Marry-Me Christmas Read Online Free PDF Page B

her, would not. “Your, ah, zipper is all fixed.”
    “Thanks.” She flashed that smile his way again.
    That was when Flynn MacGregor realized he had a problem. He’d been distracted from the minute he’d walked into that bakery.
     
    Betsy’s Bed and Breakfast was located less than six blocks from Earl’s repair shop, but with Flynn MacGregor so close, the ride seemed to take ten hours instead of ten minutes. Sam was aware of his every breath, his every movement. She kept her eyes on the road, not just because visibility had become nearly zero, but because it seemed as if the only thing she saw in her peripheral vision was Flynn.
    She hadn’t been out on a date in—
    Well, a long time. Too much work, too little personal life. That must be why her every thought seemed to revolve around him. Why she’d become hyperaware of the woodsy notes of his cologne. Why her gaze kept straying to his hands, his broad shoulders, the cleft in his jaw.
    This ride was a prime opportunity to impress him. To tell him more about the bakery. Not flirt. Not that him jumping in to help with her zipper was flirting…except she had held her breath when he’d gotten so close. Noted the fit of his jacket. The flecks of gold in his eyes. The way the last rays of sun glinted in his hair.
    Business, Sam. Business.
    “Have you interviewed many bakery owners?” she asked. Then wanted to kick herself. She hadn’t exactly hit the witty jackpot with that one.
    “A few. Mostly, I cover high-end restaurants. Or, I did.” He gave her a wry grin, one that made her wonder about the use of the past tense. “All those chefs courting heart attacks, trying to maintain their five-star ratings.”
    Sam stopped the Jeep, the four-wheel drive working hard to grip the icy roads, and let a mother and her three children cross the street. Sam recognized Linda Powell, and waved to her through the front window. The littlest Powell waved back, a small red mittened hand bringing a smile to Sam’s face. “Is the restaurant business really that competitive?”
    He snorted. “Are you kidding? In some cities, these places campaign all year to garner those ratings. They agonize over their menus, stress over the tiniest ingredients, sometimes shipping in a certain fish from one pocket of the world because the chef insists absolutely nothing else will do. Every detail is obsessed over, nitpicked at like it’s life and death. They’ll accept nothing less than the unqualified best. A bad review can close a place, a good review can skyrocket it to the top.”
    “But…that’s ridiculous.” She halted at a stop sign, waiting to make the right onto Maple Street. The Jeep’s wipers clicked back and forth, wiping snow off the frosty glass. “A review is simply one person’s opinion.”
    “Ah, but people like me are paid to be the experts.” Flynn put a hand on his chest, affecting a dramatic posture. “They live or die by our words.”
    They had reached Betsy’s Bed and Breakfast, where a small hand-painted sign out front announced the converted Victorian’s vacancies. Sam stopped in front of the quaint home and parked alongside the front walk. Betsy, a complete Christmas fanatic, had decked the entire porch in holiday flare, with a moving Santa, twinkling lights and even a lighted sleigh and reindeer on the roof.
    “And what about me?” Sam asked, turning to Flynn before he exited the Jeep. “What do you think will be my fate? Do you think I’ll skyrocket to the top?”
    Flynn studied her for a long time, his gaze unreadable in the darkening day, a storm in his blue eyes rivaling the one in the sky. “That, Miss Barnett, is still to be determined.”

CHAPTER FOUR
    B ETSY W ILLIAMS , the owner of the bed and breakfast, greeted Flynn with bells on. Literally.
    The buxom, wide woman hurried across the foyer and put out her arms, the bells on her house slippers jingling and jangling as she moved, like a one-person reindeer symphony. “Welcome! It’s so nice