Page 98 of Meet Me on Mistletoe Lane

“No,” I mumbled.

“Then maybe you should say that word ‘no’ more so you can.” She sighed and then pointed to the fridge. “We have some gnocchi from your Nona in there. Why don’t you heat it up and eat that before beating up the candy canes?”

“Thanks, Jo.” I smiled and crossed the kitchen and gave her a hug. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

She patted my back.

“Oooh, I love the green of that mixture!” I said, pointing to the bowl. “Did you use food coloring?”

Jo made a face. “What kind of pastry chef do you take me for? I used matcha. It pairs perfectly with peppermint.”

“Brilliant.”

She did a quick bow and then pushed me back toward the fridge so I would eat, reminding me that she had fresh Parmesan in the fridge for the pasta.

Making Nona’s gnocchi was an all-hands-on-deck affair. The whole family got involved. We would lay out tea towels over her extended dining room table. Each of us would then roll out long logs of the potato pasta before using a knife to cut off small pieces, pinching it with our fingers, and finishing it with a quick press of a fork.

I sighed happily as I ate this batch, which was sautéed in a garlic, onion, basil, and tomato sauce, and watched Jo expertly pipe macaron dough into perfect circles.

After scraping the bowl clean, I relaxed and spun back and forth in the chair.

“Better?” Jo asked as she slid the cookie sheets into the oven and then grabbed a hammer, placing it next to me.

“Much better,” I said. And it was true. My headache had all but vanished, but then I glanced at their large whiteboard calendar hanging on the back door of the kitchen, at the big “Countdown to Christmas” numbers on the bottom, and my eye began to twitch.

“Oh no. Was the gnocchi bad?” She set the heart sprinkles on the counter and hurried over. “You look like you’re about to throw up all over the candy canes.”

“No, it’s not the gnocchi.” I picked up the hammer and began hitting the candy canes.

Oh, this is satisfying.

I hit them harder.

“I’m running out of ideas for convincing Mr. Bailey not to sell The Market to outside buyers.” The candy canes continued to break under my infinite power.

WHACK.

“But also, like, even if he doesn’t, who in town would have the money to buy it?” I wondered aloud.

WHACK.

“And if someone could, what if they change a bunch of stuff anyway?” I focused on one stubborn piece that wouldn’t break and hit it over and over until Jo caught my hand mid-swing.

“I think the candy canes are thoroughly crushed, hon,” she said.

Maybe this was why Sam loved chopping wood with his dad?

Great stress reliever.

“Focus on one problem at a time, okay?” She laid the candy cane bag near the sink before picking up her mixing bowl to clean out. “We need to think about what gets Mr. Bailey out of his shell.”

I rested my cheek on my fist. “Uh, alcohol?”

“Well, that’s true for most people.” She chuckled and turned off the water. “You said he got really into the Reindeer Games before he took off, right?”

I nodded.

“So, he’s competitive?” She grabbed a towel from the oven handle.