The Grump Who Stole Christmas: Kringle Family Christmas Book One

by S Doyle

  She pouted. “You’re sure?”

  “I’m totally sure. Don’t waste your time. Oh, and since I’m thinking about it, here, put your contact information in my phone so I know to pick up your calls.” I unlocked my phone and slid it across the desk. Jasmine took it and started keying.

  “What are you doing?” she asked me.

  “Trying to make money from nothing,” I admitted. “Otherwise known as figuring out how to charge more for the rooms and cabins we are renting, while not needing to put a whole lot of money back into them first. I’m thinking about theme cabins.”

  “Themes? Like different types of sexy cabins?”

  “Sexy cabins?” I said. “Why did your brain go straight there?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe I get a little horny after a good business meeting.”

  “I’m not thinking about sex,” I said adamantly. “At all. Not even a little bit. Sex is the furthest thing from my mind right now.”

  There was a knock on the door. Jasmine turned in her seat to greet the visitor while I scowled at the intruder.

  “What do you want?” I barked.

  “Kay-Kay, did you ever think maybe the reason you’re losing customers is because you greet them with that horrible scowl?”

  “My scowl is not horrible. It’s intimidating.”

  Paul held up his hands and shook them in mock panic. “I’m so intimidated.”

  “Shut up,” I growled. “What do you want?”

  “I’m heading to the grocery store in town. Since it seems like you’re planning on staying for a while and you appear to like my cooking, I thought I would come over here and ask you what you’d like to eat.”

  Instantly, my stomach started to growl. In New York, I only ate when absolutely necessary. Because there was always something else to do. Because being thin was considered chic. Because I sucked at cooking, so I only did it when I was forced to in order to live.

  The idea of someone else cooking something. For me. That I liked…

  “Pasta!” I nearly shouted. “And cheese!”

  Jasmine squinted at me. “Are you okay?”

  I squirmed in my seat. “I’m just excited by the idea of someone else doing the cooking. But I thought you only made breakfast?”

  “Ooh,” Jasmine crooned. “There’s nothing better than a man who makes breakfast. Am I right?”

  I scowled at her then and she immediately shut up.

  “I have many undiscovered talents,” Paul said. “My pasta carbonara is going to rock your world. What are you guys doing anyway?”

  “We’re coming up with sexy themed cabins,” Jasmine answered.

  “We are not! There is no sex in Christmas.”

  Paul came into the office and instantly it felt that much smaller. He filled the space with his shoulders and his flannel shirt and his beard. He leaned a hip against the table and thoughtfully stroked his bearded chin.

  “Hmm. That’s not a bad idea. Maybe you could make sexy elf costumes and leave them in the closets for customers to find. You know, instead of those big soft robes.”

  “Nothing cuter than a sexy elf,” Jasmine giggled.

  Like a freaking sexy elf.

  “For the last time. We’re not doing sex-themed cabins. I was thinking of using the reindeer.”

  “Sexy reindeer? I don’t know if that would work,” Jasmine offered.

  “They’re not sexy reindeer. They’re just reindeer. You know Donner. Blitzen. Dasher. Pantser.”

  “Pantser?” Paul laughed. “I’m sure that’s not right.”

  “Oooh, Cupid,” Jasmine said. “That can be a sexy cabin. I’m just not sure how you would make Blitzen sexy.”

  I was going to kill her.

  “You,” I said, pointing at Jasmine. “Go do more PRing. You, Paul Bunyan, go to the market and buy things to make pasta carbonara. The two of you leave now, so I can actually get some thinking done.”

  “You really are intimidating,” Jasmine said as she got up. “I mean that in the best possible way!”

  She left, but Paul was still leaning on the edge of my table smiling at me.

  “What are you smiling at me for?”

  “I don’t know, maybe I think it’s kind of hot the way you boss people around.”

  I was not going to react to that. Okay, I was going to react to it if the feeling in the pit of my stomach was any indication, but I wasn’t going to let him see my reaction.

  “Shame though,” he said, releasing a long sigh. “I don’t mess around with corporate types anymore.”

  “Is that because of your ex-fiancé?”

  It was like the question just popped out of my mouth. As if I had absolutely no control over it.

  “You’ve been reading up on me?”

  He didn’t seem angry or upset. More like bemused.

  “I’m someone who likes to do her research,” I said.

  “Did you see the article where they called me a farming heartthrob?” He wiggled his eyebrows after saying this.

  “I thought it was a slight exaggeration,” I said with a straight face.

  “Carol and I didn’t break up because she was a high-powered executive. We broke up because we wanted different things in life.”

  “Like children?” It seemed like the obvious reason. He wanted a family. The cabin he was building was nothing if not a testament to that.

  “No. We both wanted kids. In fact, she has since married someone and I believe is pregnant, last I heard. No, it was the lifestyle. Carol always wanted to be on the move. I wanted to stay in one place. She wanted to be at a party. I wanted to be home on my couch watching Netflix. In the beginning, I told myself none of those differences mattered because I really liked her. But two months into living with her, I knew that some of those things mattered big time. Because she could never sit still. She couldn’t just be. Nothing she had was ever enough, and in the end, she reminded me too much of my dad.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged it off. “Don’t be. Like I said, she found someone else. She’s happy. That’s all I wanted for her.”

  “So if she’s not the reason you don’t mess around with corporate types any more, then what is?”

  He leaned down a little so that he was closer to me. Or maybe I was leaning a little closer to him?

  “Silk blouses.”

  “What?” I asked, struggling to understand the meaning behind his words.

  “I hate silk blouses. Total turnoff for me,” he said, his voice gruff in a way that sort of belied what he was saying.

  I touched the silk collar around my neck. The button that fell just at the dip in my collarbone.

  “You don’t like the feel of silk?” I asked, my finger trailing down just to the upper swell of my breast.

  “Nope,” he said, even as his eyes followed my finger. “Too…silky.”

  “Hmm. That’s a shame. I happen to have a lot of silk blouses.”

  “Then I guess it’s a good thing we don’t like each other all that much. What with all that silk you’re wearing, I would never be tempted to touch you.”

  “Yeah,” I whispered. Was his face getting closer to mine? “Good thing.”

  “You like any vegetables to go with that pasta?”

  “I only eat lettuce.”

  “Figures. Okay, Kay-Kay, I’ll hook you up.”

  He moved away from me and was already walking out of the office while I still felt like I’d been enthralled by a snake charmer.

  “What just happened?” I asked the empty room. “And why do I have this urge to buy flannel shirts?”

  With no answer forthcoming, I turned back to my spreadsheets and my musing on themed cabins.

  “Dasher and Dancer, Pantser and Vixen…yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s right.”

  10

  Later That Night

  Paul

  It was official. I freaking loved watching Kay-Kay eat. Brownies, breakfast, it didn’t matter. She did this thing after
every bite where she closed her eyes and tilted her head back slightly as if each individual bite deserved to be savored. Chewed thoughtfully. Tasted completely.

  She was making a sound that could have easily been mistaken for sex noises as she chewed on the cheesy pasta. So much I might have teased her about it, if her dad hadn’t also been sitting at the table.

  “What did you call this, Paul?” Pops asked me.

  “Carbonara.”

  “I’ve had that before, in restaurants,” Pops said around another mouthful. “There’s supposed to be peas in it.”

  “Not the way the Italians do it. Just pancetta, garlic, egg, and cheese. I like some red pepper chili flakes for heat.”

  “Been to Italy?” Pops asked.

  Kay-Kay was quiet because she was still doing the twirl the fork in the pasta, spear the pancetta, plop it in her mouth, head tilt up, and chew, chew, chew thing.

  “A few times. Sometimes work, sometimes pleasure. The Italians are amazing farmers and do an incredible job of making the best use of the land in the various different regions around the country.”

  “Dad, did you know who he was when you hired him?”

  She took a break from eating long enough to ask her father the question.

  “Ah, he told me he was some corporate bigwig farmer, looking for a change,” Pops said, brushing off the impressive resumé I’d laid out for him at the time. “I told him that’s how Salt Springs came into existence. Everyone who’s ever come to this town is looking for a different way of life. It still shocks me I had three kids and only one of them wanted to stay.”

  “Dad. Be mad at me for leaving, but it’s not like Matt had a choice. He couldn’t play professional hockey in Salt Springs.”

  Pops shifted on his chair and pushed his half-empty plate away. I watched Kay-Kay’s eyes drift to it. Like she was already calculating how much food she had left to eat on her plate and would her dad truly leave the leftovers for her.

  “If it wasn’t hockey, it would have been something else. Matt’s being gone and staying gone proves that.”

  “Well, he’s coming back tomorrow,” Kay-Kay pointed out.

  “I’ll believe it when I see it,” he grumbled.

  There was a story there. Family drama. I was smart enough to stay out of it.

  “All this pasta has made me tired,” Pops said. “I’m going to head upstairs and watch TV in bed. You need help cleaning up?”

  Kay-Kay slid his plate of pasta over to her side of the table. “No, I got it. Let me help you upstairs, Dad.”

  “Don’t be silly, I’ve become a master on these crutches,” Pops said confidently.

  “Dad…”

  “I’ve been getting up these stairs fine without your help for days now. Stop being silly.”

  Although it took him a few minutes to get up, get the crutches under his arms, and then navigate his way out of the kitchen. I listened for the sound of his good leg hitting each step up.

  When I heard him reach the top step, I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. It was hard to let the old man have his pride, but I also knew it was important.

  “You’ve been looking out for him.”

  I looked at Kay-Kay, who was looking at me, a soft smile tilting up her lips. I had the sense she’d been holding her breath too.

  I shrugged. “He’s letting me live in his house. It’s the least I could do.”

  “Thank you. For all of it. For letting me know the truth. For being here when his own kids weren’t.”

  “You’re here now,” I told her.

  “Yes, but am I too late?”

  I could sense the tension in her resurfacing. There was a little line forming between her brows. “Hey, none of that. I made you my killer carbonara to relax you, now you’re getting all stressed out again. Have more wine.”

  I filled up her glass with the last of the red wine from the bottle I’d opened. She smiled, then started eating what was left on her father’s dish.

  “I like watching you eat,” I admitted.

  “Geesh,” she snorted. “Between watching me eat and watching me sleep you really are creeping me out. Anything else you want to watch me do?”

  One thing, I thought suddenly. There was one thing I wanted to watch her do.

  It must have been written on my face, because she squirmed her in her chair.

  “I really hope you’re imagining me reading a book right now.”

  I laughed. “Depends on the book. Have you scraped the last vestiges of food from yours and your father’s plate so I can do the dishes? I’ll wash and you dry.”

  She ran her fork against the plate making sure to capture every drop of sauce. “Now I have. Except I’ll wash and dry. You cooked. Fair’s fair. Go watch TV or something.”

  Maybe it was fair, but I found myself not wanting to leave the homey-ness of the kitchen. I liked the way it smelled in here. I liked the way she looked so satisfied. As if she hadn’t eaten a full meal in ages.

  I liked…her.

  Together we brought the plates to the kitchen sink. She set her half-filled wine glass on the window sill and it felt like she’d seen her mom do that probably a million times.

  She filled up the sink with water and soap and we loaded up the plates.

  “You have to let them soak a bit,” she said, as she took a sip of wine. It was hard to tell, but I thought maybe she looked nervous.

  Was I crowding her? I didn’t think so. I was leaning against the counter, a drying towel in my hand ready for the first dish.

  Was there tension between us? A pull?

  I’d teased her earlier about her silk shirts. Getting a rise out of her any way I could was just flat-out fun. But now I couldn’t help wondering if there was something there.

  Because I did like to watch her eat. I did like those soft snores she made in her sleep and the number one thing I wanted to see her do was come.

  On my fingers, on my tongue, on my cock.

  Oh shit. Was I crushing on the boss’s daughter?

  Worse, was I crushing on the boss’s daughter who would be headed back to Manhattan as soon as she saved her father’s struggling business?

  “So you think this whole publicity thing with Matt will work?” I asked. Because if it did work, it might temporarily help the inn out, but would it be enough?

  Or would that even matter to her? If she thought her father was healing, and the inn was on more stable ground, would that give her the permission she needed to go back to her fast-paced corporate life?

  “It better. And if it means he has to wear a Santa suit, he’s doing it.”

  She pulled a plate out of the hot soapy water and took a sponge to it, rinsed it, then handed it to me.

  I nodded. Took the plate from her hands and started drying it.

  “Then what happens?” I asked, as I placed the plate in the rack on the counter.

  “What do you mean?” Another plate, another scrub and rinse.

  This time when I took the plate from her hand, our fingers brushed.

  Shit. My dick was getting hard. My dick was getting hard because our fingers brushed. No, no, no.

  Not her, dick. Anyone but her!

  “I mean, do you go back to New York and hope everything turns around?”

  She didn’t say anything in response and I realized how none of my business it was. Except why did I want to make it my business?

  “I’m sorry. That sounded like maybe I was trying to guilt trip you. I’m not. As the recipient of more than a million of my father’s guilt trips, I should be more sensitive. You’ve got to do what works for you and your life. You’re not responsible for the success or failure of the Kringle Inn. Your father would be the first one to say that.”

  “He would. Even though he would grumble about it,” she said. She handed me the last of the plates. There was an odd expression on her face. Like she’d just been caught stealing cookies from the cookie jar. “Can I tell you a secret?”

  “I didn�
�t think brownie buddies had secrets between them.”

  “Everyone thinks I’m this corporate killer shark. They’re all expecting me to be CEO of some organization. Eventually. It’s how I’ll know, how they’ll know, I finally made it. Finally reached my goals.”

  “Boss Lady,” I muttered.

  “Yeah. Boss Lady. Except sometimes…it doesn’t feel like I thought it should. And other times, it’s downright disappointing.”

  I nodded thoughtfully. I could see what it took for her to make that admission and I didn’t want to make light of it. But it was Kay-Kay, and she was biting on her lower lip, and it was almost like I could see her overthinking and I couldn’t help it.

  “You know what you need to do?”

  “What?” she asked, her voice soft. She was looking at me like maybe I really had the answer she needed.

  “You should get married and have babies.”

  She blinked. “What?”

  “Yep. Get barefoot and pregnant.” I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep a straight face. “Start learning how to bake chocolate chip cookies and stuff. You know you’re never going to be fulfilled as a woman, until you do that.”

  “I’m going to kill you now.”

  “Look, I would help you out, but you know my aversion to all things silk. So you’re going to have to find a nice fella on your own. Someone who can be the man of the house. Someone who wears the pants in the family.”

  “You mean someone who can change a flat tire?”

  “Exactly!”

  “You think you’re funny,” she said, catching on to my sarcasm.

  “I know I’m funny,” I told her. Then I bumped her shoulder with mine. “Seriously, Kay-Kay, take it from someone who was so lost I couldn’t find myself in broad daylight. Don’t lie to yourself about what you want. And don’t apologize for it either.”

  “I hate that you just finished that little rant with actual good advice.”

  I bent down so our faces were pretty close. “I’m full of good advice. And your eyes are so freaking blue, it’s almost like they can’t be real.”

  “Be careful, Paul Bunyan,” she said, her voice growing even softer. “That sounded like a compliment.”