Snickerdoodle Snowmen

By Sarita Leone

Baker Kris Kringles sends snickerdoodles from North Pole, Alaska, across the globe, spreading holiday cheer like confetti. But she has a secret not dusted with sugar, and an incentive to speak with a slick journalist that isn't half-baked.

Reporter Santos Kloss hates Christmas. How could he not, with a name that makes him the butt of endless holiday jokes? He's got one last assignment to complete before he can begin a new chapter in his life, so he grits his teeth, grabs a parka, and heads to Christmas central.

Both expect the interview to be a snap, but a snowstorm, insistent sisters, and a little holiday magic have very different ideas!

• Language: Unknown
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Nov 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9781509237630

Book preview

You’re the newspaper man, aren’t you?

Santos stopped the mug an inch from his lips and looked over the rim into the woman’s eyes. They were green—not merely hazel or a watered-down soda-bottle shade, but vibrantly colored, like the office parrot’s feathers. Polly, the newspaper mascot, looked like a beauty but swore like a sailor, courtesy of the newsmen who got their kicks from teaching the bird to talk. He’d even added some colorful Italian phrases to their feathered friend’s vocabulary.

She stared at him with those piercing eyes so long and hard that his heart began to pound. He wondered if she read right into the truth of him. It sure felt that way. As if despite his nonchalant entrance, small talk, and even observing her figure, she realized he wasn’t some fellow off the street, in for a coffee and cookies. He resisted the urge to pull his jacket closed.

Great. Precisely what he didn’t need. A dame with a brain, a killer attribute that never failed to stir something deep within him.

The stirring hadn’t ever proved deep enough to keep a woman, so he tried to steer clear of romantic involvements. But damn, it felt as if she reached into his soul with those incredible eyes.

Santos lifted his shoulders, then let them drop. He took a long swallow of joe before setting the mug on the counter. "Guilty as charged. I’m from the New York Daily, here to do a story on some cookies that I’m told are made in this shop and sent to crazy, obsessed Christmas fanatics all over the world."

The minute he said it he realized he’d stuck his foot in his mouth. Pretty far down his throat, too.

Snickerdoodle Snowmen

by

Sarita Leone

Christmas Cookies

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Snickerdoodle Snowmen

COPYRIGHT © 2021 by Sarita Leone

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [e-mail]

Cover Art by Kristian Norris

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Edition, 2021

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-3763-0

Christmas Cookies

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

For my parents, who gave me years of sweet holiday memories to cherish.

~

And for Vito—the most meaningful gift of my life.

Chapter 1

North Pole, Alaska

December 15, 1953

If he had it his way, Santos Closs would have abolished Christmas long ago.

The unpopular opinion earned him scowls if he ever dared mention it, so he kept his thoughts to himself. Mostly. But staying quiet on a subject didn’t mean his position changed. He flat out hated the holiday. And why wouldn’t he? His entire life had been one long, stupid Christmas joke after another.

His editor survived on making journalists squirm—even his own brother-in-law. Jake Horowitz seemed to think it part of his job description to send his people into places designed to test their patience. Jake even laughed when he handed over the details, plane tickets, and lodging information.

Have fun, old boy. You’ll fit right in. Hell, they might even decide to keep you there forever!

His boss’ words echoed in Santos’ head. Family ties be damned. It had taken every ounce of self-restraint to not knock the man’s teeth right down his ever-loving throat.

Now, driving down what passed for this tiny town’s main street, Santos’ fingers tightened around the steering wheel. His molars scraped when he clenched his jaw, so he forced himself to relax the muscles. Miles away from a dental office, most likely. He didn’t need any cracked teeth out here.

He spotted his destination and hit the brakes on his seen-better-days truck. It slid to a stop in front of a dingy white building. He turned the key in the ignition, silenced the engine, and sat in the cab, staring at the sky beyond its dirty windshield.

Damn, but he hated December. When his jaw tightened again, he pursed his lips and sent a slow stream of breath into the chilly air. No dentist, remember?

Zero chance of anyone keeping him longer than necessary in this crummy place. He’d do what he’d been sent to do, then hightail it back to civilization. A quick in-and-out job, with no time for lingering.

Gray clouds turned the day almost dark. The forecast for a snowstorm might prove accurate. Well, he probably wouldn’t get all the material he needed for his piece today so escaping before midnight wouldn’t happen, anyway. Nothing to be done about it—but he planned to be on a plane out of here tomorrow.

He looked over at the building, one of the few on the street whose lights were on. A wide plate-glass window, sprayed with white flocking paint surrounding the shop name, sent the acid churning in his gut into full boil.

Kris’ Kringles. Painted in red, with little stars and holiday ornaments dangling from the Ks, gave the word tacky a whole new meaning. Whatever did people think, doing that to their businesses? He stared at the horror and wished he were anywhere but here.

God, but he hated his life.

Putting this off wouldn’t make it go away, so he pulled on the cold metal handle, felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as the hinges squealed, and pushed the heavy door open. The guy waiting for him at the airport insisted the battered red truck would not only get him to and from his destination but also on any moose sighting adventures he joined. Santos doubted it. The rust bucket’s four-wheel drive probably didn’t work and, besides, he wouldn’t be in this frozen hell long enough to find out.

He grabbed his camera and stepped out onto the street—or where he guessed the street to be. He assumed asphalt lay somewhere beneath the compacted layers of ice and snow, but he didn’t see it. The slick mess made walking a challenge. He slipped rounding the front end of the truck and brushed his arm across its grimy hood.

Great. His good jacket sported a slash of black sludge along its right sleeve.

He made it to the bakery without falling on his head or ruining any more clothing. Santos cringed when he grabbed the frozen front door handle and the skin on his fingertips screamed. He pulled so hard the door flew open and stuck sending a frigid gust into the bakery with him.

A woman ran across the room, reached past his body, and tugged on the door.

Don’t worry about it, this happens a lot. I should’ve fixed it already, but who wants to be fiddling with hinges when it’s colder than an ice cube tray, right? Together they unstuck the door and managed to get it closed. She wiped a hand across her cheek and looked up at him. "Thanks for the help. I think it weighs