Once Upon A Chocolate Kiss

Before he could protest, the small—and fast—woman was up and hurrying across the parking lot.

He wondered if he should call a cab. He was a Christian—had been raised in church and given his life to God at an early age. True, he’d been busy lately and hadn’t spent as much time as he should with God—sometimes life seemed to get in his way. But this evening it hadn’t. This evening, for the first time, he’d met someone who was a breath of fresh air. He wouldn’t want to compromise her by going to her house. Small-town gossip could be cruel.

Shaking his head, he thought again how unique it was for someone to be as concerned about him as this woman was. He thought about her offer. What would it hurt to go home with her, let her treat his foot and spend a few hours just chatting? The woman was harmless enough. He grinned at that thought.

His foot certainly didn’t agree with him.

And it was nice that she didn’t know who he was. No bowing and scraping from her, or worse, freezing up and refusing to talk to him because he was rich. He just didn’t want that again, he thought wearily.

As he waited, he pulled his coat closer against the cold air that blew through the sleeping oak trees that dotted the church’s landscaped grounds. Asleep for the winter, they had no leaves or greenery. Instead, their brown branches were coated with a layer of fine white snow. As the wind blew, those branches smashed together, sending a thin misting of snow over everything.

A few had icicles hanging from them, just as the building did. Lights dotted the huge lawn, shining in different directions, several lighting up the manger scene that sat on the corner of the lot.

The rest of the lights allowed shadows to be cast. He could hear music inside, as the service was already under way.

He heard the approaching noise of a vehicle traveling over the snow-and sand-covered street. As the engine’s hum grew louder, it pulled Richard’s attention toward the street.

The woman drove up to the curb in a tiny red pickup truck that had seen better days. She waved at him, her engaging smile shining across the short distance. Any thoughts he’d had about the past pain and disillusionment of life and people fled at the sight of that sweet, gentle expression that graced her face. He stood, transfixed by that smile. Unfortunately, reality intruded in the form of pain, and, to his utter embarrassment, he had to hop as best he could toward the truck.

Chuckling, the woman came forward. “I hate to say this, but have you ever played hopscotch?”

Grinning, he shook his head.

“Well,” she said, pulling open the creaking rusty door, “sometimes the players are wonderful at it, other times they wobble around, right?” Her eyes twinkling, she continued, “You look like the wobbling ones at the moment.”

He chuckled. “I do, do I?”

She grinned cheekily. “By the way, I live two blocks away. Normally I don’t bring my truck, but I had to make a pickup on the way and so I drove. Oh,” she added, giving him a very stern warning glance. “I don’t normally pick up strangers either. I’m not alone where I’m going.”

“An injured man doesn’t have much room to argue, madam, what form of transportation he takes. And rest assured, you will be safe with me.”

Glancing worriedly at his foot she nibbled her lip again. “We’ll get you right over to my house and get something on that.”

If she was relieved at his words, he didn’t see it in her expression. Her attention had returned strictly to the injury.

Helping him into the vehicle, she waited until he was snug with his seat belt fastened before closing the door.

He adjusted the tan belted coat and then, in as dignified a manner as possible, folded his black nylon sock and slipped it into the empty charcoal loafer in his lap.

Samantha jumped into the truck, pausing to tuck the bottom of her blue dress well in from the closing door. She adjusted the beat-up gray jacket she wore over it and then fastened her seat belt. In moments she made a U-turn in the middle of the vacant street and took off the way she’d come. The tiny vehicle was toasty warm, the vents chugging out an air current strong enough to ruffle his hair. He felt his cheeks thaw and begin to heat.

A trash bag hung over the standard stick shift, and between the driver and passenger windshield was a sticker of a cartoon character. Stickers and trash cans. Two things not in his expensive car or any car he’d driven in for quite a while.

“It’s quiet this time of the evening,” he murmured over the engine’s noise.

“Everyone is in church. Hill Creek, Texas, may only run twenty thousand or so, including the outlying areas, but most everyone attends church.”

They did pass a few cars, belying Samantha’s claim. He wondered if she exaggerated everything, and decided that must be part of her outgoing personality. She hadn’t exaggerated where she lived, though, he realized when she turned two blocks later.

As he watched her drive down the street, he opened his mouth to mention the new building two blocks down where the street dead-ended into Hill Creek’s new mall, which this farming community certainly was proud of. Dunnington’s was very visible; the main store was surrounded by large gray sections of wall that blocked the current entrance while engineers and such worked on the inside of the store.

She had an excellent view of what was going on at the construction site, he realized. Hoping to gauge her reaction to the mention of his business, maybe find out just what she thought about someone like him in general, he opened his mouth to ask her about Dunnington’s.

The woman beat him to that. “Over here is where I live and over there is the devil’s playground.”

Blinking, Richard stared at where she pointed and then looked back to her. Though she pointed at the construction site down at the mall, she had to be talking about the hardware store or perhaps something he hadn’t seen. Words like that from such a sweet young woman were so out of character.

“Devil’s playground?” he asked, certain the astonishment could be heard in his voice. He was lucky that he could get that out through his wind-pipe. It’d nearly closed at her words. She pointed at the mall again.

He simply shook his head, certain he’d missed something.

“Yeah. Well, that’s what some of us have taken to calling it. It’s rather bad of me, I know. But they’re bringing in a store that is going to be my competition.”

Then he saw what she meant. “You own a candy store?” he asked, taking in the tiny gingerbread-like building that advertised homemade confections as well as “lunch items.”

She turned in beside the shop and then slipped the brake on before she opened her door. She slid out and came around to the other side of the vehicle. “Yeah. I sure do. And that new company that faces this way from the mall?” She gestured down the street. “It’s here to put me out of business.”

Before he could reply, Samantha slipped her arm around him and led him toward the side door of the building. Unlocking it, she guided him inside.

Dark it might be, but he recognized well the smell of a confectioner’s shop. How could he not? He’d been raised in one himself.

But unfortunately, he was afraid that when this woman, this angel of mercy and simple beauty found out who he was, she was going to break his other foot before booting him right out the front door. How could he go about telling her that her conqueror and savior was the devil that was going to put her out of business?

Chapter Two

“I really don’t want to put you out.”

Samantha smiled at the man. How could she not? He was gorgeous. He was polite. He was gentle. She could go on and on with the impression he’d made on her, but didn’t.

“You aren’t putting me out at all.”

She wondered what the man thought of her candy shop. She paused here at the front end of the store where they had entered. A tiny light on the counter illuminated the front of the shop at night, allowing Mr. Moore to see around him.

She tried to see The Candy Shoppe through a stranger’s eyes. A black and white picture of her grandparents, from the newspaper, when they opened the shop aeons ago, hung on the wall to her right. Various articles surrounded it. The announcement about adding lunchtime meals was beside those, a testament to her needing to add more to keep the store open and draw in more people.

On the other wall were professional pictures of candy and flowers hanging in a gilded frame. Wainscoting climbed halfway up the wall. Above it was a soft pastel wallpaper of blue, pink, yellow and green. Old-fashioned wrought-iron tables, in various pastel shades, dotted the sturdy wood floor. Of course, behind the counter the floor became cement.

Oh, the memories. Some of her best times had been in this shop with her grandmother—getting to help mix the candy, playing ballerina while Granny cleaned up at night.

Memories to fill the places that should have been made with parents who were absent most of her childhood. Especially her father.

“Nice,” the man murmured.

Jolted into action by the deep soft voice, Samantha moved to the end of the counter and lifted part of the Formica-covered countertop.

Richard hobbled through it.

Samantha waited until he was through before slipping her arm back around him.