The Christmas Cookie House: A Sweet Holiday Romance (Christmas House Romances)

by Jennifer Griffith

  “I used to manage a bookshop in Reedsville. I’m home now, taking care of my dad full-time.”

  “Is he all right?”

  “Dad taught school for most of my life, but there was an accident. My mom cared for him until a few months ago, when breast cancer took her too young.”

  “Sounds like quite a year.” What hollow comfort he offered. He felt stupid saying anything.

  “Tough one. For sure.”

  Losing her mom. Jay couldn’t imagine. Even though his dad had skipped town right after Jay was born, Jay still had Mom over in Torrey Junction.

  “You said your mom grew up here.”

  “Yeah.” Right here. In this very house. Jay gazed around. It was hard to think about her here, young, not the struggling person she’d become. For terrible, wrenching reasons in her past, Mom had moved away from Massey Falls as soon as she could jump ship after high school, leaving Grandpa and Grandma Layton and Uncle Jingo behind, barely ever looking back. “She doesn’t come back to Massey Falls, though.” Enough of this topic. “So, are you saying you gave up your job in the city to start caring for your dad?”

  “I didn’t have a choice.” Leela leaned against one of the pillars on the porch, as if the topic required physical support to discuss. “Dad would have gone into a nursing facility if I hadn’t come home. I’m an only child. Yeah, I have a lot of cousins who live around here, but they all have kids and lives. I came home. He’s my dad.”

  But her life! She gave up her job and moved back to this place? “Sounds like you’re his angel.”

  “I’m no angel.” She smirked, and the twist of her mouth made something twist inside Jay. Too bad she’d come to Massey Falls about the time he was heading to Reedsville, or he could have gotten interested in exploring where that twist might lead.

  But he was leaving—by New Year’s.

  Jay pressed open the front door, holding it ajar for Leela Miller.

  “I appreciate your interest in the house, but I have to be transparent with you.” He followed her inside. Their footsteps echoed across the hardwood. It smelled like wood glue and hard work in here. “The house is being listed for sale as soon as possible. Sign in the yard and everything.”

  Leela whirled around to face him, her hands clasped at her chest. “It’s being sold? Oh, I wish I could buy it.” Her eyes sparked electric blue again. “Well, probably so do half the people in the county.”

  “That would be nice. The sooner it sells, the better.”

  “How soon? Not before the fundraiser.” Her voice squeaked on the last word, like he was sorely disappointing her.

  “The term as soon as possible contains one caveat.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s a final requirement before buyers can consider it. A home improvement task of possibly gargantuan proportions.”

  Leela’s gaze roved the room. “No way. It looks perfect already. Oh, my jingle bells!” Leela walked the perimeter of the room, mouth agape. She touched the chair rail, crouched to caress the wainscoting he’d backbreakingly restored, and peered at the mantel over the big fireplace. “This finish work is exquisite.”

  Did she really think so? He’d labored long over the details. She likes it. A warm gush flowed through him. She was the first person he’d shown, other than Burt Basingstoke. “Exquisite, eh?”

  “This banister!” She flew toward it, caressing the woodwork. “Can you believe how perfect it is? Christmas garland will loop like bunting, and it will be more charming than Donny and Marie, put together.”

  “That’s a lot of charming. And a lot of tooth-whitener.” His snark masked how much he basked in her compliments—which didn’t appear to be stopping anytime soon.

  “Who would have thought Jingo Layton was such a great—I don’t know—housekeeper? Look at the sheen of this varnish. That’s love right there. I watch a lot of HGTV, so I’m aware of the work involved in a project like this.”

  “Trust me, it was a ton of work.” A lot more than the abridged versions shown on HGTV. “Some of the summer and all of the autumn.”

  “Wait—who did this work?” Leela stopped, her hand dropping from the banister’s ball. “I mean, Jingo Layton wasn’t around this autumn, may he rest in peace.”

  Jay shifted his weight and glanced down at the dark circles of wood stain which still outlined his fingernails.

  “Don’t tell me you did all this work! Not alone. No. And just so you could list it for sale?” Leela blinked at him, those blue eyes ablaze. “Oh, Jay. From what I hear about Jingo’s collecting habits, I bet it was a serious task.”

  “You have no idea.” Every crevice had needed cleaning. Jay had made more trips to the dump than a hungry seagull. “It’s a lot better now.”

  “I think”—Leela reached out and touched his forearm—“you gave it the love it had been missing.”

  Yeah, maybe he had. “Do you want to see the rest?”

  Did she! Leela Miller breezed through every room on the main floor, gently touching the custom touches he’d included in the kitchen, bathrooms, parlor, and ballroom, oohing and ahhing at his handiwork.

  How would she like his favorite place in the house? He led her toward the back parlor. Not that he was testing her, but … was it as gaggy to gorgeous as he believed? “This is the refinishing project I enjoyed most.”

  “That mantle! Look at the scrollwork! So much effort and skill and love.” She grazed her fingertips across the grooves. “I can see why it’s your favorite.”

  It was as if she could sense every drop of sweat he’d shed. “I’m glad you like it.”

  Leela sighed, and she turned to him with pleading. “With everything you’ve poured into it, this house is beyond perfect for the fundraiser. Please, can you convince the new owner to let me use it, and then put it up for sale? Please?”

  The double pleases hit their mark. He almost said, sure.

  Why doesn’t she know I’m the owner? Hadn’t it been a rampant local rumor that Jay had inherited the house from Jingo Layton? He’d assumed everyone in a town the size of Massey Falls would have talked that fact to death.

  “I’d better clarify something—”

  Her phone rang, interrupting him. She pulled it out and listened, her eyes going from bright to frightened in an instant. “Okay. I’ll be there as quickly as I can.” She paused on the phone for a second before hanging up with a “Love you, too,” and shoving it in her pocket and looking for the exit.

  “Everything okay?” Jay followed her long strides across the ballroom.

  “Sorry, Jay. It’s Dad. I have to go right now—and I didn’t even get to see upstairs. I’m dying to see the second floor, especially if there’s more room to display cookies.” She was almost at the front door now. “You’ll call me, right?”

  “If you give me your number, I will.” For the first time in months, he was asking for a girl’s number—albeit under false pretenses. Not awesome, but he’d clear things up. As soon as he got a chance, he’d tell her he’d inherited the place.

  But can I let her use the house? I’d have to tell her I’m taking the first reasonable offer. Possibly the first unreasonable one. A quick sale would wreck her plans.

  “Here, use this to text yourself. Then I’ll text you back later.” She shoved her phone into his hand, shifting her weight and glancing nervously at the door.

  Jay’s thumbs glided over the screen. Then, in a flash of brilliance, he took out his own phone and snapped a photo of her. He captured a half-smile of surprise in the picture—as well as some cute tufts of sticks and leaves. “For my contacts.”

  “Hey. You gotta warn a girl.” She took her phone back. “Please, I’ll be waiting to hear from you—about the Cookie House.” She hustled out the front door and jogged across the snowy street to a car.

  She must not live on this so-called Society Row. Jay stood on the porch watching her go.

  Dying to see the second floor, huh? How about the third?

  Maybe
she would be just the friend he needed to help clean out the attic. He wouldn’t mind spending a few hours one-on-one with Leela Miller.

  This might work. What would she say to a terrible, dusty project in exchange for the use of the house for her event?

  Leela

  “Oh, good. You’re home.” Emily greeted Leela at the front door of her house. “Your dad’s all settled now. Just a temporary scare.”

  Leela exhaled. “Thanks for being here, Emily. I was caught up in …”

  Emily snickered. “In that dreamy guy. No need to pretend.”

  “We were talking business.”

  “I’m sure you were.” More snickering. A sixteen-year-old was possibly not the best confidant.

  “You said Dad fell?”

  “Before I got here, don’t know how long.”

  Dang. It could have been as much as an hour. Leela shouldn’t leave. Ever. Except that he would want her to be in the Ladies’ Auxiliary, as a tribute to Mom.

  “I got him back into his bed. Brought him a drink of grape soda.” Dad’s favorite.

  Leela paced down the hallway toward Dad’s room, slowly pressing the door ajar. His eyes were closed, and his chest rose and fell peacefully. “Hey, Dad,” she whispered. “You all right?”

  He must be. He was sleeping. Leela pulled the blanket up a little higher on him, and tucked it near his chin. It was okay. Dad was okay.

  “Thanks, Emily. I’m so glad you came and checked on him.” Since Mom can’t anymore was the unspoken adverbial phrase.

  “No problem. I love Uncle Frank. We all do.” Emily meant it, of course.

  He’d built up a lot of goodwill in the family before the accident that had claimed Dad’s career, his mobility, and even his voice ten years ago when Leela was a teenager, Dad had been in Mom’s care. She’d done everything for him. Now Leela provided the care—with occasional family help.

  “Sorry I called in a panic, when he was actually all right.”

  “No, I’m glad you called.” Even though it meant not having a chance to seal the deal with that real estate agent. At least she had his number. Maybe she could pester him later. Er, persuade him.

  Emily and Leela returned to the kitchen, and Leela ran the hot water in the sink, adding some dishwashing liquid, the kind that smelled like lemons.

  “Come on. Tell me everything. I saw the way he looked at you. What do they say in those romance novels? He devoured her with his eyes.”

  “Oh, pshaw.” Leela unwound her scarf. As she did, the side of her hand caught on something crisp. What was that? Oh, great. A rose leaf in her hair. Nope, make that two. No—three, five, six—Jiminy Crickets!

  She tipped forward and shook her head. A full shower of dried rose leaves with spiny edges blizzarded onto the countertop. She swept them into the trash. Oh, brother! What must Jay have thought? That she was a walking, talking tree?

  “I’ll help you with the dishes if you’ll dish.”

  Dishes from the morning’s baking experiment were stacked everywhere. The trash bin contained all the results of Leela’s failed sugar cookies—and her failed lemon bars, and misshapen pumpkin roll. Who knew simple cookies could be such a disaster? They sounded so elementary, with their jaunty two-syllable title, cookies!

  If only she could find Mom’s best recipe. It refused to turn up, even when Leela turned the kitchen inside out looking for it.

  “Fine.” There were a lot of dishes. Leela could use the help. “But there’s nothing to tell.”

  “Come on. I felt the crackling air between you two. You were just complaining there’s no one to date in this town. Now you can’t say that anymore, unless Mansion Hottie is married.”

  Married! Well, maybe he was. He’d definitely pried into Leela’s marital status, though. That had to mean something.

  “We kept things strictly business.” Even the handshake, though it had been a lot more like a vacation to the surface of the sun than business. “He’s going to talk to the new owner for me about letting us use the Layton Mansion.”

  Or … was he?

  “But he got your number?” Emily’s eyebrows bounced. “I bet he did. I bet if you dropped even a slight hint he would take you to the Holiday Ball.”

  “Not happening.” In fact, possibly none of it was happening. Not without Jay Wilson’s help.

  “You can’t miss the Holiday Ball. You’re almost in the Ladies’ Auxiliary. They all go. Even your mom went, and she hated that type of thing.”

  Yeah, Mom had been much more about the cookies and a lot less about the fancy dresses.

  “I’ll bet you all the frosting on the cookies you’d go if Mansion Hottie asks you.”

  “His name is Jay Wilson.”

  Emily giggled like she hadn’t heard Leela. “Besides, you have to see my debut!” Emily spun, taking up the whole middle of the kitchen, as if she were wearing a hooped ball gown. “It’s going to be so pretty. And I have a date.”

  She did? Even Emily had a date to the Holiday Ball? Sigh. “You’re going to be beautiful. Whether I go to the ball or not, I’ll help you with your hairstyle.”

  “Seriously? That’s awesome. But it won’t be the same without you actually there.” The relentless teen pursed her lips and mouthed pretty please a dozen times.

  Before Leela could argue, the phone in her pocket chimed, and then chimed again. She dried her hands.

  Emily scrambled to her side. “That’s a text from him! I know it!”

  “It’s not going to be him. Come on.” An unknown number flashed on the screen. “It’s probably a telemarketer. They always want me to sign up for so-called free cruises to the Bahamas if I’ll just give my credit—”

  Leela, do you have plans for tomorrow morning?

  “It is from him!” A squeal erupted from Emily, who stood reading over Leela’s shoulder. “He’s asking you out! I knew it!”—she twirled—“I knew it!”

  Leela’s mind slipped into the cloud of steam rising up from the kitchen sink. In its billows, she envisioned an outline of Jay’s face. That jaw line.

  He’s going to be important in your life, a voice whispered through the steam. It was the same stupid phrase she’d accidentally blabbed earlier. Which was stupid. Leela didn’t know anything about Jay Wilson. He was a stranger.

  “You have a date!” Emily swirled in an invisible ball gown.

  “It’s not a date. It’s probably to discuss details of the Cookie House. He’s considering it. He’s very professional.”

  “Professionally gorgeous.” Emily spun again. “I’m going to check online and see if he’s done any modeling anywhere. Jay Wilson, did you say?”

  “Stop.”

  Where had that steam-whisper come from? Leela shivered it away. It lied. It had to be lying. Leela wasn’t interested. The guy was probably the type to get restless in a small town like Massey Falls. Jay Wilson would leave.

  Like Blaine.

  Except Blaine had been cramped in Reedsville, which was ten times the size of this place, and had left after a year. Quick math … a tenth of a year …

  Leela gave Jay Wilson five weeks in Massey Falls, max. Good guys left. That was just life. Good guys left Leela.

  “What are you going to wear on your date with Jay Wilson?” Emily waved a measuring cup in the air, like she was a fairy godmother conjuring up the perfect date outfit. “I know! That cute red sweater—makes your curves unstoppable. He will turn into a quivering mass of desire.”

  “You are sixteen! I’m going to tell your mom you’re talking like that.” Leela wouldn’t, of course. But she did steal the dish towel, spun it into a rope and whipped at Emily’s leg.

  Emily jumped away, laughing, and then took back the towel. “Red sweater, I say.”

  Leela resumed washing. “Why didn’t you tell me your dad had hired someone new at his real estate firm?” Jay had to be with Basingstoke Properties, right? There was only one real estate firm in Massey Falls.

  “Aw, I’m a kid, even if I do use te
rms like quivering mass of desire. Dad doesn’t exactly talk shop with me.”

  Probably true.

  “And believe me, he’d doubly not tell me if he hired someone gorgeo-licious like that guy. He knows I’d flirt with him.” She batted her lashes. Oh, dear. “But don’t worry. I know he saw you first.”

  Well, at least Emily was playing fair.

  “Unfortunately.” Emily made the sound of a swooning heifer calf. “So what does the second text say?”

  Leela dried her hands.

  Would you be up for a home improvement project?

  “See? It’s not a date.” Home improvement project did not sound like a date. Or a place to wear a red sweater. More like a shapeless sweatshirt. Though she might get up early enough to put on a few extra swipes of mascara before meeting him.

  Helping him out might sway him to talk with the owners. She’d better line up someone to watch Dad and tell Jay yes.

  Where? And what time?

  Maybe she should ask what the project was, too. But it might sound stingy, and she needed his help.

  Crack of dawn at the Layton Mansion. Wear old clothes. You up for that?

  Emily dried a cookie sheet from the rack. “Tell him yes. Stop waiting. What else do you have to do? Aunt Sal can watch Uncle Frank while you cozy up with the electric sander and Mansion Hottie.” She made it sound sultry.

  It wouldn’t be sultry. “Jay didn’t even explicitly say he’d be there. Besides, I need every minute to perfect my cookie-baking skills before the Cookie House. Or at least to get them up to edible condition.” Without Mom’s recipe, Leela had baked utter mediocrity into every type from macarons to macaroons, from meringues to no-bake cookies. “Thus far, I’m only getting lukewarm results.”

  “Judging from the contents of the trashcan, they’re stone cold, not lukewarm.”

  “Insult accepted.” No one would buy Leela’s bakes at the Cookie House. She’d disgrace the fundraiser, devalue it, if she brought something as bad as today’s pumpkin spice disaster.

  “You’re not going to tell him no. Just answer him.”

  Fine. I’ll be there. “Gah. I should have sent See you there.”