Shopping For Christmas, page 1
SHOPPING for
CHRISTMAS
BY
PAT SIMMONS
This short story is a work of fiction. References to real events, organizations, or places are used in a fictional context. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, are entirely coincidental. All Scriptures cited are from the King James Version Bible.
@2025 Pat Simmons
First Draft: Chandra Sparks Splond
Copyeditor/proofreader: Beth Bazar
Final Proofreader: Miriam “Cookie” Mitchell
Formatting Design: Kimolisa/Fiverr.com
Cover Design: Romance Novel Covers
Praise for Pat Simmons
The fingerprints of books by esteemed Christian fiction author Pat Simmons are on file in the hearts of readers. Every Day is Christmas has the same identifiable features: commitment to Jesus Christ, Scriptures, romance, humor, close family ties, relatable trials and tribulations, and more.—Robin R. Pendleton
Waiting for Christmas. This book is amazing. I thoroughly enjoyed reading this book. Pat Simmons is the Queen of clean and Godly stories. I love it!!!! Ciara has a heart to give. Sterling and Ciara make a great couple, despite their own issues. It was awesome to see how their relationship blossomed into something beautiful. God, as always, is the reason for every season. Pat Simmons, may God bless your creative hand as always. —Rubykat
Christmas Takeover was a sweet family story that gives you a glimpse into how Christmas should be celebrated, Jamieson-style. Pat Simmons weaved a story filled with fun, humor, love, and change. Pace and Harmony will warm your heart with each look and conversation centered around the meaning of Christmas... Enjoyable, fast-paced read. —Msmagnolia Reads
Table of Contents
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
About the Author
Other Christian Titles
Chapter 1
Imani Robinson was a hero. Like a mail carrier, she braved the elements through flash floods, dodging ice pellets, and lathering sunscreen to shield against the shooting sunrays. Yeah, Imani risked her life so that folks could eat.
She delivered food, including fish and chips for game night, medicine to the sick, and old-fashioned mama’s recipes—such as soup, juice, and aspirin—for cold and flu symptoms. She even served as a nursemaid in a way, tending to babies’ need for diapers, milk, and food.
To pay for grad school, she joined the ranks as a personal grocery shopper. Without a social life, shopping gave her human interaction. Customers ordered through the Home Delivery app. But, she would walk away from it all in two months with a Master of Public Health degree.
Now, it was time for Imani to give back—not the tips—but in another way to remind others that Jesus is the reason for the Christmas season.
Shuffling ideas in her head, Imani let her mind drift to one delivery, months earlier, which changed everything. It started with a familiar alert.
“You have reached your destination.”
Imani remembered the story-and-a-half house’s curb appeal. Three gabled dormers hinted that a bedroom occupied the upstairs. A plush green lawn resembled a golf course. Twin pots, with yellow and purple pansies stationed on both sides of the door, won her over. She sighed and patted her chest. Something about the color combination was whimsical.
From the sidewalk to the sage door, which blended seamlessly with the charcoal brick exterior, its charm beckoned outsiders to come inside for a peek.
She stopped gawking at the house to read the customer’s instructions: Drop off the order, which meant she would leave the bags, take a photo to confirm delivery, then leave.
Imani weighed down her arms with as many plastic bags as she could carry and headed to Brandon J.’s porch for the drop-off. The door cracked open as if there was something sinister behind it. Then two excited children appeared, drooling for their goodies. They were adorable.
“Did you bring chocolate?” asked the younger child, a girl with warm brown skin that complemented her little brown doe eyes.
“Ah . . .” Imani mentally scanned the items ordered. It seemed like everything but that was on the list. “No, sweetie.”
The little girl pouted and eyed the bags, strained with cookies, chips, frozen pizza, and juice. The latter, by the way, was getting heavy.
What parent allows their children to eat this stuff? Imani wondered. Didn’t they know that childhood obesity increases the chances of developing type 2 diabetes?
A public health crisis.
Water, frozen vegetables, fresh lettuce with a few toppings, and chicken drumsticks seemed like an afterthought.
As Imani was about to hand each child a bag to relieve her load, another presence filled the gap. A perfect specimen of God’s handiwork commanded the doorway. The tall, dark brown, muscular man distracted her. Too many words were scrambled in her head to describe him. Even his uncombed, thick black hair, which faded into his trimmed beard, was fashionable.
He eyed the bags, then the children. “What did you two order?” He lifted a silky black eyebrow and jammed his fist on his waist.
Sexy but intimidating.
“Everything,” Imani mumbled as the children stood frozen, not answering.
Acknowledging her for the first time, his features softened. “Sorry. I left these two alone for five minutes, and this is the damage they caused. Need any help?”
“Brandon, right?” she asked, verifying that he was the customer. “Yes, please,” then began to relieve her arms of the dead weight, which he passed to his children to take to the kitchen.
He stepped outside into the crisp spring weather in his house slippers, sweat shorts, and a long-sleeved T-shirt. Shivering for him, Imani pulled her thick, hooded cardigan tighter. She was cold-natured. But it was May, so the temperatures would start to warm up. He took the lead in walking to her car and shook his head at her trunk’s contents. “This is all mine?”
The expression she gave him was his answer. Brandon seemed truly surprised by his children’s activities.
Although this was two deliveries, the next customer’s order, which was smaller, was in her backseat.
Brandon swiped the remaining bags and heaved the two water cases as if they were pillows. Imani blinked in disbelief as his muscles protested their entrapment.
“That was impressive. It would have taken me at least three more trips.”
He shrugged off her compliment. “You’d think since they ordered all this food, they would be here to help.”
Right! Imani kept that comment to herself. If she criticized his parenting skills, he might remove her tip from the order. She snapped a picture of Brandon and his groceries.
“Well, enjoy the rest of your day, and happy eating. If you’re satisfied with my selections, I hope you’ll give me a five-star review.”
“You’ve earned ten stars.” Brandon nodded and closed the door as Imani heard him yelling, “Aja, Tyler, don’t think about opening any of this junk. . . .”
Imani snickered, but she hoped he wouldn’t be too harsh with them. He was probably a great dad.
The house, the husband, and the kids. Some women had it all. If only Imani could order a practicing Christian for a husband online, she would put him in her shopping cart for delivery.
BRANDON JOHNSON MIGHT have been briefly distracted when he came to the door, but he didn’t miss the shopper’s understated beauty. His security camera had alerted him that a visitor was coming. The ridiculous number of bags reminded him of a trash dumpster or an unsupervised shopping spree, which I guessed it was. Home training prevented him from reprimanding the children in front of company.
He retraced his footsteps to his state-of-the-art kitchen, which offered a panoramic view of the great room, dining room, and deck. The builder’s former display house was stocked with premium upgrades that enticed future homeowners to buy from this developer.
The decorator hadn’t missed a detail, from the porcelain floor tile that complemented the front door’s sage green color to the pearl-gray cabinets that blended with the white crown molding throughout the house.
Neighbors called it a wife’s haven. Brandon didn’t have a wife—yet—to share it with.
But back to his present crisis. Aja, five, and her brother, Tyler, who was seven, stopped ransacking the grocery bags that littered every available space on the L-shaped granite counters and stared up at him.
Crossing his arms, Brandon feigned a snarl. Six feet four inches tall and 230 pounds, mostly of solid muscle, would make others tremble. Those two? He couldn’t intimidate them.
Aja and Tyler used their innocent expressions as weapons as they competed with him in a stare-off duel.
Brandon mustered a roar. “What did you two order while I took an important call? I said add one treat apiece to the shopping cart and hit send. That poor woman had to bring all that stuff to our door.”
His niece and nephew, who’d been left in his care while their parents, Brandon’s older brother and sister-in-law, were away at a conference.
“I know, but . . . we kept seeing pictures that said we could add to our cart.” Aja’s lips quivered, pleading
Lifting his shoulders, Tyler bobbed his head. “Yep, that’s what happened.”
Brandon wasn’t falling for it. “Who is supposed to eat all this stuff?” He pulled out party-size bags of chips and spied two six-packs of mini juices, in addition to the two cases of bottled water that Brandon had ordered, which the poor woman had to carry.
He paused his tirade. No, they didn’t. Oreos? They were his favorite as a child, but wait. Brandon refused to be tempted as he rummaged through the bags for the drumsticks he’d planned to bake.
“We are, Uncle Bran.” Aja gave him a dimpled smile like her mother’s. She resembled a baby doll with her thick Afro puffs and chocolate skin. Aja had him and her daddy wrapped around her finger.
“But we’re staying until the weekend, and we can’t starve,” Tyler tried to reason with him. His resemblance to Brandon was so strong that strangers mistook him for his son.
“Unless I put you two out.”
Aja ran up to him and squeezed his waist in a bear hug. “But you love us.”
“Mm-hmm.” He hugged her back. “True, but I’m not falling for this. Your parents will have a fit if I let you eat this junk food. Pick out a couple of treats to keep, and the rest goes to a homeless shelter.”
Aja shrieked in horror. “You can’t give them junk food!” She threw his words back at him. “It’s unhealthy.”
The girl’s theatrics didn’t faze Brandon as he squinted. “Not working. I’m going to put the chicken and the rest of the food I ordered away, then we’re going to look up a shelter or food pantry.”
They groaned their disappointment as Aja stomped away, pouting and mumbling that he was unfair.
The joke was on Brandon. Never, ever shop online with those two again.
Now, what was Imani’s story? The gold sweater she wore highlighted her fair, flawless skin. Unless her St. Louis Cardinals baseball red cap belonged to her father, brother, husband, or boyfriend, the woman was a baseball fan.
Brandon hadn’t wanted to stare at the shopper, but he had to admire her beauty. He appreciated her sculpted features, including those cheeks and lips.
Yeah, he couldn’t wait to place his next order.
Chapter 2
Most of Imani’s customers faded from memory, but Brandon J. had resurrected her desire for companionship. Dinner for two at Tiffany’s was only a fantasy without any prospects.
But something else nagged at her. Did the children’s mother condone such bad eating habits? The family could benefit from an education on healthy eating rather than indulging in a food fest, although Brandon’s physique suggested he hadn’t formed an alliance with carbs.
After her next delivery, Imani signed off the app, achieving her monetary goal for the day. At home, she gobbled down her leftovers—stir-fried vegetables and cold crispy chicken. That left her an hour before her online biostatistics class started.
Studying was Imani’s priority. She was fully invested in a career that would improve the health of communities. Imani had spent eight years as an archivist at the history museum until funding for the arts was cut.
Then she learned there was a skill to job hunting, and Imani didn’t have it, so by default, she had filled in as a substitute teacher to share her love of history. But the income wasn’t steady.
And that’s when she’d stumbled upon the Home Delivery opportunity. Who knew there was a skill to eavesdropping in the dairy section?
“Yeah, man, if you need an extra couple hundred dollars a week, I can recruit you.” There was a pause. “I make about a thousand a week and work my own hours and days.”
Imani’s jaw dropped. She was interested. By the time the two walked away, Imani had added six cartons of eggs to her basket when she had come for egg whites. She parked the cart and suddenly, just like that, Imani tuned into a stalker, trailing the red T-shirt guy from aisle to aisle. He moved swiftly and efficiently.
Yeah, they should talk. Imani retraced her steps to her cart, but it was missing.
“Oh, no.” She stomped her foot. Some items had been the last ones on the shelves. Why did all shopping baskets look alike? Imani needed a kiddie cart with a flag.
Her mission was diverted again; she peeked into nearby baskets. Customers who caught her behavior gave her a warning, “don’t even think about taking my stuff”, or a “what’s your problem?” glare.
That’s what I get for ear hustling. Defeated, Imani gave up her hunt and decided to track down that red T-shirt guy for more information. He was at the register. As quickly as the clerk rang up the items, he bagged them as if he were their employee.
Imani looked at her target and headed toward the checkout, but her lost cart filled with her items came into view, parked near the pharmacy. She had to make a split-second decision: reclaim her groceries or leave them and chase after the man with the money. Imani gave up the hunt and finished her own shopping.
The next day, with limited information available, she searched online and signed up to become a Home Delivery shopper.
The man’s boasting proved true. The tips were amazing. Week one, she earned an impressive amount despite getting orders mixed up and a missing tomato that rolled to the back of her trunk.
Week two, she was a pro, gliding down the aisles, following small flashing lights on shelves that alerted her to look “here” for the items. It was fun, but Imani didn’t want a side hustle. She wanted a career, so she enrolled in school, and the grocery-shopping gig paid for it.
The classes were brutal. She had to memorize case studies, reading ten to twenty pages a day, taking quizzes, and attending weekly seminars via social media from professionals. Imani was mentally exhausted after the professor led a detailed discussion on the US public health research data from the last decade. She stood from behind her desk in her home office/spare bedroom, stretched, and sought refuge in her happy place.
An updated bathroom.
She soaked in the tub and pampered her skin with a luxurious vanilla-bean body scrub. Her mother’s ringtone caused Imani to climb out, splashing water on the floor as she grabbed a towel to wrap around her. Imani ignored her wet footprints as she answered the phone in the bedroom.
Despite a thirty-year age difference, people often mistook the mother and daughter for sisters. Thirty-four and an only child, Imani was close to her widowed mother, Pauline Robinson.
“I haven’t heard your voice today. You forgot to call and let me know you made it home from buying other people’s food, as you insist on doing.”
Imani stifled a yawn as she patted herself dry. “Sorry, Mom. After class, my body craved a hot bath, and you know how much I enjoy soaking. And the money is good for a couple of hours of work. Home Delivery is paying for my classes.” If Imani recruited others, which she hadn’t, she would earn bonuses. That would be even more money.
“Of course, if you had a husband, you wouldn’t have to work so hard.”
Sighing, Imani walked back into her bathroom and slipped as she reached for her body lotion. She landed on her bottom and dropped her phone, but quickly retrieved it. “Mom, I know some married couples who are struggling to get ahead. Plus, you’ve told me God is the greatest matchmaker.”
“Yes, He is, sweetie. Get some rest. Talk to you tomorrow.”
“Okay.” Imani got on her knees, wiped the remaining water from her marble floor, discarded the towel, then climbed into her pajamas. She was about to say her nighttime prayers when her phone alerted her to a text Imani was tempted to ignore.
But curiosity got the best of her, so she peeked. Home Delivery had sent her a text: Hi, shopper. Customer Brandon J. left a review and has increased your tip to $100.
“What?” slowly escaped from Imani’s lips. She blinked with disbelief. She enjoyed the gig because of the tips, but she had never, ever received one that big.
She read his review. Imani was professional and friendly to my niece and nephew, even though they went overboard with the shopping. Ten stars if possible. Hope she will shop for me again.
Not his children, huh? Why was that tidbit more interesting than the generous tip? She sent a generic thank-you, as direct communication between the shopper and the customer ended after delivery.
Interesting. Imani blushed and planned to keep lip gloss in her car in case she got another order from Brandon J. She wanted to be ready for their “next time.”
