How to Bake the Perfect Christmas Cake (Home for the Holidays - Book 2)

by Gina Henning

  A delicious cake. A guy who is late. Merry Christmas to all.

  After the best Thanksgiving of her life, Lauren Hauser can’t wait to see Jack-the-pecan-hoarder so they can finally be in the same place at the same time again. Long distance really doesn’t work when you’re head over heels!

  But when Jack doesn’t turn up at the airport Lauren is left wondering if their relationship is really as great as she thought? Sure Jack’s kisses were delicious and when he looked at her, her knees felt weak, but what did they really know about each other?

  Well a big Hauser family Christmas is just what is needed for this situation. Not only will her mom be decking the halls with boughs of monstrous-Christmas-decorations, but Lauren is baking a Christmas cake to once again claim dessert queen of the family! Will Jack fit in with the Hauser clan? Or will Lauren have to face the music…that not every holiday romance was made for a happily ever after…

  Also by Gina Henning

  How to Bake the Perfect Pecan Pie

  How to Bake the Perfect Christmas Cake

  Gina Henning

  www.CarinaUK.com

  GINA HENNING

  currently resides where bluebonnets line the highways in the spring, but she prefers the rock flower anemone from under the sea. Above the ocean’s surface Gina likes to dance with her three boys and travel to exotic places like the grocery store with her husband. Her pooch Schatzi is a mix between German Shepherd and possibly pig. One of Gina’s favorite pastimes is running. She recently completed her one-and-done marathon. At the end of the day her glass of wine is always half-full.

  You can find Gina online at http://www.ginahenning.com

  Twitter: http://twitter.com/henningland

  Facebook http://www.facebook.com/ginahenningauthor

  To Franz, Ethan, Beck, and Jude, the perfect Christmas cake is one shared with you.

  To my mom, thank you for showing me that often the best gifts are the ones you make.

  To my author consigliere, Tracie Banister thank you for your sage advice and guidance.

  To my friend and critique partner Helen Rena, thank you for reading all of my stories and offering such valuable insight.

  To my Gems, thank you for answering endless polls and supporting me and my books, y'all are as sparkly as they come.

  Thank you to my editor Victoria, you truly bring out the best in my stories.

  Thank you to the lovely team at Carina UK (Harlequin) you are such a supportive and wonderful group, I'm honored to be associated with you.

  To my pooch Schatzi, who can’t read but I’m sure appreciates a mention, thank you.

  To all the bakers of the world, the ones that follow the recipe and the ones who make it up as they go, this one is for you.

  Contents

  Cover

  Blurb

  Book List

  Title Page

  Author Bio

  Acknowledgements

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Endpages

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  “So, what’s the problem…is it the money?”

  “No, it’s not the money.” I pick up my Santa bobble head pen my mom shipped to my office. She always sends something festive to my work. I think she realizes if I open the package here then everyone will want to see whatever it is and thus I’ll be forced to display it. In this case a bobble head Santa, he is wearing a cowboy hat and has a lasso. It’s a Countrified Santa.

  “Well then, what is it? Come on, Lauren, we’re not that miserable to be around.”

  “Megan, it’s not that,” I say as I scribble on the yellow lined notepad at my desk. I don’t want to have this conversation while I’m at work. It’s bad enough sharing a wall with my coworker Leena, but for conversations like these, it’s almost as if her ears are against my phone’s receiver. I prefer using my headphones but Megan called me on my direct line which is connected to my black desk phone, not to my computer.

  “Well then what is it?” Megan asks. The tone in her voice is harsh. I get it, I do. I - rather we - always come home for Christmas, stay until January 2nd, it’s our tradition, our thing. Spending time with our family etc. But this year I don’t want to go home. It’s not because of the money. I have money. I’m maxing out my 401k contribution and I have the little luxuries in life, like highlighted hair every six weeks and Starbucks whenever I want - which is a lot. Maybe I should be cutting back on the frothy foam, especially with cookie central roaming around the office, every cubicle is filled with plates of the latest and greatest decorated cookies or store-bought candies. I can’t escape a nibble here or a mint there. I appreciate the sweetness of Mrs. Claus, but in no way do I want to have the appearance of something round and chubby. I need to figure out a game plan for avoiding those tasty treats. Especially with Leena. It’s almost as if she can sense my lack of self-control and takes pleasure in my sugar overdose downfall. Typical schadenfreude person. It couldn’t be any more obvious. But shiat, what can I do? I have a freaking sweet tooth. I clench my tummy, that’s right, do some ab workouts at the desk. Even if I’m only burning a few calories. I’m reminded of that silly phrase: muscles are made at the gym and abs are made in the kitchen, but for some reason squeezing my stomach feels good and like I’m doing something. Surely I must be burning some calories or even toning my abs.

  I mean, I get it…I’m no Jamie Easton, but I’m definitely not Mrs. Claus. Definitely not Mrs. Claus. First of all, I’m single. All alone. Expected to have a blue Christmas without you I hum in my head. My blue Christmas is due to one cause. Jack. Damn. It sucks to be single and unattached. I’m not really on the hunt for a Mr. Claus, but if the younger, more svelte version of a happy jolly soul came knocking at my door (and obviously it would have to be my door, since I can’t imagine a guy coming down my chimney), well, let’s just say I might answer.

  Who I wouldn’t answer to is Jack. Jack Walker. Jack Walker, Mr. All-Business-Wooed-Me-With-His-Pecans over Thanksgiving and then, two weeks later, was a no show. A no show. The guy stood me up at the airport. Not the movies, not a fancy restaurant, not the airport. As in, I’ll meet you at baggage claim, I’ll watch all the happy people greet their loved ones swinging them around in circles, handing over bouquets of flowers, joking about the airplane food or lack thereof until finally, finally, I was left alone, watching the luggage carousel circle round and round. An airport employee asked if my luggage didn’t make the trip. I nodded and walked away. That’s it for me and baggage.

  No. I do not want to come home this year for Christmas. I do not want to have to deal with the questions about where’s Jack? How are things going with him? Did he come visit you? Because I don’t have the answer to any of those questions. And now, now I don’t want them. Just like him.

  My computer screen would normally have a snowy scene, but now it has a tide washing up on shore. I’m pretending it’s actually summer time. The connection program we use is in the upper right-hand corner. I have several calls to take in my queue. Clients are waiting to hear w
hat I have to say. Clients that are not going to stand me up, but are actually holding the line for me.

  “Hey, listen, Megan, I really have to get back to work,” I say glancing at the phone cord, I want to twist it, but that will only remind me of him. This is something I don’t want to do, so instead I doodle little Christmas trees with lights on them. Candy canes hanging along the branches and at the top a star. This reminds me of how Jack called my grandmother a shining star, I close the spaces in between the star and it looks kind of like a dreidel. Which is really weird for a dreidel to be on top of a Christmas tree. I drop my pen and sigh. Even in my doodles I can’t escape Christmas.

  “Fine, but we’re going to talk later about this,” Megan says. The buzzing of the dial tone rings in my ear.

  I put the black plastic receiver down and count to ten in Italian, I like to count in Italian before speaking to my clients. They speak English, as do I, but I feel like counting in Italian really cheers me up and puts my vocal chords where they need to be, a pleasant yet in control of the conversation tone.

  My finger hovers over the mouse and I’m about to make touchdown on a good solid click, when an instant message pops up on my screen. It’s my boss. Javier. What could he want? Shiat, I hope Leena didn’t tell him I was on a personal call. I can imagine her hearing my conversation ending and rushing over to his office. He actually has a real office. The rest of us have cubicles. Our walls are tall to make you think you’re in an office, except there is no real privacy. I mean, I prefer it over my other positions where we had half walls and could see each other. Imagine talking to a client on the phone and knowing all of your coworkers can see and hear you. I hate being under a microscope. Well, I guess hate is a bit strong. I don’t like being on display. Here, I’ve got my walls, but there is no sound barrier.

  I inspect the message box.

  “Lauren, when you get a moment, please come to my office.”

  Hmm, a moment. This doesn’t sound urgent, but it does pique my curiosity enough to log out of my call box. I place my headphones down on my desk and comb my fingers through my hair. I didn’t do anything wrong. Javier might need to make sure what my travel dates are, so he knows our lines are covered. He knows I always go home for Christmas and my time off was scheduled months in advance. Months before I met Jack and months before he didn’t show up. I sigh.

  I rub my lips together and push in my chair. I’ve got a nice leather one, it’s an upgrade. I got it for being the top resolution consultant. Almost everyone else has a fuzzy uncomfortable seat. I pat the chair and exit my cubicle.

  Javier’s office is not too far from my own space. I saunter in my knee-high boots and tweed skirt with my mauve angora sweater. I love winter fashion in Maryland. We have so many opportunities to layer, which isn’t even heard of in Texas where I grew up. The most layering people do is a tank top with a cardigan or a scarf. But here I can layer tights, sweaters, tops, blouses, scarves, coats, gloves, the list goes on for days and even with all those layers I am still cold outside. We have actual winters here, not like in Austin. I have snow boots, because they are needed here, whereas in Texas it is more of a fashion statement and a silly one at that. When it drops to the seventies in Texas, people drag out their winter gear as if there is a real need for it. Seventy degrees! We don’t pull out our winter gear here until we drop below sixty. And the die-hards wait until the temperature hits below fifty degrees.

  I tap my knuckles on Javier’s door. It’s pressed wood with a thick layer of laminate over the top of it.

  When I get the go-ahead, I open the door to see Javier smiling at me. He is dressed for success, as he often says during meetings, in his dark-navy suit with a Santa tie, it must be a gift from one of his kids. They always get him festive ties for presents. Javier is good dad and wears the flashy ties, which are quite different from his typical low-key striped conservative ones.

  “Hey, Lauren, how are you?” He reaches out to shake my hand. It’s a firm, warm grip. His hands are always warm but not clammy which is good.

  “Good, how about you, Javier?” I step inside his office and he gets up to shut the door behind me.

  Javier is a large man with a full head of jet-black hair. He mentions from time to time about his hair being a true gift from his mother’s side of the family. He sits down at his desk and I slide into one of the maroon chairs in front of it. I tap the arm of the seat. Leather. I breathe in deep. I don’t want to seem nervous in front of him.

  “Lauren, I’m going to cut right to the chase.” Javier pushes some stark white papers around on his desk and stares at me.

  “Yes?” I say. Internally I’m dying, am I about to get fired? For a two-minute phone call with my sister? That’s ridiculous.

  “We’ve been going over the reports and looking at your call times.” Javier stacks the papers on top of each other.

  Shiat, I knew it. That damn Leena. Like she doesn’t take personal calls. Arghh.

  “Lauren, your call times and balance-management skills are incredible. We are doing a disservice to our company and our clients keeping you in your current position.” Javier’s eyes are scouting my face. He’s reading me, waiting for my reaction.

  I can’t believe I am hearing him correctly. I blink. Yup, this is real. I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from speaking to soon. Sometimes, waiting to speak is better than blurting things out.

  “We want to promote you and give you your own team.” Javier’s mouth forms a large grin.

  My eyes widen, dost my ears deceive me? Did I just get the biggest promotion of my life?

  “Wow, Javier, that’s really great. Can you give me more specifics?”

  Javier laughs. “I knew you would want to talk numbers and that’s why we want to move you up. Here is a packet filled with everything you need to know about this new position, including the numbers. Take it home tonight and read it over. If you decide that you want to take this route with your career, you would begin in January after your Christmas break.”

  Javier stands up and offers me the stack of papers from his desk. I take them and shake his hand.

  It seems like the right thing to do. I know shaking his hand doesn’t mean I’ve accepted the position, but it is a business meeting and those typically end with a handshake. If I hadn’t already eaten lunch, I would rush out to the nearest diner and request the “business woman’s lunch special” in my best Romy accent.

  ***

  About a year ago I did the wise and responsible thing and invested in some real estate. I bought a three-story townhouse. It’s colonial style, which I love. The bricks are burnt red and the shutters are kettle black. It was built in the sixties and two huge oak trees stand tall in my front yard. I’m pretty happy with my little home. It has all the nice features one could hope for; a walk-in closet, a garden-size tub and a fireplace. My fireplace has never actually been used other than as a spot to light my candles. Ten various-sized white candles currently sit in the hearth, I switch the colors throughout the year. I bought some red and green ones to make the fireplace look more Christmassy, but I haven’t really been in the mood to decorate. My box of Christmas décor is still sitting in my attic.

  I am sad about the idea of not going home for Christmas, but I don’t want to hear about Jack or, worse, run into him. After I got home from the airport, alone, I sat on my gray suede couch for a good long period. I twirled the tassels on my lavender chenille pillows until I finally checked my phone. There was one voicemail. Not five, no, just one. The message didn’t really explain why I had made a wasted trip to the airport or why Jack had not made the flight. The message simply said:

  “Hi, Lauren, this is Jack. I’m sorry but I can’t make the trip. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  That’s it. Who does that? Who plans a trip to see someone you’ve been texting, calling, emailing, Facetiming with for a couple of weeks straight and then drops off the face of the planet? Well, I’m sure he didn’t drop off the face of the planet. But I had
n’t heard from him since. I didn’t try and call him because I was pissed and hurt. I was hurt even more when hours went by and then days of silence. No texts, no calls, no email, no flowers at my desk. To say I’m completely and utterly confused as to why I hadn’t and still haven’t heard from Jack would be an understatement.

  Tonight will be different though, I’m going to go out with friend Brianna. Brianna has recently broken up with her boyfriend of six months. Of course, her relationship has had its ups and downs, but we had both agreed about tonight’s plans. We were going to focus on being Single Ladies. Uh oh uh and all that. Though my relationship with Jack was short-lived, Brianna is in a different predicament. Their relationship had been long enough to have a ring put on it. Tonight, we are going to be strutting to a different ballad, we are going to be dancing queens and paint the town red. Well, not really the town, more like a fun dinner and maybe a movie. We hadn’t really set anything in stone because we are living freely. Young, wild and free, we made no concrete plans nor are in any committed relationships.

  I sashay past my queen-size bed. I could have bought a king-size bed because my room is big enough for it. But I am only one person and a female, queen-sized seemed to make sense. I alternate my comforters with the seasons. I like to keep my house cooler than most people. There are three layers of covers on my bed. The top layer is a red comforter with a black fleur-de-lis print down the middle, then a red thick blanket, and then finally my gray sheets. They are only one shade of gray, however. My house went through a major renovation before I purchased it. The master room closet has French doors, which make me happy every time I stand in front of them. I grab onto the silver knob turn it to the right and swing it open. No matter how many times I have done this, it still reminds me of stepping into a secret wardrobe. This is by far the largest closet I’ve ever owned and sometimes I wonder if I could ever get lost in it. Ha!