Chocolate Dreams at the Gingerbread Cafe by Rebecca Raisin Page B

My heart hammers — the last thing I need is more competition.
    â€œYeah, he is—what did you think small goods was?”
    I sigh inwardly. “Well, small goods, with an emphasis on the small —”
    CeeCee butts in. “Maybe a few cheeses, some o’ that fancy coffee. What, he gonna start making gingerbread houses too now, and pumpkin pies, and whatnot?” She places her hands on her hips, and is getting up a full head of steam. “That just ain’t how we do business round here.”
    Walt scratches the back of his neck. “I thought you knew. He’s been advertising in the paper…”
    I castigate myself for not being more observant, but I don’t want to make Walt feel any more uncomfortable than he already is.
    â€œThat’s OK, Walt. I might have a little chat with him, later on. CeeCee made a nice batch of apple pies yesterday. I’m going to give you one for Janey. You tell her we appreciate her custom, OK?”
    CeeCee adds a pie to the box with Walt’s ham and turkey. “Nice big chunks of apple, too. You make sure you heat it up first, OK?”
    He takes his wallet out and hands CeeCee some cash. “Thank you, girls. She surely will appreciate that.”
    â€œYou have a good Christmas, if we don’t see you before,” I say, nodding to him.
    â€œSame goes for you. And thanks, I hope you sort it all out.”
    â€œDon’t you even think of it,” CeeCee says.
    We wait for Walt to leave, and I expel a pent-up breath. “Well, no wonder!” I pace the floor and silently curse my own stupidity.
    CeeCee wrings her hands on a tea towel. “Lookie here, maybe he just don’t know. You should go on over there and tell him.”
    â€œHow can he not know? It’s a small town—any idiot can work it out. You think he’s going to start catering too?”
    I walk to the window and stare out. There he is, waving like a fool. At me. I glare at him and stomp back to the bench. “He’s trying to make nice. Well, that won’t wash. I’m going over there to tell him what I think of him!”
    CeeCee sighs. “Wait, don’t go over there and have a hissy fit. That ain’t gonna help matters.”
    â€œHe’s got no business stealing our customers. And I’m going to tell him that.”
    I bundle my apron, fling it on a table, and march out of the shop. The cold air stings my skin, and I rue the fact I didn’t put my jacket on. Damon sees me coming, and smiles; his big brown puppy-dog eyes look kindly at me, but that doesn’t stop me for a minute. He’s a shark. A charlatan. And I’m going to tell him so.
    He walks out to the stoop of his shop. “Hey,” he says, sweet as pie. “I was going to come over and introduce myself this afternoon.”
    â€œWho do you think you are?” I stuff my hands into the pockets of my jeans, and resist the urge to stamp my foot.
    â€œSorry?” His forehead creases, adding to his rugged good looks. He sure can play the innocent, all right.
    â€œYou think you can just move into town and steal my customers? Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing!” The street comes alive as shoppers stop to watch. This’ll be spread round town before I’m even done talking.
    He looks truly bamboozled, but I know it’s an act. I’ve seen plenty of men like him. He’s dressed like some kind of cowboy, tight denim jeans that hug in all the right places, a red checker shirt, unbuttoned one too many buttons, exposing his chest. This infuriates me. Good looks like that, he’s going to be popular and I’m going to suffer for it. I can see the ladies of this town, frocking up, smearing all kinds of gloop on their faces, while they parade around his shop, pretending to be interested in whatever it is he’s selling.
    â€œI’m really not following, ah, Miss…” He rubs a hand