CHAPTER 2
The ballroom here at the Country Cottage Inn sparkles like something out of a Christmas fairy tale as twinkle lights dance across every surface, garland drapes the crystal chandeliers, and the refreshment table practically groans under the weight of holiday perfection—eggnog that smells like liquid Christmas morning, gingerbread cookies arranged like edible artwork, and the chocolate selection could single-handedly crash a keto support group.
The air is thick with the scents of pine, cinnamon, and fresh coffee, while Christmas carols provide the perfect soundtrack to our Deck the Halls Holiday Home Tour Gala.
This is supposed to be the kickoff event for Cider Cove’s most elegant holiday tradition, where we showcase our town’s most beautifully decorated homes and raise money for the local food pantry.
Everything is running exactly as planned—which naturally means something is about to go spectacularly wrong. Case in point, Matilda Westoff who is about to go toe-to-toe with Santa himself.
Everyone in the room can feel the tension crackling betweenMatilda and Balthasar like a live wire about to snap. The conversation that started like a prison riot has taken a decidedly darker turn.
Santa tried to mitigate by reminding her it’s the season for forgiveness and goodwill toward men, and well, Matilda doesn’t seem all that convinced.
She slices a cold smile his way. “I don’t forgive men who systematically try to destroy honest family businesses with underhanded tactics,” Matilda snaps, her voice sharp enough to slice through the Christmas carols and probably a few innocent bystanders.
Santa’s smile turns even more predatory as he glances down at poor Jellybean, who’s now weaving between Matilda’s legs as if looking for a decent place to hide, and Matilda scoops her right up despite the fact she’s holding her granddaughter in her other arm.
Balthasar’s—our resident chocolate mogul masquerading as Santa Claus—shark-like smile widens. “You do seem quite attached to that furball. It’d be a real shame if something...unfortunate happened to her. Lost pets are so common during chaotic events. Sometimes, they even come back—for the right price.”
The room doesn’t just fall silent. It plummets into a void.
“If you so much as breathe in Jellybean’s direction, I’ll—” Matilda’s face cycles through pale, flushed, and full-on homicidal red.
I gasp at the threat the man just lobbed. “The evening’s festivities are just getting started,” I sing loud enough to be heard three counties over. “There’s eggnog! Mistletoe!” Both of which have far less murder-y vibes.
Balthasar chuckles with an icy smugness. “Now, Matilda, surely you’re not still holding grudges over a little healthy competition? Business is business, after all.”
“Healthy competition?” Matilda’s voice rises like a rocket ship aimed at the moon. “You call bribing food inspectors healthy?Stealing my corporate contracts through lies and sabotage? You’re such a pompous snake, you think you can destroy my family’s legacy and smile about it. If I had a chocolate hatchet right now, I’d use it.”
I gasp at the threat.
Lies and sabotage?This is getting good,Fish yowls from somewhere near the punch bowl.
Define good,Sherlock barks nervously from under the dessert table where he’s conducting a thorough crumb surveillance.
The kind where hoomans implode,Jellybean adds, from the safety of Matilda’s arms.
I vote we hide under the table with Sherlock,Fudge chimes in.There are more crumbs and fewer sociopaths.
Baby Matilda chooses this moment to wiggle and squirm. “Ga-ma make chocolate so good!” she all but shouts at the man, and half the room gasps and giggles.
“What?” I mutter to myself in shock. Did she just…? Did that baby just speak? I blink hard, wondering if I just heard a six-month-old provide commentary on both family business and dessert quality. That was definitely more advanced than typical baby babble—more like a tiny business consultant offering her professional opinion.
I guess the rumor mill is true. She really is a little genius.
But before I can process the baby genius moment, Balthasar waves a dismissive hand. “My dear Matilda, you’re being paranoid. Perhaps if Westoff Farms focused more on quality and less on conspiracy theories?—”
“Quality?” Matilda’s face turns a shade of red that could qualify as a Christmas light. “I’ll show you quality, you arrogant?—”
“Mother, there you are!”
Hammie Mae Westoff appears like a red-haired guardian angel, though given the family dynamics I’ve witnessed,angelmight be stretching it. She’s in her earlythirties, with gorgeous red curls that catch the Christmas lights like fire, freckles dotting her nose like someone sprinkled cinnamon across porcelain, and she radiates the kind of confident business energy that suggests she could run a chocolate empire and still have time to Pinterest her daughter’s birthday party.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” she says, scooping up baby Matilda with mom-level efficiency. “Hello, Bizzy! Buffy!” She beams at us with genuine warmth that’s a refreshing contrast to the arctic chill radiating from the Matilda-versus-Balthasar standoff.
“Hello.” I give a cheery wave, trying my hardest to break the frosty spell her mother just cast on the ballroom. “Oh, Hammie Mae, you’ve got yourself a little sweetheart on your hands,” I say, blowing baby Matilda a quick kiss.
“I agree,” Buffy is quick to say.
