Christmas Treats: A Christmas 2019 Holiday Collection, page 1
Christmas Treats
Celia Aaron
Christmas Treats
Celia Aaron
Copyright © 2019 Celia Aaron
All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book only. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Celia Aaron. This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
WARNING: This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language.
DIRE WARNING: If you pirate this book, Santa will put coal in your stocking (which I will then light on fire).
Contents
Christmas Candy
1. Olive
2. Hank
3. Olive
4. Hank
5. Olive
6. Olive
7. Hank
8. Olive
9. Hank
10. Olive
11. Hank
12. Olive
13. Hank
14. Olive
Epilogue
A Cowboy for Christmas
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
A Stepbrother for Christmas
1. Annalise
2. Niles
3. Annalise
4. Niles
5. Annalise
6. Niles
7. Annalise
Epilogue
Christmas Cake
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
24. Christmas Day
25. Christmas Cake Bonus Scene
Also by Celia Aaron
About the Author
Christmas Candy
Olive
Can you smell it? I can. Sugar in the air, on my tongue, swirling through the cracks in the door and polluting everything inside my studio.
I frown and lean forward on my mat. “Transition into the child’s pose.”
My class follows my lead, stretching their arms out in front of them. Instead of pressing my forehead to the mat and breathing deeply, I stare at the shop across the street, at my enemy.
“Candy” the sign says in big red letters. He’s in there. Hank. I can see straight through my wide glass windows, across the dark, snowy street, and into his sparkling shop. He has a wide ribbon of taffy looped around a hook. With steady movements, he pulls it, loops it, pulls it, loops it.
I can’t quite make out the tone of his muscles, but I know it’s there. Irritation wells in me for the millionth time. Of all the places for him to set up a candy shop, it just had to be across from my studio? What sort of prick sells sweets to people who are trying to get in shape?
“Olive?” Candace, my friend and student, glances up at me from her mat.
I’d forgotten to flow to the next pose. Hank had a way of doing that to me—making me lose my place. He’d done it ever since high school. But no more. I was in control here.
I give Candace a nod. “Planks, everyone. I want to see straight backs.” Stretching my legs out, I push up and hold my pose. “If you can’t quite get to the plank—either on your toes or on your knees—a cobra pose will give you a stretch until you can work up to it.”
My students, fifteen women and two men in various stages of fitness, follow my lead and take their positions. I force myself to keep my eyes focused on them instead of the man across the street.
I can sense him, though, pulling taffy in the window. Sugar tickles the tip of my tongue, and I curse the day he bought the old Sullivan Shoes building and began renovations. I’d told the town council that we didn’t need a sweet shop in town, even provided information from the surgeon general about the dangers of sugar. (Maybe I’d gone overboard … just a little).
Then Hank had stood, looking just as devil-may-care as he had in high school, and talked about tax revenues and brightening up downtown just in time for the holidays. When he’d shot me a confident smirk, I’d scowled right back at him.
I try to push away the memories of him in high school, the way I’d followed him around and stared as he ran track. The dreams I’d had of him giving me my first kiss or taking me on a date. Me, chubby, brace-faced Olive Granderson, on a date with Hank Winters, track star—the high school dream is laughable as I look back on it.
Now, I watch my figure, assiduously avoiding sweets and maintaining a positive—if rigid—body image. Hank still has the same svelte body, the bright green eyes and almost black hair, but I won’t fall for his charm. I am a business woman, self-made pillar of Hollyton.
Despite my standing in the community, the council dismissed my objections and called Hank’s shop “progress” for the town’s re-emerging Main Street. And now here we are. Adversaries right across the way from each other.
When he’d opened the shop, I’d caught more than a few of my students across the street, furtively eyeing the goodies in the window. The desire to call them out as traitors in the next class almost overwhelmed me. But I didn’t, though I may have made them plank for a little longer than necessary.
The muscles in my thighs and arms begin to burn the slightest bit, and a couple students drop their knees to the mat.
“Count it down with me. Five, four, three, two, one. Relax into child’s pose and breathe deeply.”
My class sighs with relief as they let themselves sink to their mats. A few more stretches and calming breaths later, and I end the class with “Namaste.”
I hit the remote to turn off the soothing water sounds, then drop down to the floor from my platform to visit with students.
“Went kind of hard on the planking again today,” Candace grumbles as she rolls her mat.
I shrug. “Just trying to burn a few more calories so everyone can eat more at Christmas next week.”
She glances at the shop across the street and wipes the sweat from her forehead. “Yeah, I’m sure that’s the reason.”
“Thanks, Olive.” Mrs. Reed hurries past. She’s sixty years old, but more spritely than most of my students in their twenties.
“Happy to have you this morning. See you for my Saturday class?”
“I’ll try and make it, dear. Family coming to town.” She fluffs her short white curls in the plate glass window, then slings her yoga mat across her slim back.
“All right, then. If you can’t, have a lovely Christmas, tell Mayor Reed hello for me, and I’ll see you in the new year.” I reach up and tighten my ponytail. Habit.
“See you then.” She smiles and hotfoots it across the street. Right to Hank’s shop. I watch as she arranges her breasts in her sports bra. Then she pulls the door open and sashays into Hank’s den of iniquity. Damn it!
My other students filter out the door. I give them half-hearted “Merry Christmases” as I glare at Mrs. Reed. Hank is smiling as they chat.
“Olive.” Candace pulls her oversized shirt away from her body, trying to increase the ventilation beneath the fabric. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.” My voice is strangled, tight. I watch as Mrs. Reed laughs at something Hank said. Something I bet wasn’t even funny. But I’m sure she’s only doing it to be nice. She’s the mayor’s wife, has to keep up appearances and all. Surely that’s the only reason.
“Oh god, does this mean we have to do more planking?” Candace stares at Mrs. Reed and then looks back at me. “Isn’t she a diabetic?”
“Yes!” I hiss and cross my arms over my chest as Hank hands Mrs. Reed a bag of sweets and she pays him. “Backstabbing traitor. Of course she can’t eat any of that. She comes here to get healthy, and then that, that purveyor of death sells her sweets that will kill her!”
Candace squints one eye at me as if what I said is ludicrous. “She’s probably getting some treats for her grandkids. Relax.”
I give Candace what I hope is a searing scowl.
She blinks and slings her workout bag over her shoulder. “I should get home. Ben is awful at getting the kids to bed without me. Hopefully, I can start coming to earlier classes next year.”
I pry my eyes away from Hank and the clearly unstable Mrs. Reed. “Sounds good. I’ll work you into whichever class you want.”
“Thanks.” She walks toward the door. “Are you going to close
up? Want to walk together?”
“No.” I shake my head. I live right next door to Candace, but I have other ideas about how to spend my evening. “I need to clean up some and do a little bookkeeping.”
“Okay. See you tomorrow morning, then.” She turns and glances at the candy shop. “Don’t obsess. It’s not a big deal. Not really. It’s just candy.”
“Just candy.” I try to keep my voice steady, especially since Candace is well aware of my weight struggles in high school and college. It wasn’t until I began yoga and Pilates that I finally got a handle on my body. I eat right, avoid sugar, and definitely do not lust after sweets the way I used to. Not at all. I grit my teeth.
“Okay, you’re doing that weird stare thing again, so I’m going to go.” She squeezes my shoulder. “See you for coffee first thing. Oh, and then we have to do that Christmas fundraiser thing over at the senior home at nine. Don’t stay too late obsessing over Hank the hottie and all his treats. You have plenty of other things to worry about, including a handsy Grampa Barnes.”
“I don’t even know whose grampa he is.” I cringe at the memory of wrinkly hands patting my butt. “And don’t worry.” I try to smile. “I’m not obsessing, and yes, I’ll be over for coffee in the morning.”
“Good.” She opens the door, and a burst of chill air cuts through the studio. “Love you.”
“Love you, too.” I relent and give her a real smile.
“Better.” She grins and lets the door close before turning left and walking toward home.
I spend another hour in the studio, cleaning the floors and organizing the workout gear. At nine, I hit the lights and stare at the candy shop. Hank is inside wiping the counter. I watch him work for five minutes until he turns off the glowing candy sign and the inside goes dark. Only the case along the front window remains lit.
Waiting five more minutes, I scan the store for any movement. Nothing. He must have gone up to his loft above the shop. I shrug on my navy pea coat and yank my ponytail free. Then I press on a knit cap and toy with the idea of sunglasses. Overkill. I decide that if anyone sees me, I’ll pretend to just be walking on his side of the street—not staring into his shop. Nope.
I step out into the frigid air, my boots crunching on the slushy snow right outside my studio. After clicking the lock, I look up and down the street. No cars at the moment.
The decorative stars along the street lights give an extra glow to the snow piled along the curb. I step over a low, slushy bank and into the road. The town Christmas tree peeks out from behind the gazebo down the street in the square.
I hustle across the pavement and jump the other snow pile as my breath comes out in a puff of white. Once I gain the opposite sidewalk, I press myself against the brick wall next to the sweet shop’s door. A car turns onto Main Street and I inspect my shoes as it passes. No honk, no nothing—I haven’t been recognized.
I get a whiff of something fruity and intoxicatingly sweet as I ease toward the glowing case. I close my eyes and take a breath, sampling the full taste of my enemy as I approach his lair. The glass gleams bright, the treats within luring me closer—bonbons, caramels, hard candies, candy canes, sugared nuts, and a row of chocolate chip cookies that make my mouth water.
“Strong, be strong.” I’ve come here for recon, not to fall prey to Hank’s sweets. I force a frown onto my face and shoot negative thoughts at the sugary confections.
Everything seems to be going well—I’m hating on Hank and the sweets he creates—until the shop’s door opens. I freeze.
Hank smiles and leans his lanky body against the door frame. “It tastes even better than it looks.”
Hank
I watched her scurry across the street, her legs looking killer in a pair of tight yoga pants. She tried to play it cool, hanging around next to the door, but then the light from the case against the window drew her in. I stood in the dark, only a few feet away from her, but she couldn’t see past the glare.
Her eyes—the big blue ones I remembered from high school—widened, and she licked her full lips. Did she have any idea what that simple movement of her tongue could do to a man? But then she’d frowned and I’d made my move.
Now she’s looking at me with a mix of contempt and guilt, as if I’d caught her in the middle of an illicit activity.
“Would you like to come in?” I flick the lights on in the shop.
She steps back, out of the pool of light. “No.”
“You sure?” I don’t want to spook her, but I’ve been watching her across the street for the entire week, ever since I opened my candy shop’s doors. Getting closer to her is something I’ve thought about quite a bit and now I have the perfect opportunity. “I can whip you up a hot cocoa for the road.”
“No, thank you.” She puts a gloved hand to her face as a car passes. “I need to get home.”
“It’s Olive, right?”
She straightens her spine, as if I’d wounded her pride by not knowing. “Olive Granderson.”
I keep playing dumb. “Did we go to high school together or something?”
Her back straightens even more. “Yes.”
I remember her. How could I forget? The braids, light brown hair, braces, and then the curves that hit when we were in eleventh grade. Jesus, she’d fueled plenty of my teenage fantasies during the last two years of school. Now she’s thinner, but still has an hourglass that speaks to some primitive part of my brain. The caveman in me knows she’s a keeper. Even so, I’m losing the battle of trying to get her in my door. She takes another step back as a car rolls by, then stops.
The driver rolls down her window. “Olive, is that you?”
Olive tries to shrink back against the storefront, but it only sheds more light on her heart-shaped face. She mumbles under her breath, then responds, “Yes, Mrs. Black.”
“Thank goodness.” She pulls closer to the curb. “I forgot to mention earlier today that we need you and Candace to bring some snacks to the senior home tomorrow. The usual caterer has the flu, so we’re throwing some things together on the fly.” She glances at me. “Well, hello Henry. Didn’t see you there.”
I give my high school chemistry teacher, Geraldine Black, a small wave. “Hi.”
“Nice to see you made something of yourself instead of trying to be in a rock band.” She doesn’t bother hiding her disapproval.
“I still play a mean electric guitar, Mrs. Black. How’s your son, by the way?” She narrows her eyes. I already know how her son is—fired from his position at the local TV station because he went into a homophobic tirade on the air.
Olive coughs into her palm and gives me a pointed glance.
“He’s just fine, Henry. Thank you for asking.” Mrs. Black turns her laser gaze back to Olive. “So, about those snacks—”
“I’d be happy to pitch in.” I grin at Olive. “Come on in and I’ll load you up with some treats to take to the senior center.”
“Perfect!” Mrs. Black squawks and starts rolling up her window.
Olive’s eyes widen, the blue sparkling under the streetlights. “No. I should probably go by the grocery instead and—”
“I can’t wait to get a taste of what you’ve whipped up, Henry.” Mrs. Black pulls away as Olive sputters and eventually goes silent.
