Marry-Me Christmas

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Ginny’s hand on her shoulder was a soft reminder that they had visited this topic dozens of times. “You don’t have to pour everything into here, dear. Leave some room for you.”

“I will,” Sam promised, though she didn’t mean it. Ginny didn’t understand—and never really had—the all-consuming pressure Sam felt to increase business, and revenues. Grandma Joy deserved the best care—and the only way to pay for that was by bringing in more money. Not think about possibilities that couldn’t happen.

“And as far as this reporter goes,” Ginny said, grabbing her coat as she waited for Sam to finish putting away the cleaning products, “I think it’s time you tried the cranberry orange bread. The frosted loaf, not the plain one. I haven’t met a person yet that didn’t rave about it.”

Sam let out a breath, relieved Ginny hadn’t suggested sweetening him up with a date, or something else Sam definitely didn’t have time or room in her life for. “Okay. I’ll bring some over to Betsy’s in the morning. Try to sweeten him up.”

“And wear your hair up. Put in your hoop earrings, and for God’s sake,” Aunt Ginny added, wagging a finger, “wear some lipstick.”

“Ginny, this isn’t a beauty contest, it’s an interview.”

Ginny grinned. “I didn’t get to this age without learning a thing or two about men. And if there’s one thing I know, it’s to use your assets, Sam,” she said, shutting off the lights and closing the shop but not the subject, “every last one.”

Flynn woke up in a bad mood.

He flipped open his cell phone, prayed for at least one signal bar, and got none. Moved around the frilly room, over to the lace-curtained window, still nothing. Pushing aside a trio of chubby Santas on the sill, Flynn opened the window, stuck the phone outside as far as his arm would reach and still had zero signal. Where was he? Mars? Soon as he got back to Boston, he was switching wireless carriers. Apparently this one’s promise of service “anywhere” didn’t include small Indiana towns in the middle of nowhere.