“Is this why you wanted to come here?” I teased, moving to pick up one of his books.
“I didn’t think they’d still have this up,” he said.
“Is that our famous Miles Taylor?”
We both turned to see a red-haired woman striding excitedly toward us.
Miles broke out into a grin, stepping forward to give her a hug. “You’re embarrassing me, Cathy. You still have this up?”
“Of course we do. It’s not every day somebody from this town becomes a famous author.” She beamed up at him. Looking at me, she asked, “Is this a girlfriend?”
“Yup.” Miles smirked at me. “This is Oliviana.”
I gave him an exasperated look before shaking Cathy’s excited hand.
“Well, it’s so nice to meet you,” Cathy said.
“You, too.”
“Will you sign a few books really quick?” she asked, looking up at Miles imploringly.
Miles signed everything they had in stock. We roamed the shop for another twenty minutes before we found what we both deemed the perfect book for his mom. A light snow began to fall on us as we meandered back toward his truck. There were bells in the distance, and the light sound of Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas Is You” humming through the town speakers. The only thing that could have made this moment more perfect was to be holding hands with somebody. Where were the eyes of my mom and sister when we needed them?
I was kidding.
Miles checked the clock in the truck when we got in. “It’s 2:30. The contest closes at 4:00. How much time do you need to make the gingerbread house?”
“Assuming I have good help, we can do it in an hour.”
“Assume away, Celery Stick.”
“Why do you ask?”
He motioned up the hill we were climbing. “I’m in the mood for a maple creme, and we’re about to pass Morse Farm.”
“Your family can sure put away the ice cream.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Is that a challenge or a yes?”
“No whining with the gingerbread, and you have to do everything I say. And we can only stay for ten minutes.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Miles gave a mock salute as he pulled into the maple farm.
Forty-five minutes later, Miles dragged me nearly kicking and screaming back to the truck. It had been too much fun sampling the different grades of syrup, watching the videos on how they run their operation, and walking the beautiful snow-covered grounds. The soft-serve maple creme I held in my hands was a delightful bonus to the most magical afternoon.
We rushed back to the lodge where I discovered Miles to be a halfway decent help. Having a time limit probably motivated him more than anything. I used the hot glue gun provided to build the house and then put Miles in charge of gluing the golden grahams onto the roof, giving it a thatched look. I covered the sides in white frosting, then strategically placed our rosemary sprigs in the eaves and down the roofline. We made windows and pathways with some of the candy bars we’d bought and, at precisely 4 pm, set it on the judging table along with seven or eight other completed houses.
“Okay, over-achievers.” Chloe came up next to us, admiring our house in disgust. “You couldn’t just use the stuff in the package like everybody else?”
Miles leaned across me to address my sister. “For the record, I voted for the package.”
“Such a whiner,” I said.
“I knew I liked you,” Chloe said to Miles.
“Where are the girls?” I asked, looking around for the kids.
“We made ours at home, meaning the girls helped me for about three minutes before they began eating all the frosting, and Ben put them down for a nap while I finished.”