A Cold Creek Christmas: Reigning Hearts, #5

By KG Fletcher

She's a real-life Grinch and hates Christmas. He's a single dad and loves everything about the holidays. Can they find common ground during the most wonderful time of the year?

 

Small town pub owner, Amber Tatum, craves a family to call her own, especially during the holidays. But painful childhood memories make her steer clear of the annual traditions the small town of Cold Creek has to offer. When a handsome Italian chef saunters into her bar and jingles her bells, she wonders if her Christmas wish might possibly come true.

 

Giovanni Sentieri is ready to put down roots and take over his grandmother's Italian Café. After a devastating divorce, he finds himself as a single father, struggling to balance work and life. The last thing he expected was to fall for a spunky bar owner. So when he learns about her tragic childhood after a few too many shots of whiskey, he invites her to spend the holidays with his family.

 

Will the magic of Christmas bring this couple together, or will the self-proclaimed Grinch of Cold Creek turn her back on the possibility of love and family?

• Language: English
• Publisher: KG Fletcher
• Release date: Jun 12, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227543578

Book preview

Chapter One

Amber

The charming bell above the door to the Hudson Hill Café dinged as Amber shoved it open, the scent of coffee and gingerbread immediately hitting her senses. Wrinkling her nose, she sighed. For the life of her, she couldn’t get away from the sights and smells of the upcoming holiday closing in on her like a bear hug from Santa himself.

Amber Tatum despised Christmas. 

Halloween was more her flavor. The annual costume party she held at the pub she owned in town was one of her favorite celebrations of the year. In her humble opinion, Christmas was just another holiday ruined by greedy advertisers and over-the-top consumerism.

The constant seasonal songs on repeat over every single speaker in all the shops in town made her nauseous, and the gaudy decorations and bright lights hiding the quaint façade of Cold Creek left a sour taste in her mouth. And don’t get her started on gingerbread. She despised the treat. The town held an annual gingerbread house contest, and she begrudgingly advertised the event along with the rest of the business owners on Main Street, taping colorful red and green posters in their windows. 

Cold Creek was a small tourist town, the city folks from New York clamoring to snag a bed and breakfast, or better yet, a room with a view at the River House Inn overlooking the chilly Hudson River. The town was known for going all out with Christmas-themed parties and contests, sure to soften the hearts of even the most diehard of Scrooges. Unfortunately for Amber, the holiday meant more work for her as she gave her staff precious time off to be with family, leaving her alone and overworked.

"Ciao, Bella!" Mrs. Marguerite Sentieri greeted.

Hello, Mama, she replied with a warm smile.

Mama, as Marguerite was affectionately called by all the locals, including Amber, was a woman in her late seventies of Italian descent—an incredible creative in the community, famous for her lemon-ricotta pancakes and specialty items, including seasonal gingerbread and intricately-decorated Christmas cookies. The elderly woman was expectant, wearing a frilly holiday apron, her gray hair pulled back into a tidy topknot revealing her sharp cheekbones.

I’m here to pick up the gingerbread dough you called about. Amber found it very hard not to make a face as she pulled off her thick gloves. 

One of Mama’s ovens was on the fritz, and she called asking Amber for help. Apparently, she was in the middle of baking the last slabs of gingerbread she needed for the elaborate house she was assembling for the annual contest. Amber’s pub kitchen held a massive oven, and she was more than happy to help the elderly woman in her time of need. If it was anyone else, not so much. Unfortunately, her whole damn bar would soon smell of ginger, cinnamon, allspice, and cloves—the spice amalgam assaulting her bah-humbug senses.

Oh, I am so appreciative, Mama declared, coming around a glass display case next to the cash register.

Even among the variety of baked goods, imported Italian meats and cheeses, and prepared salads on display, evergreen branches and twinkle lights were tucked among the food presentation. The distinct voice of Bing Crosby singing White Christmas crooned over the speakers, and a tall Frasier Fir stood regal in the corner, decorated in bulbs of white with delicate hand-blown Italian ornaments from Mrs. Sentieri’s homeland hanging perfectly from the thick branches. Even her customers seemed especially jolly, everyone wearing holiday sweaters and festive knit hats.

The entire café resembled a holiday set from a freaking Hallmark movie.

Would you like a glass of Vin Brulé? I have some in the back.

Amber quickly shook her head. The last thing she needed was a mulled-wine buzz adding more cloudiness to her somber mood. And besides, whiskey was more her flavor.

No, thanks. I need to get back to the bar before the happy hour rush.

Mama’s head tilted in a nod as she reached for Amber’s bare hands and grimaced. Your hands are like ice. Come. She started to pull her behind the register.

Mama, I really can’t stay…

"Hush, Bella."

Amber sighed and dutifully followed. She watched Mrs. Sentieri lift the lid off a crockpot on the counter and dip a ladle into a steaming liquid and stir, warm vapors curling around her pleased expression. Grasping a nearby mug with a wrinkled hand, she carefully filled it without spilling a drop, topping the beverage off with a dash of cinnamon. 

You are chilled to the bone. A warm mug of something sweet, spiced, and non-alcoholic is the perfect touch to any winter evening, especially during the holidays. Her smile held love as she presented Amber with the hot drink.

What is it? It took everything in her power not to scrunch her face into a Grinchy expression.

Wassail. As a bar owner, you probably know this term as part of a toast shared by neighbors and carolers, lifting mugs of cider during winter gatherings. This is the homemade recipe I share with my local friends when they come in. It will warm you right up. She gently urged Amber to lift the mug to her mouth, the look on her face expectant for some kind of reaction to the taste.

The warm liquid assaulted Amber’s taste buds, the sweet apple cider infused with warm spices causing her gag-reflex to engage. Swallowing hard, she pressed her lips together in a tight smile.

Mmmm. So yummy, she lied. She wasn’t about to dis Mama’s homemade concoction. 

Good, she grinned. You finish while I gather the dough.

Amber nodded vigorously, her face scrunched in a fake smile and her hands in a death grip around the warm mug. At least her hands were starting to thaw out. As the woman disappeared through the double doors into the café kitchen, Amber took three giant steps toward the utility sink tucked in the corner. Looking around at all the happy customers nibbling on wretched Christmas cookies, she made sure no one was watching and quickly dumped the contents down the drain.

With the empty mug in her hand, she came back around the display cases and leaned nonchalantly near the cash register, feigning innocence. When Mama returned, Amber lifted the empty mug to her mouth and pretended to swallow the last drop. She even swiped the back of her free hand against her mouth for full effect.

Mmmm, Mama. You were right. This wassail warmed me right up.

The woman’s grin was infectious, and her eyes glimmered with pleasure. Would you like to take some to go?

"No! I mean, no, thank you. This hit the spot. Maybe next time?"

Of course. 

Amber set the mug on the counter and reached for the two cookie sheets stacked in Mama’s arms. Is this all of it?

Yes. Take the plastic wrap off, of course, and bake them in a four-hundred and twenty-five-degree oven for about fifteen minutes or until they are puffed up. Usually, when the air is full of unmistakable holiday flavor, I know it’s about time to take them out.

Amber offered a cockeyed smile, taking the trays from the woman. Yep—her bar was going to reek of gingerbread.

Great.

These are the remaining wall pieces to my gingerbread house, she explained. I’m replicating an Italian villa for the contest. I’ll have Gio pick these up before closing time.

Gio?

Yes, my grandson, Giovanni. Mrs. Sentieri’s eyes lit up at the mention of her grandson’s full name, piquing Amber’s interest. I don’t think you’ve met him before as he’s only visited a few times during the busy summers. He’s here just in time for the holidays. 

Oh, that’s wonderful. The two women started for the door. 

I’m so happy you’ll get to meet him when he comes by your pub later. He is very handsome and good with his hands.

Excuse me? Gripping the stacked trays a little tighter, Amber tried to stop to gather more information about her handsome grandson, but Mama already had the door open, ushering her outside into the winter elements.

"Grazie, Amber. Ciao!"

The door dinged shut, and Amber took in a frosty breath of wintergreen air. The freezing temperatures nipped at her exposed cheeks and hands as she started toward her pub, the annoying fa-la-la-la-la sounds of Christmas music echoing in the air.

In a week or so, the town would be packed with tourists and last-minute shoppers, excited to witness Santa Claus and his elves parading down Main Street before the official tree-lighting ceremony in the Cold Creek square. With her chin shrugged into the warm folds of her scarf, she grumbled in a pout.

I can’t wait for this season to be over already.

Entering the dark confines of The Good Pub, Amber sighed with relief. Not wanting to come off as a complete Scrooge, she left the minimalistic decorations in her business up to her staff.

Blinking multi-colored twinkle lights lined the edges of the massive bar, and red and white stockings hung on the liquor shelves with each staff members’ name in prominent glitter glue. Mistletoe was tacked to the upper thresholds of the doors leading to the bathrooms, and a stuffed Santa was situated near the cash register holding a sign near a jar that read, ‘tips.’

A few cheap stockings and bunches of leathery-leaved parasite plants hanging from velvet ribbons were one thing. But a Christmas tree was absolutely out of the question. Unfortunately for Amber, the evergreen scent, hanging ornaments and lighted branches brought too many unwanted memories to the surface, her feelings uncomfortably fragile during the holiday season. 

The most wonderful time of year for most people emphasized how unhappy Amber truly was, her recollection of past Christmases something she’d rather forget. Decorated trees brought it all to the forefront, and she’d be damned if she ever allowed one in her pub. Her long-time staff balked at first, but they remained respectful, glad she allowed even a little holiday cheer into the pub over the years.

Whatcha got there? Fred asked. The young cook wiped his hands on his splattered apron, remnants of buffalo sauce evident on the fabric.

Carefully easing the trays of gingerbread dough onto a vacant counter in the industrial kitchen, she stood tall with her hands on her hips. She was barely five feet but managed an intimidating presence in front of her team.

These are Mama Sentieri’s gingerbread parts. Her main oven’s not working, and she needs these baked right away. She’s entering the annual contest. Think you can handle it?

Fred grinned. Sure. How long and at what temp?

Amber relayed Mama’s baking instructions as she shrugged off her heavy coat and scarf, walking toward her small office. Give me a holler when they’re out of the oven, okay?

You got it, Fred replied.

Shutting herself in the office, she hung her things on the back of the door and cupped her hands at her mouth, blowing warm air across her frozen fingers. Sitting in