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A Very Messy Christmas

By Dineen Miller

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Madison
“Yes, Mrs. Sanderson, we have you down as arriving on the fifteenth and that you’re staying through New Year’s Day.”
This is my life at the moment. Telling people on the phone what their vacation plans are. Am I complaining? 
Not. At. All. 
Because the yearly Christmas Getaway at The Sandpiper Inn is about to start in less than a week, and I live for this time of year. 
However, I do find it baffling that Mrs. Sanderson didn’t mark her vacation on some kind of calendar. Or even a piece of paper tacked on her fridge under a magnet. But she’s done this every December for the last four years, so I’m accustomed to it. Plus, she reminds me of my nana, who used to be the heart of our Christmases when I was growing up. 
“Will you have the same events this year, my dear?” Her voice crackles over the connection like a candy wrapper, but from experience, I know it’s because she needs to clear her throat, which she does before I have time to move the phone away from my ear.
I jerk the phone away as I cringe. Once I know she’s finished, I bring the handset tentatively back to my ear. “Yes, ma’am. But this year, we’re adding gingerbread houses with a beachy feel.”
“Oh, that’s sounds delightful. Then we’ll see you in a few days!” She diverges into a coughing fit, which makes me jerk the phone away again. 
“Wonderful. See you then.” I hang up before she finds a new bunny trail to travel down, which makes me think Mrs. Sanderson is lonely. Despite her niece, who’s been her constant companion since Mr. Sanderson’s death six years ago, I think Gloria (she always insists I use her first name when she’s added a little too much Bailey’s to her coffee and wants to confide something from her past) longs for someone in her life who’s closer to her age of seventy-two.
I can’t help loving the old bat for that reason alone because I understand. Five years ago, when I purchased and refurbished this place with the trust fund Nana left me, I thought for sure by now I’d have a partner in crime to share in running the business. But alas, I’m still a single maiden in search of her king. 
Er…um…a partner. 
I guess I should mention that I read a lot of books. And when I say a lot, I mean A LOT. The tiny apartment on the back side of the inn contains a bed, a couch, a coffee table, and shelves full of books on every wall available. 
Forget the art. 
My books have become my close friends, my companions, and the inspiration behind buying an old abandoned house that needed a ton of TLC to turn it into the inn I also call home. Before that, the only tenants in the place had been raccoons. And before that, it was called The Painted Lady.
Yeah, don’t ask.
So I have my books to keep me company at night, and I’m okay with that, except for the occasional errant guest in search of a snack at two in the morning. One time, Mrs. Sanderson wandered into our pantry and—
Never mind. That’s in the vault of events that we know never to speak of. And you’d be surprised how many are in there. Life is never dull around here, that’s for sure.
My assistant, Wyatt, joins me behind the counter as he checks his watch. “Aren’t you supposed to have a meeting with Bill today?”
I check my watch and hiss. I don’t have time to scarf down something for breakfast. “Shoot. I’m late. Tell Ivy that the second floor needs a thorough vacuuming. Room four tracked in sand from the beach. There’s a fair bit on the stairs, too.”
He shoos me away. “Go. I’ll take care of it.”
I grab my laptop, which has my calendar and event planner, which I’ll need when Bill, the owner and chef at The Turtle Tide, and I plan the food for the Christmas Eve party and the special dinner on Christmas Day. Not to mention the food and snacks we’ll need for various events and activities. And, of course, let’s not forget the Big Beach Blowout for New Year’s Eve, which includes a huge fireworks display that most of Sarabella shows up for.
Christmas is my busiest time of year, besides summer, because of the Christmas Getaway. Now, after five years, we have regulars who show up every year, like Mrs. Sanderson. 
And this year, I want our Christmas program to be better than ever.

* * *

Situated on the north end of Mango Key Beach, The Turtle Tide sits next door to the inn, and we share a parking lot. I’m still trying to talk Bill into sharing the cost of building a breezeway between our two businesses. You know, a joint effort to make it more inviting for inn guests to walk over for a bite to eat. 
During the rainy season, that would save me the cost of keeping a constant supply of umbrellas on hand, which seem to disappear on a regular basis. But today, the weather is pleasant, almost cool for the first of December, thanks in part to the lower humidity. 
I enter through the front door and make my way to the usual table at the back of the restaurant, where Bill and I have our regular meetings. He and I have become almost like partners when it comes to the events I try to plan for my guests year-round, but especially for the holidays. 
We just did Thanksgiving and had our biggest turnout yet. Even locals love to do overnighters at the inn and take advantage of our wine tastings, the afternoon tea and cookies, which are a daily feature, and, of course, the yearly Christmas Getaway events that have benefited both Bill and I.
Only, this time, it isn’t Bill sitting there, waiting to greet me, but a different chef I don’t recognize. Did Bill hire someone new? 
He looks to be around the same age as me (I turn thirty soon. EEK!), has a short beard that’s neatly clipped and shaped, and a wild head of brown hair. I’m guessing that happened when he tugged off the chef’s hat sitting on the table next to the pad of paper he’s writing on.
I approach the table, glancing around the restaurant in search of Bill. “Excuse me, I’m a few minutes late, but I’m supposed to meet with Bill.”
He holds a finger up as he continues to write. “Just one sec.”
While he continues to jot down what looks like a menu, I shift my weight from one foot to the other. I should have opted for more comfortable shoes than heels today. Each year I purchase something red or green in celebration of the season, so when I saw these red heels at The Pink Hibiscus, I knew I had to have them. But I’m beginning to think I picked the wrong day to wear them.
Ignoring the pinch of my toes, I check my watch, mentally calculating the necessary time adjustment for my very tight schedule today. 
“That busy?” He’s staring right at me now, giving me the full impact of his piercing eyes that remind me of chocolate-covered caramel—a pale brown, kind of hazel center with a distinct dark brown outline. Set in a rather well-sculpted jaw is a set of full, defined lips, which are now spreading into a slow smile because he’s waiting for an answer.
And me? I’m gawking at him with my mouth kind of hanging open because this guy is quite possibly the sexiest man I’ve ever seen. 
I blink. “E-excuse me?” 
Did I stutter? Please tell me I didn’t just stutter.
He points to my wrist. “You checked your watch, so I assume you have a very busy day ahead of you, Madison. Sit, and let’s get started.”
How does he know my name? I sweep the restaurant again in search of Bill. “I thought I was meeting with Bill today. And how do you know my name?”
He rises to his feet and keeps rising until he’s towering over me. I’m not a short woman, but I’m not tall, either. Just average. Average size, average hair, average face.
But this guy…he could fill a doorway easily. Unlike Bill, who’s closer to my height. If the man wasn’t wearing a chef uniform, I’d think he was a linebacker.
Plus, he’s way more attractive. Not to say Bill isn’t a decent-looking man, but he is thirty-plus years my senior. And though this man’s beard may be counterintuitive in my thinking, he does sport the look well. 
Really well. 
If he asks me another question, I may stutter again.
“Bill’s dealing with a family crisis today, so he filled me in about your meeting today.” He holds his hand out. “I’m his nephew, Dominic Collins.”
I glance at his hand, then slip mine into his grasp and try to ignore the immediate tingle that travels from the inside of my wrist and up my arm. Kind of like that ache that shoots up your arms when you see someone do something really stupid and painful. Only this is pleasant. Unexpected…
“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that.” Whew, no stutter. However, my heart sounds more like a horse stampede in my chest. 
What is happening to me? Since when do I react to an attractive man like this? Hot guys walk into The Sandpiper Inn all the time. Even a celebrity recently—Jake Ward from that TV show, Wave Watchers. Although I found him to be a bit on the childish side at times. But still, really attractive as long as he didn’t talk. You know what I mean?
Dominic gestures to a chair. “My grandmother fell and broke her hip, so he flew out to Arizona to help her until she gets back on her feet.”
His explanation brings a rush of compassion as I remember a similar situation with my nana. “Oh, that’s awful. I hope she’s okay.”
“She’s fine, but she lives alone and will need help for a while.”
This revelation sets off a string of alarms in my head, setting off a headache, too. I rub my forehead as I sit down and place my laptop on the table. “Did Bill have time to fill you in about what we do each year?”
Dominic resumes his place at the table, then lifts the pad he was writing on when I first arrived and holds it out to me. “I took the liberty of jotting down a menu for the Christmas Eve party and the dinner for Christmas Day. I have some thoughts for the New Year’s Eve party as well.”
I tentatively take the notepad that has food stains around the edges, and the bottom corners of the pages are curled. Dominic’s handwriting is almost as messy but legible, at least. I skim down the page and see a variety of dishes listed that I’ve never even heard of, let alone tried. And none of them sound like the kind of dishes my guests would expect for the holidays. 
“This is…” I glance up at him. “Unusual.”
His brows shoot up as he takes the notepad back from me. “Unusual? As in?”
Uh oh… 
I think I may have offended him. When Bill suggests something I don’t feel will work for my clientele, I simply say no, and he’s fine with it. But Dominic seems genuinely confused by my assessment.
I hold out my hands. “Many of our repeat guests have favorites now. Your uncle is a master at the classics, like turkey with stuffing and all the rest, like we did at Thanksgiving.”
“Hmm, I see.” His eyes are hooded, and he’s frowning now. 
And my headache just ramped up a notch. I rub my temples. “No offense, really, but can we revise this a bit to add in more traditional choices?”
He tilts his head. “When did you eat last?”
I drop my hands. Is this some kind of test? “Excuse me?”
He gestures at me. “Simple question. When was the last time you ate?”
“Dinner last night, but I really don’t see what that has to do with—”
He jumps up from his chair and disappears through the door separating the dining area and the kitchen.
Okay… Did I offend the man so much that he would storm away in a huff?
I stand and straighten my dress as I make quick steps to follow, again wishing I’d worn more sensible shoes. But I splurged on these things, something I rarely do, and doggone it, I’m going to enjoy them.
Until I don’t.
My heel hits the edge of the carpet at the swinging door to the kitchen, and I go flying. And just as I think I’m going to crash into the counter and slump into a messy puddle on the floor, strong arms catch me under my arms and haul me up against something very firm.
As in Dominic’s chest.
I’m now clinging to the front of his chef coat when I realize my feet aren’t touching the floor. I kick my feet ever so slightly as heat spreads up my cheeks. 
Can this day get any worse?
“Please put me down.”
Still holding me like a child trying to worm her way back to the ground, he leans to the side and looks down. “Cute shoes.”
“Deadly, too, I think.” My voice sounds high-pitched. Maybe because I’m having a hard time breathing, and when I do manage to take a breath, a heady aroma of spices mixed with cedar overwhelms my senses.
He loosens his hold so that I slide down to the floor as he stares into my eyes. Then he clears his throat, whirls around, and strides to the refrigerator to pluck out a container of eggs, a box of mushrooms, and another package that looks like some kind of cheese.
While his back is to me, I strategically use this time to compose myself and make a mental note not to wear heels when I chase after someone. Not that I had any idea I’d be chasing after a chef who seems determined to waste my time. 
And by the way, this kitchen feels really warm at the moment.
He reaches into a basket on a shelf over the prep counter and pulls out a shallot, which he proceeds to chop faster than the squirrel I saw scratching his ear on my way over. “This won’t technically be a quiche since you don’t have time, but it will give you an idea.”
He puts emphasis on the part about time. Does he think I just twiddle my thumbs all day? “This really isn’t necessary.” I check my watch again. “I’d much rather discuss the menu for the events.”
He slices the mushrooms and throws them into a sauté pan that’s already cooking the onion. The man moves with the grace of a lion between the counter and the cooktop, whipping eggs, adding cheese, and then the sautéed vegetables without saying a word. 
Within minutes, he grabs a plate, slides the contents of the skillet onto a plate, then spins around and presents the fluffiest omelet I’ve ever seen. 
The aroma makes my mouth water instantly, and my stomach complains about its empty cavern status. 
With a smirk, he plucks a fork from his pocket and hands it to me, then raises a brow, like he’s challenging me to prove him wrong.
I narrow my eyes as I snatch the utensil from his hand and cut a small piece to taste.
“No, you won’t get the full flavor that way.” He takes the fork back and fills it with a portion big enough to release the cheese and mushrooms hiding inside.
“That’s a lot—” 
He pops the fork into my mouth, cutting off my protest. Then, every ounce of my resistance melts along with the egg and cheese on my tongue. The savory taste of mushrooms, garlic, and something smoky I can’t even begin to describe brings an audible moan from my lips.
It’s like heaven on a fork. I hold my hand to my mouth so I can speak without showing a mouthful. “Oh my…” 
The corners of his mouth glide up, which brings a warmth to his gaze, like melting chocolate, and my heart kind of flips. 
“I’m glad you like it.”
I reluctantly swallow, missing the intense flavors immediately and longing for more. “Like is an understatement.”
He proceeds to feed me another bite. “Now, will you trust me with your menu?”
All I can think about is finishing this incredible yet simple dish he created within minutes. I take the fork and plate from him. “That depends.”
He crosses his arms and assesses me. “On what?”
“Can you make gingerbread? I want to add building gingerbread houses to the events calendar.”
He’s shaking his head before I even finish asking. “No, not houses. It’s too humid here. I can do cookies, like gingerbread boys for decorating. Surely your guests will enjoy that more. They can take the cookies with them.”
As much as I hate to admit it, he’s right. I guess Mrs. Sanderson will have to understand the change of plan. But I’m not giving in that easily.
“Fine. I can live with cookies. But not just gingerbread boys. Girls, too.” I stuff another bite of omelet into my mouth and try not to moan in ecstasy.
“Girls?” The subtle lift of his brows accentuates the uptick of the corners of his mouth, but this isn’t a smile of delight but more of disbelief. Add to that the subtle shake of his shoulders that tells me he’s laughing at my expense.
Maybe I should use one of my shoes as a weapon.
I give him a quick nod, then swallow my food. “Equal opportunity cookies.” 
He rolls his eyes. “Then why not Christmas trees and stockings, too?” 
I keep my face straight, determined to show him I’m a professional and not easily swayed, even though my insides are quaking at his audacity. “Perfect. The more shapes, the better. I can make this a two-hour event instead of one.”
He frowns at me. “Is it always about business for you?”


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