Romancing Rudy Raindear (Sexy Secret Santas) (2 page)

He had grown up baking alongside his grandfather, something his parents discouraged, and had developed a distinctive pallet for every cookie in the bakery, so he knew when his grandfather was on target. This cookie, although good, was not perfect.

It was at that moment when Rudy remembered exactly what that Santa guy with the white beard and heavy black boots had said to him, or rather, sang to him as they stood outside in some cold place that looked an awful lot like the real North Pole complete with miles of packed icy snow, and several reindeer grazing alongside a huge log cabin. There may have even been an elf or two visible through a snowy window.

You better look out. You better not lie. You better not doubt, I’m telling you why. Santa Claus is coming to town. He sees you when you’re sleeping, and knows when you’re a fake. Your nose will shine when you really lie, so be good for goodness sake.

Rudy put the mirror down, and leapt out of bed.

“I am so screwed!” he mumbled.

Chapter Two

By the time Rudy stepped out of the shower and looked in the mirror, his nose had reverted back to its natural state. The red was entirely gone, leading him to believe that clearly the meet-up with Santa was, in fact, a dream.

All Rudy’s aliments, including the red nose, were a direct cause of his monster hangover, and nothing else.

Confident he had everything back under control, he performed his usual morning ritual at the tiny bathroom sink in the attic, ignoring all the girly products Jenny had lying around, like her makeup, various bottles of perfume, a hairdryer, and things he didn’t want to know about.

Now that he was back to his normal, self-confidant self, he intended to tackle his gramps first. The sooner he could convince him it was time to retire and allow Rudy to handle his estate, the better.

Rudy’s dad wanted nothing to do with it, which was fine by Rudy. He had experience in dealing with stubborn guys like Gramps. He knew all the right buttons to push, and which ones to leave alone. He’d have Gramps eating out of his hand before the end of the day.

“Why should this be any different,” he said to his reflection in the mirror.

He smiled at himself as he combed his blond hair, giving it an extra bit of shine with a touch of Jenny’s mouse. “It’s all good, buddy. Nothing can stop you now.”

Rudy had planned a meeting with some of the decision makers for Smart-Mart, the night before Christmas Eve, at Jack Frost’s Steak House. He wanted everything to be locked and loaded by then. No loose ends. Gramps was a loose end that he intended to tie up ASAP.

Thirty minutes later, Rudy sat at a small green table across from his grandfather inside Sugar Plums bakery. The bakery hadn’t changed much over the years: sage colored walls, a smattering of pictures depicting most of the bakeries the Raindear family had once owned, and three glass display cases that were well over four-feet high.

Jenny, who periodically threw Rudy one of her adorable smiles, waited on the lone female customer picking out two dozen assorted cookies.

Not that there was much of an assortment. Rudy counted only fifteen different cookies tucked inside the glass counters where there once was more than forty, with five different cakes, at least ten types of breads and a mixture of muffins. The customer also bought a half-dozen doggie bagels, which seemed to sell better than the cookies.

“Looking kind of empty in here, Gramps,” Rudy said after he slid his empty plate to the side. His grandfather had made him two eggs, turkey sausage, grits, and baguette toast. Now all that was left was a small plate of Italian wedding cookies.

“It’ll pick up. Always does,” Gramps continued, then sipped his black coffee out of a red mug. Although Gramps was in his late eighties, he still looked as if he hadn’t even reached his seventies. His gray hair was still streaked with blond, his face was barely lined, and his clothes reflected a man who took good care of himself.

“Economy’s bad, Gramps. I don’t know how you’ve been hanging on.”

His grandfather sat back in his chair. “Been doin’ just fine, son. Don’t you go worrying about me. I hear you and the boys really tied one on last night.”

Rudy ignored the last comment and pushed on. “But I do worry about you, Gramps. I want you to be happy. You should be relaxing on a beach somewhere, instead of working yourself to death in this money pit.”

Rudy picked up a cookie and took a bite. He knew instantly it was lacking the right amount of sugar. He put it back on the plate.

“Now you don’t like my cookies anymore? What else is going on with you?”

“What? No. Your cookies are great. I love ‘em. You know that. I’m just saying, wouldn’t you rather be someplace warm and sunny?”

“It’s almost seventy degrees outside. I hate it. Hotter than it’s ever been since me and your grandmother moved here back in the forties. I like cold and snow, lots of both. Never was one for hot sand and hot air. Takes the fun out of Christmas, and me and your gram were all about Christmas.”

Rudy’s nose itched.

He told himself it was nothing, to ignore it.

The jingle bells rang on the door behind Rudy signaling that the customer had left. Now Rudy felt as if he could be more forthcoming with his grandfather. Lay it on the table, so to speak.

Tell him the facts.

“I want to buy the bakery from you, and run it myself.”

A total lie, but once he moved Gramps to a suitable retirement home, which he intended to prepay so Gramps would have nothing to worry about except having fun and relaxing, the old guy would be too busy to ever know the truth.

This can’t be happening!

“I’m getting a cold.”

“That might be a cold if you was livin’ in New York City, but you’re in North Pole, Maine now, and you’re a Raindear. That ain’t no cold. Not here. Not in this town. I know exactly what that is.”

“Didn’t have to.” Gramps walked back behind the counter then turned to Rudy. “I got me some first hand knowledge with that there red nose.” Then he
tsked
, shaking his head. “And I thought you was different, but you’re a chip off your grandpa’s block. Woo-hoo, I’m sure lookin’ forward the next couple’a weeks!”

He laughed again, and Jenny came out from the back, dusted with flour, hair pulled up in a ponytail, looking so cute Rudy could eat her up.

“What’s so funny?” she asked, all smiles, ready to get in on the fun.

“Rudy here’s got hisself on Santa’s Naughty List, and, well, he’s gonna have to tell you the rest.”

Rudy wasn’t in the mood to tell Jenny anything, especially with his nose in its hideous condition, so he headed back upstairs to try and figure this whole thing out, without his grandfather’s laughter making matters worse.

***

Four days had gone by since Jenny had seen Rudy. She was beginning to get worried even though Gramps had assured her “the boy just needs time to figure out how to handle his peculiar predicament.”

Then he’d laugh.

But sales at Sugar Plums had taken a real turn for the worse despite Jenny’s secret attempts to improve the flavor of the cookies Gramps was baking. It was time she took action.

Mrs. Claus was depending on her.

Not to mention that Christmas was fast approaching and if Sugar Plums had any hope of survival, she needed to find the ancestral recipe book that Rudy’s grandmother kept hidden somewhere in the building.

Gramps, a nickname everyone in the town had given Mr. Raindear years ago, was losing his memory faster than Santa could zip up a chimney, and she simply couldn’t sit back and let the bakery die. He’d forgotten to add the pecans to his latest batch of pecan sandies, causing his best customer, Camden Kane, the owner of Candy Kane Inn, to threaten to cancel his standing order of five dozen cookies per day in December.

So, there she was, knocking on Rudy’s door at said inn, sporting a red box of not-so-good cookies, hoping to convince him to help her find the recipe book and save Sugar Plums.

According to Mary Claus, the Raindear family had been providing Santa with his favorite gingerbread cookie for well over a hundred and fifty years. A tradition Jenny was not about to let die simply because of a missing recipe book.

Jenny knocked on the door again, and this time she heard a noise inside the room. “I know you’re in there, Rudy. You can run but you can’t hide. This town is way too small.”

She waited. Nothing.

From the time Jenny was nine years old, she had been Mrs. Claus’s little helper. A secret position all the women in the Bells family had shared at one time or another. Legend had it that Jenny’s great-grandmother, three times removed, had been their flower girl, dropping poinsettia petals at Mary and Santa’s wedding in the real North Pole on Christmas Eve. Ever since that momentous occasion, the Bells women had eagerly helped out whenever they were asked.

This latest request was no exception: Save Santa’s favorite bakery. Which at any other time wouldn’t have been such a difficult task, but in this economy, with the way North Pole, Maine had been sliding downhill, saving Sugar Plums bakery seemed almost impossible.

Until Rudy showed up.

“You might as well open the door and save me a trip downstairs to get the keycard. You know Camden will give it to me. Everyone wants you to help save your grandfather’s bakery.”

The door opened and a scraggly Rudy appeared. He needed a shave, and he looked tired, but his nose was none the worse for wear.

“Maybe it’s time to let the bakery fade into the past.”

Jenny shoved the box of cookies into his belly. He winced. She walked past him into the shambles of what was once a festive suite, complete with yards of garland, twinkling lights, red and gold furniture and a glorious completely decorated live Christmas tree standing in front of the large window that looked out on the town square.

“I’ll ignore that and chalk it up to pre-Christmas jitters. Taste these cookies and tell me what’s missing.”

He chuckled. “Like I could—” but he stopped mid-sentence, and instead let the door swing shut behind him.

“This room comes with maid service. Perhaps you should call one.” She removed a large bag of rancid smelling food from a red leather chair and sat down.

“Are you always this bossy?”

“Only when I’m dealing with someone who obviously can’t think straight.”

“Define
straight?”

He tossed the box of cookies on the cluttered dresser and sat down on the unmade bed. His black T-shirt bore remnants of his last meal, along with large grease spots. His white pj bottoms had so many wrinkles they looked as if he hadn’t been out of them in days.

His hands gripped the golden colored blanket. “Every time I even tell the whitest of lies, my nose turns red. It’s like some kind of barometer or something.”