Abdominal Snowman

By Sloane Peterson

Maybe I'm just crazy, but I'm pretty sure a snowman isn't supposed to be this hot..

 

As a single mother living in small town USA, I really should be thankful for all I have. 

I have a roof over my head, a bakery I inherited from my parents, and my ten year-old-daughter Jule.

 

I absolutely love the stuffing out of her, but the holiday season is rough for both of us this year. 

This has been our first Christmas since my divorce from her father, a deadbeat dad who never really supported either of us.

 

I do my best for Jule, but I worry sometimes that my best isn't good enough. 
And with the bakery really struggling financially right now, I'm afraid that this might end up being one of our worst holidays ever.

 

But that all changes one weekend, when Jule and I build a snowman together in our front yard.

He's nothing special at first glance. Three snowballs, a carrot nose, and some tattered old clothes thrown together. 

 

But that night there's a raging snowstorm outside my window, like nothing I've ever seen before.

 

By the time it all dies down, there's an extremely cute naked guy standing outside my door, claiming to be our snowman brought to life. 

 

Has the stress of the holidays finally made me lose my marbles?
Or could this ice-cold stranger be exactly what my daughter and I have been missing this holiday season?
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sloane Peterson
• Release date: Nov 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9798223748397

Book preview

Table of Contents

Abdominal Snowman

Chapter One - Small Town, Big Humbug

Chapter Two - All I Want For Christmas

Chapter Three - Snowball Flirt

Chapter Four - The Cold Shoulder

Chapter Five - On Thin Ice

Chapter Six - The Way the Cookie Crumbles

Chapter Seven - Boxing Day

Chapter Eight - ‘Twas the Season

Chapter Nine - And to All a Good Night

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© Copyright 2023 by Sloane Peterson - All rights reserved.

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In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher. All rights reserved.

Respective authors own all copyrights not held by the publisher.

Abdominal Snowman

A Feel Good Winter Romance

(because we all need that right now)

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By: Sloane Peterson

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Table of Contents

Chapter One - Small Town, Big Humbug 5

Chapter Two - All I Want For Christmas 11

Chapter Three - Snowball Flirt 17

Chapter Four - The Cold Shoulder 32

Chapter Five - On Thin Ice 37

Chapter Six - The Way the Cookie Crumbles 46

Chapter Seven - Boxing Day 54

Chapter Eight - ‘Twas the Season 61

Chapter Nine - And to All a Good Night 65

Chapter One - Small Town, Big Humbug

Once upon a time, I would’ve told you that living in a tiny little town like Loveland was like being nice and cozy in your own little slice of paradise. And that was especially true during this time of year.

We had the kind of Main Street here in Loveland that big city folks loved to romanticize around the holiday season. We had all kinds of niche shops and boutiques, and thriving small businesses that seemed like they'd missed the memo that we were living in the twenty-first century.

You could hardly turn a corner without running into a friendly face, and a simple stroll down the block could turn into quite the prolonged affair, with your cheeks flushed and cold from the chilly winter air, but the cockles of your heart warm as a wool sweater from the sense of community, and without all the unnecessary itching.

I always thought it was especially beautiful after the first snowfall, with folks all neatly tucked away inside their homes, as the brick streets softly disappeared beneath a virgin white sheet, in a way that made the whole world seem softer, more gentle than usual.

The town hung up its traditional Christmas wreaths on the old gothic-looking street lamps that decorated the few short blocks of its Main Street, decorations were tastefully strung on snug little houses and snow-covered cottages, that already looked as if they were designed with the express purpose of being featured on the fronts of Christmas cards.

And on December 1st, all of Loveland would assemble together in the village square, for the mayor and some spirited youngster from the local elementary school to light up the town Christmas tree, making us all feel closer together, and truly united as a community.

It had been my own daughter, Jule up there only a few short years ago. She was just a kindergartener then, her smile checkered and shy as her father and I prodded her up to where the mayor stood with the on/off button, for her to flip the switch and set the town ablaze with Christmas joy.

I still got emotional in those days whenever I thought about that memory. We still had photos of her big moment hanging up around the house, the three of us smiling and laughing, the steam of our breath visible even in the photograph.

It had seemed like a happier time back then. And maybe it still was for Jule, I didn’t know. But for me, now, all it dredged up was pain, humiliation, and the loss of something which had once seemed so beautiful to me. Something which physically pained me to remember now, and left me wondering whether it was ever even real in the first place.

The holiday season was proving especially difficult for me this year. My first Christmas alone. Or, not completely alone. I still had Jule after all, and she’d never been anything short of a blessing to me.

But this was my first Christmas without Scott. And however much I would never wish to remain in the dark about who he really was, his absence still left a gaping hole in my life that I suspected would only become more painful as December 25th approached...

All that said, for better or for worse, I had very little time for wallowing in self-pity these days, as much as I might have wanted to. Because you see, I had a bakery to run.

Loveland from the Oven had been in my family for generations now, ever since my great grandmother came to this town, somewhere near the turn of the twentieth century.

Our little bakery that could had managed to survive over a hundred years since then, through fires, flood, and economic collapses. What remained to be seen, however, was whether it could survive being cast into the clumsy hands of one Miss Addison Moss (yours truly), during the busiest yet the most depressing time of the year for me.

At present I found myself scrambling around through the ovens in our back rooms, sweltering in my intentionally ugly red Christmas sweater as I tried to do a trillion and one things at once. It couldn’t have been above freezing outside- during the rare glimpses I caught of the outside world during my kitchen imprisonment. I could barely make out wisps of snow flurrying by, and the piles of the white stuff that had fallen there the night before still had yet to melt away, despite the sun being out for the majority of the day.

Still though, I felt like a lizard being cooked on a stone in the middle of a desert, and I was vaguely beginning to consider whether I’d receive any sort of health-code violations for ditching my Santa sweater altogether, and doing all my baking in my underwear.

Addison, hon, you said those cinnamon rolls would be ready here shortly?

It was Marie, my sole employee, calling to me from behind the register. God love her, Marie was about as saccharine sweet an old lady as she could be, and was a holdover from the days when my grandmother ran the place. She was the kind of lady who automatically triggered a response to want to hold the door open for her, even if she didn’t happen to be headed for that particular building at the time.

I’ll have them out in a sec! I yelled back out to her, trying and failing to match her sweetness note for note. I wiped a bead of sweat from my brow with my palm, then instantly made the stupid mistake of reaching for the hot bakery tray containing the cinnamon rolls in question, without the protection of oven mitts.

I jerked my hand back, and gave it a good, violent shake.

"Ahhh! Shhhhh-sugarplums!" I hissed, narrowly stopping myself from cursing in case the customer was within earshot.

Everything alright? asked Marie a moment later.

The skin looked red and angry where it had come into contact with the hot rack, but I was really more concerned about my mental state than any physical injuries. This had been the fourth or fifth time I’d done that this week, and I was beginning to wonder where my head was at.

I slipped on a pair of oven mitts covered in snowflakes, then managed successfully this time to slide the tray down from the rack, and carry it out into the main section of the bakery.

A frumpy looking middle-aged