cross past a prep table covered in trays of raw gingerbread men and approach the mixer like I’m not having a reaction in my heart and my stomach to Amanda casually dropping an I love this man . “This happen often?”

“Only when—” Kimberly starts, but Vicki silences her with a look.

“Only when I’m around,” Amanda finishes. She’s almost cheerful about it. “Last time it smoked like this, it needed a new motor.”

“How quickly does your repair person usually get here?” I ask Kimberly.

She winces. “A couple days.”

“We’ve got this,” Grandma Vicki says.

I would not want to see her and my own grandma in a stare-down.

But instead of worrying about how the world could end if those two ever ended up in the same room, I angle for a look at the serial number on the mixer and do a little googling.

“We’ve got this,” Grandma Vicki says again.

I ignore her and look at Amanda. “Motor’s in stock at a place up in Grand Rapids. We can have it back here in two hours. Three or four, if we stop for lunch and ring shopping.”

Kimberly makes a noise.

But Amanda—

Amanda smiles so brightly at me that the sun itself pales in comparison.

And then she flings herself at me for a full-body hug and a hard kiss on the lips.

It’s pretend, I remind myself while I hug and kiss her back.

Just pretend.

But I’ve lied enough in the past twenty-four hours. I can’t lie to myself too.

I can’t pretend it’s not my teenage dreams come true to be holding and kissing this woman, even knowing we have an expiration date.

That everything about her body molding to mine feels even more perfect than I dreamed it would.

That I don’t want to let go.

She’s beaming at me as she pulls out of the kiss. “See?” she says to her grandma. “He’s the absolute best.”

“Any fool can get a motor,” Grandma Vicki says.

I look her square in the eye. “I can replace it too.”

She stares at me like she’s trying to read the lies littering my soul.

But fuck it.

I’m pissed now.

I didn’t do a single damn thing to this woman. I can have her shop back up and running by midafternoon. And she’s being a butthead.

“I’ll call Wade,” Kimberly says. “If he—if Dane can’t fix it today, we’ll have a backup plan.”

Grandma Vicki hasn’t stopped staring at me.

I don’t stop staring back.

I don’t care how old she is. She’s being rude, and she’s putting Amanda in an awful position.

Just like my family’s done to me for my entire life.

Starting to see why it was preferable to pretend to be engaged to the enemy to telling her grandma that she doesn’t want the bakery.

Grandma Vicki apparently likes getting her way.

“Do you need a credit card for the motor?” Amanda asks.

“This one’s on me.”

“If you break my kitchen—” Grandma Vicki starts.

Kimberly leaps between us. “Thank you, Dane. Whether you can do it or not, we appreciate you trying.”

I nod to her. “Anything to help Amanda.”

I would. I’m still the sucker who’d do anything to help Amanda.

No regrets, though.

Not when she beams at me again.

I can practically hear her voice in my head. We’re making progress on my mom!

Amanda’s a whirlwind in the kitchen, tossing off her apron and grabbing her small wallet and phone from one of the drawers in the desk in a small office.

“No time to waste,” she says as she darts back into the kitchen. She pecks her grandma on the cheek, then her mom. “We’ll be back.”

She grabs my hand again and hauls me out of the kitchen, down the rest of the hallway, and out the back door.

“What happened to the mixer?” I ask as I unlock the car and open her door for her.

She does one of those comical eye rolls again where her eyes roll unevenly. “Me. I happened to it. Me and that stupid recipe.”

“What’s wrong with the recipe?”

“It’s in code, and I can never remember if snowflake means pound or tablespoon, if candy cane means cup or quart, and if salt actually means salt or if it means ginger.”

I open my mouth.

Close it.

And then gesture her into the car.

“The code is so no one who’s not family can steal the recipe.”

“I guessed that part.”

“Right. Naturally.”

“But unless you put frozen butter and yarn and screws and bolts in that bowl ... I think odds are good the mixer was on its way out anyway, and you had bad timing.”

Her eyes meet mine, and then she sighs.

“Hey.” I grab her hand again before she can sit. She looks so damn sad. “Doing the big things isn’t always easy, but this’ll be worth it in the end.”

She glances back at the bakery, which is just as ornate on the backside, complete with fake gingerbread windows and a fake gingerbread chimney coming off the top of the house.

And then she sighs again. “If we can pull off planning a full wedding that neither one of us intends to follow through on and break up in a way that doesn’t make everyone who’s thrilled for us hate us and everyone who’s not thrilled about us hate us too.”

When she puts it like that, I get another knot in my stomach. But I still squeeze her hand again. “We will.”

I hope.

Otherwise—nope. Don’t even want to think about who’d be hurt by otherwise .