Page 6 of Back Home For Christmas

“Who do you think has been setting up the booth while you have been away?” she said, her eyebrows scrunched together like I was being dense.

When I took a second look at the stall, it made perfect sense that Jay had been in charge. It matched him perfectly; cold, austere and unwelcoming.

“No Elf outfit?” I turned to see Jay leaning against the far side of the stall, bundled in a thick puffer coat. At least that was one small grace. I didn’t have to try to avoid looking at his body.

“I’ll leave you two to it,” mom giggled as she went back inside. I wasn’t sure if it was because of her alliteration or because she knew how much I would hate being left to argue with Jay by myself.

“Mom,” I called after her, but she continued walking away, determined to be back inside.

“Leave us to what?” Jay asked, picking himself up from his casual stance and closing the distance between us. His eyes locked on mine, pulling my gaze up as he stood too close for my liking. Had he always stood this close to me? Or was he trying to intimidate me? Or distract me?

Chapter Six

“You set up the booth wrong,” I said, turning my gaze from his intense stare.

“I don’t think so.”

“Yes, you did,” I said with more feeling as I waved my arm toward the table.

“It’s been working just fine the last few years,” he said so nonchalantly, as if he didn’t care one way or the other, while I felt my temperature rising and fists clenching.

“I understand that you don’t know any better, but if you put the table that way, you have less real estate for display, and people can’t walk in to browse,” I said. “If you set up the tables in a half rectangle, then people can walk into the booth.”

“No,” he said, as if it was beneath him to explain himself. He had always been a man of few words, which sometimes helped, since I didn’t have to talk to him. But other times it meant the absolute stone walling that I was dealing with here.

“No?” I said. “What do you mean, no?”

He shrugged. “We don’t want people in the booth.”

“Are you out of your mind? Of course, we want people in the booth.” The song playing on the outside speakers had turned over into Johnny Mathis’ “White Christmas.” It was a jarring contradiction to the tense conversation with Jay.

I should have just walked away. What did I care about the booth? My thing was psychology, not Christmas decorations. But if I walked away, then Jay would win, which I couldn’t stand for. He had been winning since I was in first grade, and he convinced everyone that I had a crush on him, so all the kids called me Mrs. Crowely for weeks until I cried, and the teacher put an end to it.

Besides, if I was being honest with myself, which was rare, I kind of did want a say. The booth was my thing. It was stupid to care so much, but still, it was nice to have some creative outlet. It was the one thing I was good at anymore, and Jay had decided that he knew better, like he always did.

It made me angry to the point of tears, or maybe heartbreak. I felt like a shadow of myself, fading into obsolescence. Everything that had once made me, me had disappeared piece by piece. Who the hell was I if I couldn’t even design the Christmas booth?

He stood, still too close, towering over me, with intense, scrutinizing eyes that never seemed to leave my face. I shifted under his stare, not sure what to do with myself. As angry as I was, I struggled to meet his eyes. I didn’t want him to see the emotion there when he didn’t seem to feel a goddamn thing. He was arguing about the stupid table placement, but he didn’t actually give a shit.

“Listen, Kitty Cat,” he said as I rolled my eyes so far into my skull, I would probably strain a muscle. “If we set it up to let people into the booth, then we limit the number of people who can shop at any given time. It will be crowded and uncomfortable and people will pass us by. Whereas if the table is set up like a counter, then more people can pass by and shop. It just makes sense.” Then he reached up and tousled my hair. He tousled my hair? I stood there with my mouth hanging open for several seconds as I tried to make sense of what the hell had just happened.

“Did you just tousle my hair?” I asked incredulously.

He shrugged. “It felt like the right thing to do.”

“On what planet?” I asked.

“I thought it would ease the blow of being so terribly wrong,” he said. I snorted. He was more insufferable than I had remembered.

“I’m not wrong,” I said, lifting onto tiptoes to reach his hair, but instead, I lost my balance and had to brace myself with one hand on his firm, muscular chest. I looked down at my hand, practically radiating with the heat of his body, then back up at him before pulling my hand away like it was on fire. My cheeks blushed at the thoughts running through my mind that I would take to my grave. “I don’t know if you have pulled your head out of your own ass long enough to notice that we aren’t in New York City in some high rise, corporate America board room,” I said, stepping back and trying to recover some high ground. “We are in a small, quaint beach town on the Jersey Shore. Our customers want small town feel. They want an experience. They want to step into the booth and have a conversation with the locals. They want to feel like they have been transported. They want unique, meaningful souvenirs that they can bring home and remember their trip. Once they come into the booth, they are more likely to buy.”

He was quiet for a moment, and I thought, for just a heartbeat, that I had somehow gotten through his thick skull.

“It’s sweet that you think that, truly, but you are wrong,” he said. “How about this? I’ll split the difference with you. We can set up the tables in a half rectangle facing out. You can design one table; I’ll design the other. Whoever sells more inventory wins,” he said.

“Wins what?” I asked.

“Respect,” he said.

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