Free Risking It All for Love (A Christmas in Snow Valley Romance) by Kimberley Montpetit

getting foreclosed. Your dad and I are
collecting donations to help their kids have Christmas.”
    “Wow, that’s a lot of bad news all in one night.”
    “It is.” My mother turned to look at me, her hand on the door
handle. “Not everything is perfect and cheerful in Snow Valley, Jessica. You
accuse us of that all the time, but you aren’t the only one sad or grieving.”
    Her words were like a slap in the face. “That’s cruel!”
    “Is it? You’re either moping around the house, in your room
ignoring everyone, or acting like you have the entire world’s suffering on your
own poor shoulders.”
    “Ouch, Mom. What is this, tough love?” I couldn’t hide the
resentment in my voice.
“Maybe it is.
I hate to see you hurting yourself.”
    “Who says I am?”
    “It’s so obvious, and you can’t see it, honey. Because you’re too
wrapped up in feeling sorry for yourself. And too bent on pushing everyone
away. Too eager to live on a pedestal of pity.”
    I was speechless for a moment. “That’s not true—” I started,
eager to deny her accusations and prove her wrong. But my mother had already
exited the vehicle and shut the car door on me.
    As I watched her walk through the glass doors, my whole being simmered
with offense. Reaching over, I opened her door and slammed it shut again.
There. How dare she say those things to me and then gently close her car door
and walk away like she was Mother Theresa?
    When I got home I couldn’t get out of my cold jeans and boots fast
enough. I threw my coat across the room, then peeled off my mittens and hat and
watched them knock over a perfume bottle on my bureau. Down below, I heard
Catherine’s family come in the front door, chattering and laughing and
giggling.
    I stuffed my legs into my flannel pajamas then crawled into bed,
turning up the thermostat on my heated blanket. Wrapping my pillow around my
head, I cried real tears for the first time in a year. Not burning tears I
blinked away. Or sniffing back emotion. Or hiding a drop when one accidentally
slipped out. But buckets of hot tears that hurt my throat and made me feel a
little bit sick.
     

Chapter Eleven
    On Saturday,
I made six dozen cinnamon rolls. Mixed flour, eggs, sugar, and yeast by hand,
kneaded for exactly twelve minutes, and then, when the dough had risen and was
overflowing the bowl, I rolled them up, pinched the ends, then used a ruler to
measure each one so they’d be exactly the same size.
    By the time I was finished I was covered in flour, with dashes of
brown cinnamon under my fingernails. Cream cheese icing sweetened the fly-away
strands of my long hair.
    “Those look good enough to eat just as they are,” Dad said,
grabbing a still-rising roll off a cookie sheet and chomping right into the raw
dough laden with brown sugar and cinnamon.
    “Dad!” I chided. “Those are for—other people.”
    “You mean I pay for the flour and cinnamon and oven electricity
and I can’t even have one?”
    “Okay. One.”
    “Call it a tax.”
    “Some of these are going into the freezer for Christmas morning
next week.”
    “That’s probably the only reason I’m not having a second one. Call
me your official taste-tester.”
    “So?” I folded my arms, flouring my shirt. “Do you approve?”
“I think they will go down in history as your best cinnamon rolls ever.”
    “You always say that.”
    “It’s always true, honey.” He kissed my cheek, leaving a sticky
spot. I handed him a glass of milk and he went off happily to peruse the
morning paper and Mom’s Saturday To Do List.
    My stomach did a little flip-flop. I wasn’t meeting James Douglas
for an official date. But I was still meeting him. And I realized that I’d made
my sweet rolls with a certain amount of care, knowing he’d be judging them.
    But why did I care? Being a “homemaker” was not on my list of
priorities, goals, or aspirations. I only baked to eat my product.
    After devouring a second roll myself and downing two