“Papa, can I have a cookie?”
I look down at Scout, remembering where I am. At a bakery with my little girl.
“So, what will it be?” the woman asks again, her voice so sweet — sugary, but not fake. And she looks more delicious than a Christmas cookie. Waiting for my answer, she’s frosted to perfection. Glossy red lips. Dark hair. A Santa’s hat on her head. A candy-striped apron over her hourglass figure.
“These ones here are my special ones. I decorated them all myself. I have a thing for sugar cookies. You have to when you live on Sugar Mountain.”
I cough into my hand, collecting myself. There is a time and place for everything and damn, I know what place I’d like to be with her.
“We’ll take two hot chocolates and two sugar cookies,” I say to Scout’s delight. She is clapping her hands and saying thank you. Adorable and polite. I somehow won the single-father lottery.
“Which ones?” the woman asks. “We have lots of choices.”
You. I think it, but don’t say it. Instead, I ask Scout which ones she likes best.
“I want the snowflake and…” she looks up at me. “Which one do you want, Papa?”
“The snow-capped mountain,” I say.
The woman behind the counter beams. “That design was my idea. I mean, we are here at the base of a beautiful mountain range, so it seemed right.”
I nod. “It does feel like Christmas.”
She hands my daughter a bag with the cookies, then holds a paper cup and a marker. “What’s your name, sweetie?”
“Scout.”
The woman’s eyes widen, and she looks up at me. “Like in To Kill a Mockingbird?”
I shrug. “It’s my favorite.”
She smiles softly, writing Scout’s name. “Mine too. Growing up, our family dog was named Atticus.”
If that isn’t going to give me a hard-on, I don’t know what is.
She’s cuter than any Santa’s helper I’ve ever seen, appreciates the mountains, and likes to read.
God, I wish I were at a place in life to take this woman out for more than a sleigh ride.
“And your name?” she asks me.
“Brooks.” Running a hand over my beard I realize there is some legit Christmas magic in this mountain town. I haven’t felt inclined to ask a woman out in years. None set a spark in me, and it would take that in order for my focus to be on anything but Scout. “And uh, what’s your name?”
“Noelle.” She scrunches up her nose. “Christmas is my mom’s favorite holiday.”
Just then a woman with a clipboard swings into the bakery from a backroom. “Oh, good, Noelle. I need your help.”
“What is it, Greta?”
“I have to get the kids from school and Ansel isn’t home. Anyways, can you go in the back and finish the gingerbread?”
“Of course,” Noelle says, handing off the paper cups to a barista.
“I know you have the wedding venue to deal with, so I won’t be too long.”
“No worries, I don’t need to meet with the park director at the reception lodge until later this afternoon.”
I swallow. Planning her wedding? Of course. All the good ones are always taken. Of course, that would be my luck.
Noelle turns to me before she leaves, “Nice to meet you, Scout and Brooks. But it looks like duty is calling. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas,” Scout says with a wave as Noelle moves to the backroom. It looks like my little girl was equally enthralled.
We leave the bakery a little later after finishing our hot cocoa and treats. It may sound lame, but I kept hoping Noelle would come back into the shop, that I would get another look at her adorable face.
It’s been a long time since I felt so goddamn good — in part because Linesworth seems to have caught me in its Christmas spell — but also because Noelle made me feel like a man in my own right — not just a father. Not that it matters. She has her wedding to plan and it sure as hell isn’t ours.
When we get to my parents’ place, I help Scout out of her snow boots and parka and follow her into the cozy home my parents have retired in. It’s a small two-bedroom place, but I’m their only child, Scout their only grandchild, and so it fits us just fine for the few weeks of the year we spend here visiting.
“Papa bought me hot cocoa,” Scout announces as we enter the living room. There is a glowing fire in the fireplace, and the Christmas stockings hung on the mantel — but I immediately know something is wrong.
“What happened?” I ask, setting down my coat and gloves and moving toward my father. His foot is propped on a pillow. And he is wearing a cast.
When we left two hours ago, there wasn’t a thing wrong with him.
Mom is busting in from the kitchen, a cup of coffee in Dad’s favorite mug. “Oh, Brooks, you just wouldn’t believe it,” she says with a sigh. “One second he was in the driveway about to go to his job site, the next, he was on the pavement hollering about a broken foot.”