The Meaning in Mistletoe - Rachael Bloome Page 0,1

years, that’s exactly what she’d done… until now.

Come January 1, Hope Hideaway might cease to exist.

Unless Kat found a way to save it.

Raising one eyebrow, Jack Gardener folded his burly arms in front of his chest.

“C’mon, one taste.” His persistent sous-chef flashed a challenging smirk. “What? Afraid you’ll actually like it?”

Jack grunted. Hiring his childhood friend, Colt Davis, to work at his restaurant had simultaneously been the best and worst decision of the century. Although he’d been glad to provide a part-time job so Colt could stay in town, the incessant culinary experiments were driving him crazy. He liked owning a down-to-earth, no-frills barbecue joint with the best burgers and sarsaparilla floats in Poppy Creek. And he planned to keep it that way.

“I already put your strange cinnamon-and-coffee steaks on the menu, isn’t that enough?”

“Are you referring to the steaks that won the Fourth of July cook-off?” Colt rebutted, his impish grin revealing the dimple in his left cheek.

“Steaks shouldn’t be sweet,” Jack mumbled. “Clearly, the judges had heatstroke.”

Colt rolled his eyes, shoving the spoon toward him. “Just try it.”

Squinting at the syrupy sauce, Jack wrinkled his nose. “What is it?”

“It’s an espresso molasses glaze. It’ll go great with the brisket.”

The furrow in Jack’s brow deepened. Why couldn’t Colt leave well enough alone? The Buttercup Bistro across the street could cater to the tourists with their fancy-schmancy menu, while they focused on local favorites like grilled tri-tip and his twice-baked potatoes.

“Open wide,” his friend said in a singsong voice, brandishing the serving utensil like an airplane. “You have a one-way ticket to I told you so.”

“Give me that.” After snatching the spoon, Jack slurped the bizarre concoction. He tried to keep his expression stoic, but to his consternation, the glaze didn’t taste half bad. Drat. He really didn’t want to change the menu again. Especially since Colt seemed bent on turning his humble establishment—which started as a bare-bones diner—into a Michelin star restaurant. And the last thing Jack wanted was a deluge of snobby tourists who cared more about the price tag of the plate than the food itself.

“Ha! I knew you’d like it!” Colt pumped his fist in triumph. “Can I put it on the menu for this weekend?”

Setting the utensil back on the spoon rest, Jack untied his plaid waist apron. “We’ll discuss it later. We don’t want to be late for Luke’s special get-together for Cassie.”

“No kidding. He hasn’t stopped talking about it all week.” Colt shoved the lid on the saucepan. “The way he’s been droning on and on about it, you’d think he was giving her the Hope Diamond instead of some old scrapbook.”

“It’s not any old scrapbook. The Christmas Calendar is what brought your brother and Cassie together. You really should sit down and hear the whole story sometime. As far as love stories go, it’s pretty epic,” Jack told him before swiveling to address his other cook. “Johnson, we should be back in twenty. Hold down the fort.”

Vick Johnson, a tattooed tough guy with a surprising soft side, raised a bottle of barbecue sauce in acknowledgment before slathering it on a plate of steaming hot ribs.

“Feel free to use my new glaze while we’re gone,” Colt added, nodding toward the saucepan on the stove.

Jack bit back a sarcastic remark, marching out of the kitchen before he said something he’d regret.

To his chagrin, Colt continued to blabber about menu changes as they strode across the town square toward The Calendar Café, a bakery and coffee shop that served as the town gathering place.

After drawing in a deep breath, Jack exhaled slowly, watching his breath escape in a hazy white cloud. The frigid night air helped him keep his cool.

While he didn’t blame Colt for his enthusiasm, Jack knew the danger of blind ambition. He’d watched it tear his family apart. Growing up, they’d barely had enough money to make ends meet, but they had each other. And for a time, that had been enough.

Unbidden, his thoughts flew to the Christmas card buried beneath a stack of junk mail. In the professional photograph, his entire family gathered in front of a grandiose mansion wearing matching red turtlenecks, most likely cashmere. Although the rift between Jack and his parents had been going on for years, they’d kept him on their mailing list. Probably to rub salt in the wound.

Not only did it pain Jack to see the garish display of wealth, but he couldn’t bear the depressing reminder that all four of his brothers had followed