If You Give A Jerk A Gingerbrea - Jana Aston Page 0,1

the laptop who looks like he's been transplanted from the nearest Starbucks, in search of anyone who looks like they'd be asking about my gingerbread chocolate-chip cookies. And I come up empty.

There's only one person here and it's laptop guy. I look twice to be sure, in case someone is hiding behind one of the three Christmas trees decorating the parlor. They are not.

He's at a table by the window, tapping away at the laptop. He's cracked it open an inch or so and the scent of winter wafts into the room, mixed with the smell of sugar making its way from the kitchen. As if it could snow at any moment.

He doesn't appear to have noticed my arrival, blindly reaching for another of the cookies resting on a plate beside a steaming cup of tea.

Handsome, I can already see that much. Broad shoulders, long legs bent beneath the table. He's wearing a pair of jeans that mold perfectly to him and a dress shirt, sleeves unbuttoned and rolled to the elbow. His muscular forearm brings that cookie to his mouth where a bite quickly disappears, jaw flexing as he chews.

When he raises a finger to brush away at a crumb clinging to his full bottom lip I know what my version of heaven looks like now.

It's this guy eating one of my cookies.

He looks up when I approach the table and it's like a punch to the gut.

Gorgeous.

He's charismatic. I can see that in one glance. His eyes are warm. Compelling.

He's got presence.

He stands when he sees me, a warm smile covering his face as I approach. As if we're old friends. And something about him does seem familiar, but I've never met this man before.

I'd remember. You'd have to be blind not to remember him.

"Hi, I'm Ginger." I extend a hand in greeting when I reach the table, a hand quickly engulfed in his own larger one. His thumb brushes the back of my hand when we shake and I nearly swoon from the light sweep.

"Ginger the gingerbread maker?" he asks with what is indeed a British accent, something not common in Reindeer Falls. He towers over me by at least a foot. A foot of tall, dark, and handsome. My eyes flicker against my control to that lush bottom lip of his before I respond.

"Ginger the gingerbread maker," I confirm. I've been teased about this a time or twenty.

"Keller," he replies, and his voice... Oh, his voice. It's like a warm embrace. The handshake ends, but he doesn't pull away. Instead he reaches out, swiping his thumb against my cheek. "Flour," he says, brushing it away with a few strokes.

My heart stops and my eyes widen. Because I've finally placed how I know this guy.

"You're Keller James." I breathe the words in a state of shock. Keller James is a celebrity. A celebrity chef. A celebrity chef with his own show on the Food Network.

Which, in my world, is everything.

Plus, I've got a bit of a crush on him from watching his show. I know a show about food doesn't sound sexy, but sister, you've not seen Keller James with a knife.

Okay, yeah, that didn't sound right. But you get the drift. If you've seen Brunch, Biscuits & Tea, you know what I mean. There's something about him on camera that causes your heart to beat a little faster.

In person? He might give me a heart attack.

And suddenly I'm reminded I didn't even bother to glance in a mirror before stepping out of the kitchen. My hair is in a messy bun on the top of my head, a small hair net clasped over the mass. He just swiped flour off of my face in the same manner my mother used to when I was a child.

"I am. Are you a fan of Brunch, Biscuits & Tea?" There's a slight question in his tone, as if he's surprised that I'd know it. As if it isn't one of the top-rated shows on the network. As if it isn't so addictive that I rewatch episodes I've already seen whenever they’re on.

"You must be here for The Great Gingerbread Bake-Off," I reply. Celebrity judges. Oh, my word. No one said anything about celebrity judges.

"Ah, the competition," he replies, shaking his head as if to clear his thoughts. As if he's already forgotten the reason he's in Reindeer Falls. He turns back to the plate with the half-eaten cookie and, snagging it, holds it up between us. "This cookie, Ginger,