Free The First Love Cookie Club by Lori Wilde Page B

“We’re the members of the First Love Cookie Club and we invited you to Twilight, Miss Cool. Thank you so much for coming. It’s so good to have you home.”
    Then they all started talking at once and she realized that many of them had been her grandmother’s friends, even though she couldn’t remember everyone’s names. They hugged her and reintroduced themselves and hugged her some more. They smelled of Chanel No. 5 and vanilla and cinnamon and lavender soap.
    Tilt!
    She was on overload. Crowds made her jumpy, beaming strangers who wanted to touch her even more so. This was almost as overwhelming as being on the float with Travis. She cast a glance over her shoulder at him. He was on the ground several feet away, swinging Jazzy up on his shoulders. The little girl’s head was thrown back, his daughter’s delightful childish laughter filling the air.
    A new emotion pushed out the wistfulness and anxiety, and in that moment Sarah experienced a loneliness so dark and stark all the breath left her lungs. She wanted to run straight back to the Merry Cherub and jump into bed with a good book.
    Alas, the seven ladies of the First Love Cookie Club had other plans. Dotty Mae Densmore, whom Sarah did remember as Gramma Mia’s best friend even though they’d been night and day different, linked her arm through Sarah’s. “Come on,” she said, “we’re going to a party.”
    “Um, a party?”
    “Tradition. The First Love Cookie Club hosts the annual Dickens on the Square gala and you’re the guest of honor.”
    She looked around, hoping to think of a way out of this, but she couldn’t come up with a decent excuse. She did, however, see Santa and Jazzy getting into a brown pickup truck.
    Stop looking at him.
    But she didn’t, and when he turned, just before he climbed in behind the wheel, and threw a glance at her over his shoulder, Sarah’s heart somersaulted.
    “You’re riding with us,” Raylene Pringle said, coming over to take Sarah’s other arm.
    The rest of the group fell in behind them.
    “Where are we going?” Sarah asked, feeling hijacked.
    “To the Horny Toad,” Belinda Murphey said, hitting the automatic start button on her key chain. A maroon minivan parked a few feet away from the floats rumbled to life.
    “Excuse me?”
    “You
have
been away too long”—Dotty Mae patted Sarah’s hand; she smelled like peppermint and Oil of Olay—“if you don’t remember that Raylene and Earl own the Horny Toad Tavern. They’ve closed it to the public for the party and fixed it up real festive. You’re gonna love it.”
    Sarah seriously doubted that, but she went along for the ride.
Just get through this week, and you’ll be back in New York wrestling with your book by next Sunday.
    A few minutes later they pulled up to the Horny Toad Tavern, which was little more than a roadside honky-tonk, but vehicles—most of them pickup trucks or SUVs—crammed the parking lot.
    They walked through the door and were greeted by an explosion of Christmas. Holiday music blasted from the Wurlitzer in the corner. Currently, Tim McGraw was crooning “Dear Santa.” A fat, seven-foot, artificial Christmas tree, overburdened with silver and red ornaments, took up an entire wall. Almost everyone was in costume. Either Victorian-era attire or some kind of kitschy Christmas getup. She hadn’t worn anything remotely Christmas-related since the reindeer antler headband and jingle bell sweater vest. Delicious holiday aromas teased her nose. The pool tableshad been converted to buffet tables, with one devoted just to desserts.
    Sarah licked her lips at the sight of chocolate fudge cookies. Chocolate was her weakness, which was why she normally steered clear of it. A punch bowl filled with eggnog graced one end of the bar; at the other end stood martini glasses filled with a red and white drink mixture.
    “Cranberry Snowdrifts,” Raylene said at her elbow. “They’re made with cranberry juice cocktail, crème de cacao, and