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 ABOUT THIS BOOK

Get married to save Christmas? Why not, I don’t have

anything else to lose.

Hope
My Cinderella story is stuck on the part before the fairy
Godmother comes to her aid. You know, when the stepmother and
sisters torment her. To appease them, I work four jobs with no
magical transformations or windfalls in sight, especially not in time
for Christmas.

Nico
When a singing Christmas-wish-o-gram girl does her charming
song and dance, I have no doubt my brothers are behind the goofy
gift. I’m the baby in the family, but by no means tiny. Sure, I’m the
youngest and most inexperienced when it comes to women, but I
can find my own dates, thanks very much.

Hope
The guy from the pizza shop who I accompanied to the
Christmas Market in town was cute, sweet, and someone I wouldn’t
mind seeing again if I had time for a life of my own—and wasn’t
trying to stop a vandal from ruining our town’s Winter Wonderland
extravaganza.
Nico
When it turns out she’s my neighbor and her stepmother and
stepsisters are shrews, I do the only sensible thing—offer to be her
fake husband to free her from their clutches. Unfortunately, I’ve
never kissed a woman. She’s quick to give me lessons, and I’m
starting to think there’s nothing fake about this. Nothing at all.

This is book 6 in the Costa Brothers Cozy Christmas Comfort

Romance Series, following six single, stubborn, and loyal brothers as
they find their happily ever afters. They’re clean and wholesome
romance, faith-friendly, stand alone stories but are best enjoyed
together.
Copyright © 2022 by Ellie Hall
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or
mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without
written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a
book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and
incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious
manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is
purely coincidental.
 A GIFT FOR YOU

Do you love sweet, swoony romance?

Stories with happy endings?
Falling in love?

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Click HERE to sign up & get your copy.
 CONTENTS

About this book

A Gift For You

Prologue
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
Epilogue

Costa's Kitchen Cookbook

Want More Frankie?
Acknowledgments
Also by Ellie Hall
About the Author
Let’s Connect
 PROLOGUE

D ear Santa,
Hello from Hawk Ridge Hollow! I hope you’ve had a great
Christmas season so far, and, um, have been doing well since we
last corresponded. Let’s see. I’m twenty-three, so it’s been well over
a decade since I dropped a line. I miss getting the replies from you
with the drawings from the elves on the front of the cards you’d
send. Those were so fun. Believe it or not, I still have them! Thanks
again.
I bet you’ve been busy. Me too. I’m sorry I haven’t written in so
long. A lot has happened. Where to start?
You know about my mom. My dad got remarried when I was
thirteen. I got two step-sisters out of the deal. I was worried at first.
You know, the whole Cinderella story drama. Things turned out, um,
okay. Well, so so. Fair to middling. At least for a while. Then, when I
was sixteen, Dad was in an accident and he’s gone too. Now, I’m
stuck with...well, never mind. I’ll spare you the details. I’m not
sending you this letter to complain.
When I was a little kid, I’d write to you with a full list of all the
good things I’d done that year. Let’s see, I still collect boxes of
crayons every summer and send them overseas to kids in need. I
recently crossed the ten thousand mark. Every week, I also read to
the residents at Hawk Ridge Hollow Helpers who have vision
impairments. Hard to believe I’ve been doing that since I learned
how to read.
 All in all, I think I’ve been a pretty good girl, er, adult woman.
Too bad Jackie would disagree. She’s always telling me how
ungrateful and rude I am. I’ll let you be the judge.
This year, I’m not writing to you with a request for gifts. By the
way, I loved the piano you got me when I was seven. Still trying to
figure out how that worked with the sleigh. Seriously, that was an
epic gift. Then again, I can’t play it these days. More on that later. I
also loved receiving the C.S. Lewis book collection when I was ten.
Still have the set and read them regularly.
This year, as I said, no gifts. You don’t even have to fill my
stocking. Not that you have in a long time, but you know what I
mean. I’m probably too old for all of that...and to be writing you, for
that matter.
Here’s the thing. After my life took a couple of wrong turns
resulting in loss, nothing has been the same. Probably obvious, but
there’s even more than that. I won’t name names, but I’m guessing
you know who I’m talking about. In case you don’t, her name
rhymes with quacky. (Is that a word?)
Ever since my dad passed away, I’ve taken over as the
housekeeper, personal chef, and errand-runner for her and her
daughters. It’s hard for me to admit this, but I feel taken advantage
of and underappreciated.
She has her reasons, and I get that, but according to my
calculations, I’ve more than paid her back. I don’t want to upset the
Steps because they’re the only family I have left, but (and please
don’t misunderstand) sometimes I feel like I’d be better off without
them.
I’m writing because I’m guessing you have experience with kids
who aren’t grateful after you’ve done so much, ones who disregard
their toys or haven’t exactly been overly deserving to begin with.
Santa, you have a big heart, and I’d like to think I do too, but it’s
been feeling cold lately. I don’t want to turn my back on the Steps.
But as it is, I’m breaking my back bending over backward. I’ll stop
using the word back now. Mostly because I have to get back to
work. But I actually had to see a chiropractor recently because I
have chronic back pain. Jocelyn and Jazzlyn produce a lot of laundry
and those baskets get heavy, toting them up and down the stairs.
So the real question I’m asking is, what would you do if you were
in my situation? If you have any advice, I’m all ears. Thanks for all
you do and please say hello to the elves for me.
Love,
Hope (Feeling Hopeful for a Merry Christmas Despite the
Scrooges in my Life)
CHAPTER 1
 HOPE

W hile humming my favorite song from the play Annie in my

head so I don’t accidentally overhear Jocelyn and Jazzlyn’s
conversation—which is a nice way of saying I don’t want to listen to
them whine and complain—the feather duster in my hand goes still
when one of them says my name.
“It doesn’t matter. Hope will always be single.” Jocelyn snickers.
“But if she wasn’t, she’d want a nice guy.” Jazzlyn titters.
“Nice and ugly,” Jocelyn follows up with a loud snort that begs for
my attention.
Should I ignore their baiting or check to see if she got a Skittle
stuck up her nose? It’s happened. Twice.
I resume dusting, choosing not to involve myself in their shallow
discussion du jour.
“Of course, whoever I marry is going to be handsome. Drop-dead
gorgeous,” Jazzlyn purrs.
“He’ll drop dead if he sees you first thing in the morning,” Jocelyn
says, teasing her twin.
From behind me, I hear a light slap. Probably Jazzlyn hitting her
sister. In our early twenties, we’re all about the same age, but these
twin princesses behave like we’re still preteens.
My dad met their mother, Jaqueline Mulford aka Jackie, when we
were twelve. They got married when we were thirteen. It was sort of
fun at first to have two new sisters, but after I discovered someone
switched my shampoo and conditioner with mustard and
mayonnaise, I started to wonder.
When Jocelyn replaced my name with hers and printed out an
essay I wrote about Romeo and Juliet for English class then passed
it off as if she’d written it, getting me in trouble, the doubt crept in.
After Jazzlyn told my high school boyfriend that I wanted to
break up while I was busy planning our six-month anniversary date,
meaning I had no intention of ending things, I saw the twins for
what they are.
Mean, sneaky liar pants.
Now, I have a strict policy. I do not engage with them unless
strictly necessary and even then, in a limited capacity.
The trust was fully broken after I applied to colleges. I was
excited to go, ready to learn, and to be honest, felt like it was a
surefire way to get out of this situation. My father had created a
college fund for me and I planned to finance the rest. Whatever it
took, freedom was mine.
I applied to four schools and got into three. However, I then
received emails from all three institutions, citing clerical errors and
withdrawing the offers of admission. One didn’t recognize the source
of my college funds. Another cited my SAT scores weren’t valid, and
they were conducting an investigation to determine whether I’d
cheated. They were nearly perfect scores on both the English and
math portions and no, I did not cheat.
The third school claimed that questions about my character had
come to light and that they didn’t think I’d be a good match for the
student culture on campus. Not sure if it had something to do with
the SAT situation, I looked into it.
Three months later, my SAT scores were confirmed and the board
did not know about an investigation or allegations of cheating. Turns
out Jocelyn and Jazzlyn staged the whole thing, thinking it would be
“funny” and never expected I’d fall for it.
Of course, they questioned my intelligence, saying, “If your SATs
are so good, why didn’t you see right through our joke?!”
Why indeed? Because I tend to try to see the best in people. I
don’t expect my own family to sabotage my attempt to obtain a
higher education. And I certainly don’t think they’ll so boldly lie and
falsify documentation. Isn’t that illegal? Not only that, but don’t they
have anything better to do than create fake email accounts?
No, no they don’t. As evidenced by how Jocelyn has spent over
three hours doing her hair today and Jazzlyn paints her nails for the
third time this week.
“So, if you were looking for a guy, what would you want?”
Jocelyn asks.
In my head, I answer for her sister. “I’d want someone
handsome and wealthy so I can continue lying around, making
others answer my every beck and call.” Guilt swizzles in my stomach
because that wasn’t very nice. Then I realize I’d said this out loud.
“Ha. No way would you land anyone handsome, never mind
wealthy.” Thinking I was answering for myself, Jazzlyn’s mouth
opens wide and her two front teeth protrude as she laughs like a
donkey in an out-of-control grocery cart going downhill.
Obviously, I’ve thought a lot about her—what shall I call it?—
unique laugh.
“Nope. You’re right, sissy. Hope is going to be an old cat lady.”
Jocelyn stares at me as if daring me to argue.
“What’s wrong with being old or having cats?” I ask before I
think better of it.
I happen to know a lot of people who’re old, and they’re among
the nicest and wisest I’ve ever met. Much better company than
these two. Also, I adore my two Maine Coon cat rescues, Marigold
and Dandelion. Jocelyn and Jazzlyn are both allergic to cats, which
makes it so they rarely show up at my cottage.
“How many cats do you have now?” Jocelyn’s cackle sounds like
a wicked witch crossed with our middle school bus driver who always
smelled like an ashtray.
“Just the two.”
“Are they indoor cats?” Jazzlyn asks.
The hair on the back of my neck lifts. Why does she want to
know that? I’ve learned to always be on my guard. Thankfully, they
don’t have a key to my cottage, but I wouldn’t put it above them to
break a window or figure out a way to get in so they could let my
cats out.
Time to turn the conversation back to them—their favorite
subject when not tormenting me. “Anyone special you’re hoping to
kiss under the mistletoe this year?” I ask.
Jocelyn’s eyes bulge when she attempts to smile, which
resembles a leering grin more than anything close to a happy
expression. The overall look would make any man question her
emotional stability. She clicks her tongue. “Well, a guy who’s staying
at the resort asked me on a date tonight.”
Having resumed my feather dusting, I hear another slap. This
time, it’s because Jocelyn didn’t tell her sister about the so-called
date, likely because it’s fake. Just like her hair, nails, and who knows
what else after several trips to their mother’s cosmetic surgeon.
The two go back and forth about details, which sound like they’re
being made up on the spot about a tall Italian-looking guy with dark
eyes, dark hair, and “Muscles for days,” in her words. Not that I
object to any of that, but these two are as shallow as the water in
the bottom of the bathtub that stopped draining because their hair
extensions keep falling out.
Unclogging it is item twenty-three on my to-do list today.
If I were looking for a guy, I wouldn’t say no to a tall, dark, and
handsome Italian, but I’d also want him to be kind, caring, and have
a generous heart. However, I’m not looking. My sole focus is getting
out of the Mulford’s debt, so I’m just work, work, working day and
night.
“I expect he’ll ask me to the Winter Festival at the resort,”
Jocelyn titters.
I want to ask his name, but resist getting roped into their
conversation again because chances are it’ll be Mario or Luigi—like
from the video game. I force myself not to giggle.
Yep, I have inside jokes with myself. Go me!
The truth is, even though I do have cats, I am sometimes lonely,
especially at Christmastime.
“I hear there is going to be a bachelor auction at the Winter
Festival this year.” Jazzlyn smooths the polish across her nails and
her tongue sticks out of the side of her mouth in concentration.
“It’s called the Santa Baby Bachelor Auction,” Jocelyn corrects.
“Too bad all the Hawkins men are taken,” Jazzlyn adds as an
afterthought.
“They’re too old for you,” Jocelyn says, tossing a pillow at her.
Jazzlyn shrieks when the pillow smudges her nail polish.
I mentally add Remove polish from the pillow as item number
twenty-four to my list. To be sure, she’ll ask me to clean it later.
“There’s no such thing as being too old if a lot of money is
involved,” Jazzlyn says.
They both consider this while I edge toward the door. I have
about twenty minutes before I have to be at my new job, which
leaves me with enough time for today’s top-secret mission. That is, if
I can escape without them calling me back to bring them a can of
sparkling soda, or some other mundane task they’re perfectly
capable of doing themselves.
I hesitate, awaiting the shrill demand for “room service” but for
once, neither Jocelyn nor Jazzlyn calls my name as I close the door
on their conversation about the eligible men in Hawk Ridge Hollow.
My foot is on the top step when Jocelyn hollers for me, saying
something about needing a dress washed in time for her date.
Begrudgingly, I turn around and get the basket to toss the load
in before I leave.
Even if a tall, dark, and handsome man walked up to me right
now, I’d have to politely pass because my hands are full, literally,
with the Steps’ laundry.
CHAPTER 2
 HOPE

T oday is December twelfth, which means it’s day twelve of

doing my Super-Secret Santa Stuff. That’s not an official
name or anything, but no one knows about this particular mission,
so that’s okay.
It’s just between me and this fencepost wrapped in evergreen
garland and tied with a glittering red bow.
Some people, like Jazzlyn, enjoy spending their time painting
their nails. Others, like Jocelyn, prefer to harass me. Actually, make
that both of them. However, I get my jollies by knowing that I may
have contributed to someone smiling today.
On those college application essays, I explained that my sole
purpose in life is to spread smiles. To spark little moments of
happiness. Unfortunately, I don’t expect I’ll ever be in the position to
solve big-picture problems like ending world hunger or waging
peace, but during the in-between moments of life, the ones that
sometimes really wear people out, I can contribute to a grin, here or
cause a frown to turn upside down, there. It’s the little things, ya
know?
Today’s mission location: Hawk Ridge Hollow Soap ‘n Suds
Laundromat.
My target: A coat hanging so it dries without wrinkles.
The voluntary assignment: Stick a dollar bill in the pocket and
then hightail it out of here.
Less than two minutes later: Mission accomplished.
 Yesterday, I left the washing machine’s coin slots full of quarters.
The day before that, I loaded the vending machine with four
quarters, so someone was already at least halfway to buying their
afternoon slump snack.
Next week, I’ll start hitting the Beanery, our local coffee shop. On
my walk over to work, I stop there for something warm to drink.
Bypassing the build-your-own hot chocolate bar, I brainstorm ideas
for how I can leave my daily dollar during the Super-Secret Santa
Stuff mission when I spot a guy with dark hair and wearing a denim
jacket with a wooly collar tucking a dollar smoothly behind the first
napkin in a dispenser.
My jaw drops. That was my idea, mister! Before I can get a good
look at whoever is taking over my territory, I’m called next in line.
Behind the counter, Marci takes my order and chats with me
about the Winter Festival. I’ve been one of the volunteers since I
was old enough to hold a clipboard. Stephanie, who’s in charge of
the volunteers, has me on double duty this year.
I’m pumped!
“Steph said they’re doing a Santa Baby Bachelor Auction. Who’s
idea was that? Wait, let me guess, Cece Hawkins.” Marci smiles
knowingly because that sounds exactly like an idea the singer-starlet
would have for the Winter Festival, which is a big fundraiser at the
resort during the height of tourist season.
I nod. “The one and only. You got it. We also have a Gingerbread
Gala, a magic show, Christmas karaoke, an ice sculpture contest,
and loads of other activities for merrymaking and raising money for
some great causes. This year, Stephanie put me in charge of the
Stuff the Stocking event, the Pet Parade, and the Create a Candle
station just to name a few.”
“Sounds like you have your work cut out for you,” Marci says.
Do I ever. With a half-smile, I lift my cup of cocoa in thanks. “I
owe you for keeping me going. This stuff is deliciously addictive.”
“With thanks to Judith Hawkins’s recipe.”
I’ve only heard whispers and murmurs of the Hawkins’s story, but
it involves a family fallout followed by a joyous reunion. I don’t ever
expect Jackie, Jocelyn, Jazzlyn, and I to gather lovingly around the
dinner table or sing Christmas carols together by the fire. However, I
hope to someday have a family of my own. I’d like the Steps to be a
part of it, though based on how things are going, that’s doubtful.
After I thank Marci, she hollers, “Don’t be a stranger. You ought
to come in more than once a week.”
I would, but this weekly cup of cocoa is my singular indulgence.
The rest goes to my Super-Secret Santa Stuff, rent, food for the
cats, and whatever remains goes directly to my stepmother. I don’t
even have a car. During the summer, I bike around town. In the
winter, I put a lot of miles on my boots.
As I exit the Beanery, I can’t help but wonder who hid the dollar
in the napkin dispenser. My instinct is to be upset or wary, but on
second thought, perhaps we could join forces and spread smiles
wider and more often. I’ll have to keep an eye out for Mr. Mini-
Christmas-Miracle.
Walking down Main Street, my own smile grows at the sight of
the shops’ window displays. The jewelry store sparkles with glittery
snowflakes. The women’s clothing boutique mannequins wear pretty,
rather than ugly, sweaters knit by a local woman who dyes her own
wool. Mom and Lollipop’s window is like a Christmas “I Spy” scene,
making me want to stop and linger just to take in all the softly lit
details, but that would tempt me to go inside to get some chocolate,
and I cannot afford it or be late.
Today is my first day at job number four. The volunteer work I do
in my spare time doesn’t count.
To pay the bills (and debt with interest!) my primary job is as an
assistant for an accountant, but they’re closed for a long Christmas
holiday—Mr. Prescott also took two months off last summer. My
guess is he’ll retire next year.
For job two, I help cater events at the resort as one of the
people who go around dressed in black and carrying trays of hors
d’oeuvres.
Job number three is restocking at the Market after hours.
I also walk dogs on the weekends, even though I’m more of a
cat lady. (Though I’d rather be an old and not single cat lady.)
I guess that’s five jobs, but I digress.
 With new seasonal jobs available during the holidays, I couldn’t
pass up the opportunity to be a Christmas-gift-o-gram Girl. I’m not
exactly sure what that is, but I’ll find out in about five minutes.
See, my Cinderella story is stuck on the part before the fairy
godmother comes to her aid. You know, when the stepmother and
stepsisters torment her. To appease them, I work multiple jobs and
don’t expect any magical transformations or windfalls, especially not
in time for Christmas.
Then again, it is the season for miracles, so we’ll see. Things
might seem bad, but they will get better. I have to believe that. As is
habit, I internally hum the song “Tomorrow” from my favorite play,
Annie. I should switch my inner soundtrack to a station that plays
Christmas carols, seeing as it is the “Most Wonderful Time of Year,”
but Annie, with her hard-knock life and heart full of hope, keeps me
going.
It’s probably foolish to ask Santa what he’d do, but is it dumb to
wonder what Cinderella would do? Or how about Annie?
In my head, I hear Jocelyn’s cackle and Jazzlyn’s donkey bray in
response. Never mind. Forget I asked.
When I reach the Christmas Market, the strains of today’s live
piano music meet my ears. Part of me yearns to play, but along with
many of my other interests, I’ve had to put that hobby on hold.
On my way to the Christmas-gift-o-gram kiosk, I wave to a few
craftspeople and vendors I know. The scent of chocolate makes me
crave some even though I just finished my cocoa.
I came here last week to see if there were any vacancies to be
one of Santa’s elves, but was referred to the Christmas-gift-o-gram
stall a few spots down.
All I know is that I’ll be going door to door, singing and dancing
telegram style. My childhood and early adolescence love for theater
will come in handy. Unfortunately, that was another dream the twins
squelched. During junior year, I was selected to be the lead in the
Wizard of Oz. Last minute, the director pulled me because she
supposedly made a mistake with her audition notes and meant for
Jocelyn to play Dorothy. I got to be Toto.
 Senior year, the same thing. Only that time, I landed the coveted
role of Viola in Shakespeare in Love. Then wouldn’t you know it, my
understudy swept in because I came down with a ferocious case of
hives. Strangely, I’d never had an allergy in my life and the laundry
soap had gone missing.
Guess who took my place? Jazzlyn.
Makes ya wonder, huh?
A bald guy with a stubby cigar in his mouth sits on a stool inside
the stall. “Can I help you?” he asks.
“You hired me to be a Christmas-gift-o-gram Girl.”
He consults a list. “Are you Tallulah, Raquel, or—”
“Hope Marshall.” My stomach sinks. What if I didn’t get the
position and, like my college applications, there was an error? I
remind myself that was a cruel trick.
One I probably could’ve fixed. But by then, Jackie brought the
debt to my attention and I was already working two jobs to start to
pay it down. She also applied interest which seems to grow by the
week.
“Ah, here you are. Come on around back. Behind the screen,
you’ll find a costume. Put it on, and then I’ll give you your first
assignment.”
“Great. Thank you, sir.”
I go to the back of the wooden stall. Like the others at the
Christmas Market, the merchant has the option to operate at the
front counter, keeping the rest closed off to customers, which is
common for food vendors. The craftspeople often have a display in
the window or open up the narrow but deep stall to allow customers
to come in and look at their wares. It seems more personal.
The Christmas-gift-o-gram stall is closed off because it sells a
service rather than a product or food item. In this case, it’s a
changing area. Behind the screen, an elf-like costume hangs
haphazardly. The top is fitted and bright red velvet with a white
fuzzy neckline, cuffs, and big white buttons. To say it’s snug is an
understatement. I’m petite, but is this a child’s small? The skirt is
green with polka dots and has the same furry white hem as on the
top. I suck in, regretting the cocoa and lack of bathroom facilities in
this stall as I zip up the skirt. It’s so short, I’m thankful for the pair
of candy cane striped tights. Oh, and let’s not forget the headpiece.
A jaunty little elf hat connects to a headband along with some
dangly bells and swirly pipe cleaners with little gift boxes on the
ends.
If the Steps see me, they’ll post my photo across all of their
social media accounts, being sure to ridicule me. They’re lifestyle
influencers and have one of the top accounts on the most popular
platform. They boast millions of followers. Their account is
@TwoPoshTwins.
Redundant, if you ask me.
Even though I wouldn’t choose this attire, I have to admit that
it’s festive, and is sure to make people smile. Then again, at least
when it comes to Jocelyn and Jazzlyn, there’s a difference between
laughing alongside someone and laughing at them. They fall
squarely in the latter category.
I shove my feet into my boots before I talk myself out of this. If
this job goes well, I’ll meet the deadline Jackie set for my next
payment. Then, if I’m really lucky, I’ll be able to finish paying off my
debt early next year. Then, at last, I’ll be free from the Steps.
If I could have one wish, it would be to take Christmas back from
Jackie. She doesn’t let me attend church service, celebrate, or do
anything other than wait hand and foot on her and the twins. If only
I could save Christmas from lady-Scrooge.
Gill, the Christmas-gift-o-gram proprietor, gives me a card printed
with the name and location of the recipient along with what I’m
supposed to sing and say.
I rehearse it a few times, bracing myself for what is sure to be an
amusing experience.
“Your customer gets three hours with the Deluxe Christmas
Companion package. Not a second more. Be sure to report back and
don’t forget to smile,” Gill calls as I start to walk away.
That’s not something I ever forget. In fact, my dad used to call
me “Smiley.” Maybe I’ll be good at this job.
As I walk through the Christmas Market toward Main Street, little
kids wave at me. One asks his mom if I’m one of Santa’s elves. A
little girl’s eyes widen with awe. Another smiles like he’s certain I’m
from the North Pole. Even a few adults grin as pass. Although, my
stomach leaps when I worry that they’re laughing at me—in my
mind, it sounds a lot like Jocelyn’s cackle and Jazzlyn’s bray.
All the same, if wearing this too-tight costume brightens people’s
days, then I already consider it a success. Plus, I get paid to do it
and that means I’m one step closer to being debt-and Steps free.
I cross to the other side of Main Street, passing shoppers laden
with bags. Wearing a top hat and a coat with tails, Dallen Hawkins
clip-clops past with two of his horses, giving visitors “sleigh rides.” A
group of high schoolers spontaneously make snow people on the
lawn in front of the library.
I give a little salute to the life-size set of nutcrackers flanking the
doors to the town hall. Massive wreaths hang on the windows and
white lights frame the building.
Double-checking the address on the card, I pause and then turn
around before arriving at Hawk Ridge Hollow’s latest dining
establishment, a pizza and pie shop. I wrinkle my nose, not quite
sure I’m in the right place.
Nonetheless, I knock on the door before realizing this is a
business open during regular operating hours. I can just walk in. But
doesn’t that kind of defeat some of the charm of the Christmas-gift-
o-gram Girl?
A few people glance my way as I whisper, “Nico? Nick? St. Nick?
Uh, I’m looking for Nico, I think. It’s hard to read this writing.”
No one answers, and a few shrug or shake their heads.
When I reach the counter, a man who Jazzlyn would say is drop-
dead gorgeous with dark eyes, hair, and a swarthy look slides a pizza
into a box. He’s a bit older than me, but the tousled hair and refined
features remind me that while I am a red-blooded woman, my
current attire screams that I am not in the market to purchase,
never mind window shop. I will not be participating in the Winter
Festival Santa Baby Bachelor Auction, not that I could even afford a
bid—even if it is for charity.
“Can I help you?” the guy behind the counter asks in a smooth
voice.
 “Yes,” I squeak. “Um, I mean yes. I’m looking for someone
named Nico?”
Drop Dead Gorgeous hides a smirk. “I’ll go grab him.”
A minute later, a younger version of the man of Jazzlyn and
Jocelyn’s dreams wanders through the door. He’s an inch or two
shorter, has curly brown hair, and blue eyes.
I give my head a slight shake, before doing a little jig and
singing, “I’m here to make your Christmas merry. See the snow
coming in a flurry. Santa loves cookies in his belly. Let’s have you
hurry, hurry to celebrate the merry, merry with the Christmas-gift-o-
gram Girl.”
Unfortunately, I have to refer to the card with the words a few
times, but the song is fairly repetitive. If I forget a line, I wing it
because I doubt Nico will know the difference. With each verse, his
blue eyes widen. His cheeks redden, and his lips part.
However, when I finish with a grand display of sparkle fingers
and manage to land the final note, he doesn’t even crack a smile.
CHAPTER 3
 NICO

T here I was on my break in the back, alone for once, and

minding my own business. I wasn’t doing anything shifty.
Okay, maybe a little bit shifty, depending on who you ask. It was a
covert mission for a good cause.
I was making hot chocolate bombs when my older brother had to
barge in. Which brother? I have five of them, making me the baby.
Rarely do I ever have a moment to myself, never mind in the
kitchen. I’d just about tempered the chocolate to perfection when
Gio busted in, saying someone is here to see me and that it was
urgent. His ever-present amused smirk was the first red flag. The
second was that I had no reason to believe what sent him back to
fetch me, included:

1. Frankie had her baby (we’re getting close to meeting the

new addition to the family)
2. Something happened with Ma or Pop (they’re up front
helping out, so doubtful)
3. Paulo returned (had that happened, something would’ve
crashed or smashed from the front of the restaurant by now)

Don’t get me wrong, I love my family with all my heart. But I

need to get this project done without them finding out. Sure, I could
do it at my apartment, but the stovetop doesn’t work. My landlord is
out of town so he can’t look into the repair, and I don’t trust myself
not to blow up the place. So the kitchen at Hawk Ridge Hollow Pizza
& Pie, as it’s currently known, is the surest bet.
Merilee or some contingent of my family are usually back here,
except today, because she and Tommy are making Twelve Dishes of
Christmas deliveries, leaving me with nearly thirty minutes of peace.
Or so I’d hoped.
After stashing everything out of sight, I stand in the dining room.
A cute but rogue elf from the North Pole serenades me. I have
nowhere to place my arms without feeling like the spotlight is on
me. When she sings about chocolate, my thoughts float to the half-
spheres I’d just started to fill with unique treats for each person on
my list.
Last year, I saw some hot chocolate bombs at a coffee shop. I
instantly knew that I had to master them. In addition to my former
secret life as a racecar driver, I dabble in chocolate.
Too bad I had to wait nearly three-hundred and sixty-five days to
give them a shot, but here I am. Or there I was. I glance over my
shoulder at the empty kitchen, yearning to be back there.
I remind myself that good things come to those with patience.
And I have a metric ton of that. It would be impossible not to with
six siblings and a mother like Ma.
At least, I hope that good things will come to me, including some
activity in my love life.
Anyway, back to my stealthy mad scientist activity, I bought
some silicone molds, melted the chocolate, smoothed it into half-
spheres, let them set, then had just started filling them with cocoa
and individually selected sweets before sealing them up. I’m going
to be extra fancy and decorate the outsides too with drizzles of
chocolate, sprinkles, and other confections, then bag them up with
cellophane and ribbon for family and friends.
Here’s the breakdown:

Ma: Milk chocolate with Nutella (the hint of hazelnut will

remind her of Torta di Nocciole)
 Pop: Dark chocolate spiked with a splash of Amaretto (he
he)
Tommy: Caramel turtle with walnuts (because he’s finally
coming out of his shell after a rough year)
Merilee: Milk chocolate coffee mocha (she makes me a
mocha every morning when I get here)
Bruno: Medium chocolate and salted caramel (he’s not as
uptight as he tries to be)
Gloria: White hot chocolate with colorful Christmas sprinkles
(because she loves the holidays as much as I do)
Luca: Medium-dark chocolate with crushed peppermint
candies (he doesn’t have much of a sweet tooth, at least
that I know of)
Gio: Dark chocolate with a combo of orange and chili pepper
(he’s a spicy meatball!)
Paulo: I put edible candy that looks like coal in his (the creep
hasn’t returned anyone’s calls or texts—bah humbug)
Frankie and her family: Cinnamon sugar snickerdoodle
chocolate because it reminds me of the Bannock bread from
the Hawk & Whistle she’s been craving (and milk chocolate
with marshmallows, traditional style, for the kids and Rocky)

Now, if only I could get back to the kitchen and finish up, but
Santa’s elf, or whatever she is, continues to sing and dance with a
full audience from the dining room, as well as the members of my
family on duty today.
Tuesdays at the pizza and pie shop are relatively slow. While
working on the chocolate bombs, I didn’t hear the bells on the front
door jingle. Gloria, Bruno’s assistant, and my future sister-in-law, put
them there, so we’d always hear someone come in. She doesn’t
realize she’s a future Costa. Not yet. But I see the way Bruno looks
at her. How he bristles when she looks back. He’s like a cat. He’ll let
you pet him when he wants attention. Otherwise, it’s hands-off. Not
for long, bro. Marriage is closing in fast.
 Tommy also reconnected with his future wife. Merilee, or Merry
as he lovingly calls her, is a shoo-in to become my sis-in-law.
It’s also obvious that Gio and Joy, Frankie’s best friend and the
new girl in the front, have a thing. I can already hear the wedding
bells even if I didn’t hear the jingle bells on the door when this
singing and dancing elf arrived.
How can I be so sure? As the youngest brother in the family, and
most often overlooked, underestimated, and underappreciated, my
powers of observation are keen. I don’t miss a trick. Including the
one that, at about five foot three, stands in front of me.
After what felt like three painful minutes of song and dance, the
woman in the red velvet Christmas shirt, polka dot skirt, candy cane
striped tights, and a headband hat with squiggly antenna things that
repeatedly bonked her in the eye during her performance, finally
goes still. Though committed to the recital, she ignored the antennas
in a “Show must go on” spirit.
Gotta respect that.
I wait for the laughter. The elbow in the ribs. The jocular
shoving, frequently employed by my older brothers. They’re very
physical. Tough. Strong. Especially Paulo. In this instance, thankfully,
he isn’t around. One half-hearted punch in the shoulder would
probably flatten me.
It’s not that I’m a weakling. I do shove back, but I’ve grown up
with them taking the snot out of me. It’s just the way of things as
the baby in a big family. It’s a fact they frequently remind me, lest I
forget. One I can’t seem to escape.
But none of that comes. Instead, stillness and silence fill the
dining room of the as-yet-to-be-officially-named pizza and pie parlor.
Talk about a bomb. It went off and now this is the aftermath.
Everyone stares at me as if waiting for me to do something. Me?
I’m usually the last on the list to make a move. No, I take that back.
I’ve never made a move and had it succeed. But I keep that to
myself, even though I think some of my brothers are well aware of
my lack of experience with the ladies.
I’m twenty-four years old and have never been kissed.
 Then again, I’m the one most frequently forgotten. Overlooked.
Ignored. So, I have that going for me in this instance.
However, I don’t know what to think other than how beautiful the
woman in costume is. Her hazel eyes hold mine. I brush my hand
through my hair. She smooths a piece of her honey-colored hair and
then brushes the dangly antenna out of her face.
It pops back into place.
She adjusts it.
It stubbornly springs back and bonks her forehead.
She glances up, shakes her head, and gives up.
I was already smiling, but this adorable little battle with her
headband budges my smile up even more.
Despite the high level of distraction while she performed, now,
it’s hard not to notice she’s a compact package of smooth curves
and strong features. Whether in an eye-catching costume or not, I
cannot fathom that she’d be a shrinking daisy or a fly on the wall.
The Christmas-gift-o-gram Girl, as she dubbed herself, can turn
heads. She has the kind of smile that can stop traffic and cause a
pileup. That could brighten a starless night. That warms me from top
to bottom.
Heat creeps up my neck toward my ears, and I silently beg it to
retreat. I’ve never been able to keep cool in front of a girl. I turn all
thumbs, awkward pauses, and tongue-tied comments.
But her level of comfort, despite the costume and performance,
makes me think she’d fit into the Costa clan just fine. But that’s not
going to happen anytime soon. Like always, my brothers will all go
first, get married, start having families, and when it’s finally my turn,
everyone will have moved on, leaving me in the lurch.
Even if I did have the opportunity to explore a relationship, my
hands are full with this place and my family. Not to mention, my lack
of experience makes me wonder if it’s too late. I missed the boat,
and I’ll be the lonely old cat lady, er, guy.
Not that there is anything wrong with being old or cats. I happen
to be rather fond of both.
The Christmas-gift-o-gram Girl shifts from foot to foot. Color rises
to her cheeks and finally, at last, someone in the room has the
presence of mind to start clapping.
Why didn’t I think of that ninety seconds ago? My brain often
spins with threads of ideas, weaving webs of information,
inspiration, and connections.
Except right now. I’m stunned silent. Silly. Stupid.
It’s like the Christmas-gift-o-gram Girl stole my ability to form
coherent thoughts along with my power of speech. She has the
potential to steal something else too.
My heart starts to pound.
Of course, I’ll hear about the supreme moment of awkward,
courtesy of yours truly from whatever contingent of my brothers
witnessed this embarrassing spectacle.
Christmas-gift-o-gram Girl bites her lip and looks up at me with
her hazel eyes through long lashes. Forget my voice, the woman
takes my breath away.
A long moment seems to pass between us. Either it’s a moment
kind of moment or I’m reading it wrong, and as usual, am making a
fool of myself and by extension, her.
Think, Nico. Think. Don’t just stand here like a sack of flour. Do
something.
At last, I lean in slightly and whisper, “We have an audience.” My
intention is to convey that we’re in this together. Not only are my
family witnesses to this showcase, but the customers in the pizza
and pie restaurant are too.
She nods as if understanding. “I suppose that’s good for
business.” Then, clearing her throat, she glances at the card in her
hand and loudly reads, “As mentioned, I’m the Christmas-gift-o-gram
Girl, you can learn more at the kiosk in the Christmas Market. Nico,
you have three activities to choose from to round out our afternoon
together.” She does a little curtsy.
“Activities?”
“It’s part of the Deluxe Christmas Companion package.”
Is this like a mail-order bride? An escort service? I only wish the
Christmas-gift-o-gram Girl wasn’t quite so cute and charming. I’m
the baby in the family, but by no means small. The youngest and
least experienced, at least when it comes to women, but I can find
my own dates, thank you very much.
Then more loudly, she adds, “We offer a unique experience for
those who are isolated, home-bound, or otherwise alone during this
time of year to enjoy the magic of a Christmas connection. With this
premier, all-inclusive package, you may select one of three choices
for activities. They include going ice skating at the Hawk Ridge
Hollow Resort, taking a sleigh ride with D.K. Hawkins Stables, or
attending a Christmas cookie baking class at the welcome center
with Mrs. Cringle.”
A heavy hand claps me on the back, thrusting me forward. “Well,
that’s a no-brainer. My brother here loves chocolate and sweets. He’ll
pick the cookie-baking option.” Gio winks.
I open and close my mouth to protest, but Gio isn’t wrong. If
only I could speak for myself for once. If only I could muster the
quick-thinking confidence to make my own decisions.
Part of my problem is my lack of experience with women.
Giovanni wins suave brother of the year, all the years running.
Tommy is pure self-assurance. Bruno, the smartest. Luca is the
bravest human I know. Paulo, the toughest.
That leaves me, the youngest. The baby. The clueless. The
hapless. The one who can’t gather the gumption to talk to the
Christmas-gift-o-gram Girl like the adult man that I am.
“Okay, your wish is my command. Cookies it is,” she says, jutting
her elbow out for me to take.
Haltingly, I lace my elbow through and follow her out the door
while my family watches. No doubt, they inwardly shake their heads
at how hopeless I am. As soon as I’m out of earshot, they’ll discuss
and critique. Of course, Ma will defend me. Pop will back it up with a
saying about late bloomers. However, my brothers will roar with
laughter because, as usual, I live up to their assumptions.
The Christmas-gift-o-gram Girl was both a mockery of my
perpetual single-ness and a test, an opportunity, to prove them
wrong.
So far, I’ve failed.
 Of course, they had to pick an attractive woman, but it’s both a
blessing and a curse. A blessing for obvious reasons and a curse
because when I’m around people like her, my wires cross. My gears
grind. My lines clog.
Take right now, for example, I spin around to grab my coat
before we leave without decoupling my arm from Christmas-gift-o-
gram Girl, dragging her with me. She skids on the rug and I catch
her with an upside-down hand on her arm. The other grips the
antennas on her headband as if that would do anything to stop her
from stumbling, other than rip the thing off her head and possibly
pull her hair in the process. Thankfully, she grabs hold of it to keep it
in place. Our hands brush like a blink. It happens quickly but leaves
an impression, a signature like a little raspberry of feeling on my
skin.
“Sorry about that,” I mutter.
After shrugging on my denim jacket, I cast my family a rescue-
me-please glance mixed with a laser cannon glower loaded with
vengeance as we exit.
While Christmas-gift-o-gram Girl’s charming song and dance were
entertaining, now we’re going somewhere together.
Mayday. SOS.
What do I do now? I’m off the ship without a life raft.
I have no doubt my brothers are behind the goofy gift. Last year,
they got me toy cars. Granted, when I was a kid, I loved the things,
but the intention was to remind me that I’m the young one. Forever
the helpless, pathetic little brother. Now I have the real deal. Many,
in fact. Although, here in Hawk Ridge Hollow, I just brought the
Maserati MC12. The others, which I inherited, are in storage. But
they don’t know that.
The Christmas-gift-o-gram Girl and I walk over to the Hawk
Ridge Hollow Welcome Center in relative silence as the light traffic
swishes by. The bells on her elfish headpiece jingle every few steps
as if to highlight this fact.
“So, um, do you make pizza?” she asks when we’re about
halfway there, breaking the long pause that’s lasted since we left
Hawk Ridge Hollow Pizza & Pie.
 “Despite being Italian and presumably knowing how to make
pizza since birth, I’m still learning. Tommy and Gio turned out to be
pretty good at it, though. I’m more of a chocolate guy like my
brother said.”
She stops short. “No way! I’m a chocolate girl. Well, when I’m
not moonlighting as a Christmas-gift-o-gram Girl or doing
housework, walking dogs, helping with catering events at the resort,
or, ya know, other things.” She goes quiet, which makes me think
she has a secret.
“That’s a lot of things. You sound busy.”
“Sure am. Speaking of that, I’m on the clock now and want to
make this a great experience for you.” She leans in and presses her
teeth together in an adorable little cringe. “How has it been so far?
Confession: today is my first day.”
Something about how she’s candid and comfortable, even though
I’m looking for an empty sack of flour to hide in, puts me at ease. Or
perhaps it’s our mutual love for chocolate.
The rest of the way to the Welcome Center, we discuss the topic
as snow begins to fall. I tell her about my hot chocolate bombs, and
she describes the fudge she loves to make.
“One day, I want to have a stall at the Christmas market. I’ll call
it Hawk Fudge Hollow.”
This time, I go still as a memory filters back. My pulse revs. “Wait
a second.”
“Did you forget something?” she asks, looking at me with her
bright hazel eyes.
I shake my head because there is no way I could ever forget the
woman of my dreams. I wag my finger between us. “We know each
other.”
She tucks her chin. “I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure I’d recognize
you. Isn’t your restaurant new to town? You’re from New York City,
right?”
“I was visiting my brother for Thanksgiving and hadn’t left yet
when he had the hair-brained idea to open a pizza parlor, but yes,
before that, I lived in New York City.”
“Can’t say I’ve ever been there.”
 Then at risk of humiliating myself, I blurt, “@FerrariRocher.” It’s a
dorky reference to my previous favorite Italian luxury sports car: the
Ferrari. Plus the Italian chocolate brand: Ferrero Rocher. Ma loves
them because they contain hazelnuts.
The Christmas-gift-o-gram Girl’s jaw slackens. “@Hot-Croco-
Late,” she whispers her username with disbelief. “I remember you.
Couldn’t forget. Do you still want a Ferrari?”
“No, I’ve moved onto Maserati. How about you? Are crocodiles
still your favorite animal?”
“Choco-diles.” She winks.
This afternoon just got very interesting.
CHAPTER 4
 NICO

T he woman whose user name was @Hot-Croco-Late on the

Scroll Click Date app blinks slowly as if sharing in this
moment of delighted shock at our previous connection and the
present-day chance encounter.
Memories of how she’d make me laugh, smile, and long to know
her off the app fill me with warmth against the frigid cold as yet
another snowstorm looms over the mountains.
Her expression abruptly falls. “Hold on. Does Jocelyn have
anything to do with this? Jazzlyn?”
“Jah-what? Who?” I ask, dumbfounded.
Her eyes narrow with suspicion. “I knew it was too good to be
true.”
“What was too good to be true?” Ma has a picture of me when I
was an actual baby, and not the baby my brothers tease me about
being now, sucking on my toes. For obvious reasons, I haven’t done
that in recent memory, but if I could, my foot would be in my mouth
right now.
This is why I’ve never had a girlfriend. I’m lousy at flirting. Gio
would’ve said something slick right then in response to her
acknowledging that we have a past (even if only online) and the hint
that she’d like to get to know me in person and not just on the
dating app.
Before I can come up with something smooth to save face, she
continues. “They do stuff like this every chance they get. It’s just
so...” Her lip quivers in a way that would be adorable if she wasn’t so
upset. “It’s so mean. Cruel at this point.”
How could anyone be mean to someone who is so sweet, so
cute? That would be like taking cream from a kitten. Who does stuff
like that? Only a monster, or from what it sounds like in this case, a
pair of monsters.
She looks sharply away and sniffles.
I take a risk and extend my hand, planting it on her shoulder.
Even though my fingers tremble, I tuck a few under her chin to
bring her attention back to me. A strange sensation travels from my
hands inward. I’m not sure what it is or where it’s going, but I can’t
focus on that right now because the woman in front of me fights
tears, and the last thing I want is for her to cry over anything I’ve
done.
In a gentle voice, I say, “I promise you, no one put me up to this.
If you recall, you were sent to sing and dance for me, Christmas-
gift-o-gram Girl.”
She looks at me with her big eyes. “Oh, right.”
Snow steadily falls now as we continue walking toward the
Welcome Center. I belatedly realize I should’ve told her that even if
someone did put me up to this, it’s turning out pretty good so far.
That I wouldn’t have it any other way. Something, anything, to let
her know that I’m happy she walked into Hawk Ridge Hollow Pizza &
Pie place—or whatever Tommy & Merry are calling it today—and we
walked out together. I try to think of how to say it and not sound like
a dork when she goes still again.
“Okay, but who hired me? Who paid for the Deluxe Christmas
Companion package?” she asks.
A twinge inside threatens to burn my cheeks with embarrassment
because only a loser like me would require a Deluxe Christmas
Companion package since he can’t score a date on his own. I clear
my throat. “That would be one of my brothers. Guaranteed.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“You said something about how Joc-or Jaz-whats-their-faces do
‘stuff’ every chance they get. Sadly, I can relate.”
She frowns. “You have two step-sisters?”
 I chuckle. “Now that would be a major coincidence. No, I have
five older biological brothers and a younger sister, but she has her
hands full so I doubt she was behind it. Had to have been one of my
bros.”
“The Christmas-gift-o-gram packages aren’t cheap.”
“In that case, they could’ve all chipped in. Being the baby of the
family has its benefits and its drawbacks. Mostly those. Do you just
have the two stepsisters?” I’d rather hear about her life than discuss
mine because it mostly consists of one of said brothers ordering me
around, making me feel like an idiot, inept when it comes to women,
or like a baby—not that I have anything against babies.
“Yep. Just two stepsisters. They’re twins and they’re—” she cuts
herself off from saying what I imagine is an insult.
“I’m not sure what your situation is, but if you need to let it out,
go for it,” I say, hoping I sound helpful and not like a jerk.
She winces. “I don’t want to speak ill of them.”
I jut my elbow in her direction, just missing making contact when
she veers around a patch of ice on the ground. Figures that I’d
fumble when trying to comfort her. “It might make you feel better.
Just saying. As one of seven, sometimes I need to vent.”
She lets out a long sigh like she wants to let it rip, but holds
back.
“Are they like two halves of a tuna sandwich left in the sun?” I
ask.
She tips her head from side to side.
“Like gum stuck on the bottom of your boot? Or both since
they’re twins?”
A smile plays on her lips.
“How about like an itchy tag inside a shirt?”
Her grin reaches her eyes like I pinned the nose on the reindeer.
“Trust me. I know all about spoiled tuna sandwiches, old gum,
and itchy tags. I only bet on poker night, but I’d wager good money
one or some combination of my siblings are behind this.” Whatever
this is. “And believe me, I can think of more than a few choice words
to describe how it makes me feel...well, other than happy to have
unexpectedly met you.”
 “Given the fact that you happen to be @FerrariRocher, I can’t
help but think that this seems like something Jocelyn and Jazzlyn
would do to humiliate me. Then again, they’re not particularly tech-
savvy beyond posting photos and videos of themselves online. Plus,
I no longer have the Scroll Click Date app and—”
That last comment and the dangling and make dread circle inside
me like a whirlpool. She might be dating someone. But at the same
time, hope that she could be single tries to fill in the ever-widening
space in the middle as the nervousness continues to swirl.
“You were saying?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “I owe you an apology. I’m sorry that I
suggested that my stepsisters somehow convinced you or tricked
you into being involved in this Christmas-gift-o-gram. That would
require way too much work on their part...and they’re not
particularly motivated people.”
“Well, in that case, we can blame my brothers. Problem solved.” I
internally debate whether to exact revenge on them because even
though the Christmas-gift-o-gram was meant to embarrass me by
drawing attention to my single status, it had the unintentional
outcome of bringing my secret dating app girlfriend into my life. To
be fair, she wasn’t my actual online girlfriend, but she was the exact
person I’d like to date: great sense of humor, hardworking, smart,
and let’s not forget our mutual love of chocolate—yet another thing
my brothers tease me about because supposedly, it’s not manly. I’d
like to see them eat a square of ninety percent cacao without
gagging. Personally, I like the bitter flavor with its rich and robust
undertones, smoky notes, and the very essential hint of salt.
She looks at me with a question in her eyes. “I can’t tell if your
brothers being behind this is a good thing or a bad thing. Your
expression looks a little mischievous.”
I chuckle. “Considering you’re @Hot-Croco-Late, so far it’s pretty
sweet.”
She laughs. “I agree, @FerrariRocher.”
This time, she juts her elbow. I’m not sure if it’s in agreement or
if I’m supposed to link mine through as people did in the old days
and like we did earlier. So what does the Prince of Awkwardland do?
I tap my elbow against hers.
“An elbow five. That’s new to me. But I like it, @FerrariRocher,”
she says.
I grip the back of my neck because I just crowned myself the
King of Awkwardland. That’s not necessarily an advancement in
rank.
“So, do you have a Ferrari? You probably wouldn’t want to take it
out in this kind of weather.” She catches a snowflake in her glove.
“Sold the Ferrari. I should probably come up with a new name,
considering I’m now a Maserati guy. How about Milk Mustache
Maserati.” I suck in a breath because I don’t talk about this much,
especially outside the racing circuit.
Her smile fades. “Are you still on the Scroll Click Date app?”
“Haven’t logged on in a while. Not since you, uh—”
“I got busy.” A breath lifts and drops her chest. “Sorry about that.
But I can’t tell if you’re joking or if you’re serious about the race
cars.”
“For Maseratis, I have an MC12, an Alfieri, and a 1970 Gran
Turismo. Plus a few strictly for the track.”
“Are you a race car driver?”
I scratch my temple. “Sort of. I’m a, uh, secret race car driver. Er,
I was. The guy on our team—” The words stall, and I have to
change the subject. It’s not because I’m afraid she’ll tell race officials
or even my brothers. Rather, emotion rises too close to the surface.
Yet her earnest gaze draws forward the seldom discussed story—
or at least part of it. “Not too long ago, I had the chance to test out
a custom Maserati. This is definitely an unpopular opinion, but I like
what I like and I loved the way the Maserati handled. The power.
The steering. Plus the headroom relative to the Ferrari was great
since I’m tall as far as Italians go. I liked the way it smelled. The
leather. The dashboard. Some say Ferraris are better, but if you ask
me, at that level, it has as much to do with the driver as with the
performance of the vehicle.” I don’t mention how the Maserati didn’t
remind me of the five years I spent working with Enzo Belinzoni,
arguably one of the top ten best racecar drivers of all time and the
number one fan of all things Ferrari. We were a team. He once told
me I was the son he never had.
Even after word spread that it was me behind the wheel and not
him, resulting in a scandal, I’ve received interest from sponsors to
return to the circuit. To race again. My skin hums with excitement at
the possibility, but my heart tells me those days are over.
Most recently, a premier team asked if I’d like to join them. For
now, I had to say no because I’m busy helping my family—not that
they know any of this.
In a family of nine, where I get razzed the most, it’s something
secret of my own. Well, that and the chocolate bombs. Truth is, my
older brothers would probably try to undermine me somehow and
I’ve had to do enough proving of my intentions to authorities.
Her eyebrows lift. “Sounds like quite the passion. Just tell me you
still love chocolate.”
I chuckle. “I’m made of about seventy-five percent chocolate, so
yes. My real name isn’t Nico Costa, it’s Nico Cioccolato.”
She looks at me for a long moment and her gaze drifts ever so
subtly from my head to my toes, as if at last she gets to put a
person to the guy behind the silly chocolate puns from the dating
app.
It had three sections: in-person dating, online dating, and flirting.
Leave it to me to opt for the last one. If my brothers knew I had a
profile, they wouldn’t let me live it down, never mind that I wasn’t
bold enough to venture into the in-person or online dating spheres.
Because of my limited experience, I figured I ought to start with the
basics and see if I could hold a conversation, even if virtual, with a
woman. I met @Hot-Croco-Late in a group about desserts. We had a
lot in common and chatted almost every day for three months.
Then she went quiet.
Just like she is now.
Me too, lost in her big hazel eyes.
She almost startles me when she says, “So Nico Costa is the man
behind @FerrariRocher.”
“That’s me. What’s your real name @Hot-Croco-Late?”
“I’m Hope. Hope Marshall.”
 “Hope,” I repeat. It’s like her name doesn’t want to leave my lips,
my mind, or my heart.
Her name couldn’t be more perfect for her. She radiates hope.
Her smile. Her laugh. She’s like a sunny morning and the comforting
blanket of night.
I extend my gloved hand to shake hers. She glances at it as if
surprised I’d do something so formal...or dorky. She slides her hand
in mine. Our palms, even though covered, press together for a long
moment. My gaze snags hers, and once again, I lose myself in her
big hazel eyes. I’m reluctant to let go, but am not such a desperate
dweeb that I’d violate social norms and shake her hand for an
awkwardly long time. Distracted, I’ve made that mistake in the past.
Lesson learned.
We start walking again as if hoping to leave that awkward
moment behind us along with our footprints in the snow.
I rack my brain for what to say next. All I come up with is, “You
said that this is your first day as a Christmas-gift-o-gram Girl?”
She smiles weakly. “Yep.”
“I take it you haven’t yet opened your own fudge shop and
named it Hawk Fudge Hollow. I didn’t get the play on the town’s
name when you mentioned it in our chats because I’d never heard
of this place until recently. Clever.”
“I put those grand plans on hold.” She lets out a shaky breath.
“Possibly permanently.”
“Did someone else open a fudge shop in town? It’s kind of the
perfect place for one.”
“Exactly. And no, not yet.”
I frown, not sure why her dream might be permanently on hold.
“Did Mom & Lollipops start making fudge?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Then why did you say—?”
She waves her hands. “This is supposed to be a cheerful,
celebratory, Christmas-gift-o-gram companion afternoon. I should
spare you my tales of woe.”
“I think it can be whatever we want it to be. I want to hear about
your plans to dominate the world with sweet, buttery squares of
fudgy chocolate perfection.”
She glances at me, eyes bright and wide as if surprised I’d say
that. Me too, Hope. Me too. I clear my throat, worried I’ve waded
into uncertain waters. (I’m not the bold brother. That’s a tie between
Luca and Paulo.)
“So is your favorite animal still the crocodile?” I ask, returning to
solid ground.
She nods. “Sure is. Let’s see. Yours was cats, right?”
“Just like I’m still a choc-o-holic, I’m still a cat-o-holic, but I still
don’t have one. I’m renting the third floor of a multi-family home,
and I guess everyone else is allergic.”
“You can come say hi to Marigold and Dandelion sometime.”
“I take it those are your cats?” I ask.
“Yep. They’re a pair of Maine Coon rescues. They get lonely since
I’m gone, working so often.”
“I’ll happily be your cat nanny. Canny?” I try, melding the words.
“Nah. That doesn’t quite work.”
She laughs softly. “You’re an interesting fellow, Nico. You work
with your family at the pizza and pie place, love fast cars, chocolate,
and cats. A rare breed indeed.”
I’m not sure whether to laugh or take it as a compliment. “My
brothers would use other words to describe me, but thank you. And
you are a cutie cookie elf.” I wrinkle my nose. Just kill me now.
Please. An avalanche toppling from the mountain would do. “Uh,
that didn’t quite work either, huh?”
With a wide smile, Hope says, “Not really, but considering I love
Christmas and cookies, I’ll take it as a compliment. What else was
there on our Scroll Click Date app profiles?”
“My favorite color is still blue,” we both say at the same time.
Then she says, “The exact color of your eyes.” Her voice fades as
if in a dream as we stop in front of the Welcome Center.
“Really?”
“Really,” she repeats.
Even though it’s the afternoon, the sky is practically twilight.
Snow swirls around us like a scene in a movie—the one when the
couple finally kisses for the first time.
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