Page 25 of The Christmas Box

A glance at the Lucas Building reminds me of the guy who won’t plug in a Christmas tree, but I’m glad he didn’t stay mad at me.

And speak—or think—of the devil, that’s when a familiar red pickup comes rolling up to the curb across the street.

As he steps out, I call across to him, “Mr. Scrooge, I presume?”

He slants me a look in the shadows from streetlights. “And if it’s not Mrs. Claus, the Christmas queen herself.”

I just offer up a small smile.

“I better not find any boughs of holly decking my halls when I go inside or you’re in trouble.”

“Nope,” I tell him.“I’ve learned my lesson and stayed on my side of the street today.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“Can I interest you in some free hot chocolate? Slow day and I’m about to throw it out when I go back inside.”

I’m not even sure why I asked, and I expect him to say no. He looks like he’s going to, hesitating. But then he shrugs. “What the hell—why not?” And starts in my direction.

My skin ripples slightly beneath my parka, and as much as I still want to think Dara is wrong about me being into him, I’m worried she’s right. Which is a nightmare. Polar opposites and all that.

Inside, I turn the lights back on and get him a mug of cocoa. “Whipped cream?” I ask as he takes a stool. “Tiny marshmallows? A peppermint stick? We have a whole little shelf of fun add-ons over here.”

He shakes his head. “None of that—I take it straight.”

It draws a smile from me. “Of course you do. God forbid you get festive with your hot chocolate—someone might accuse you of being jolly.”

“No threat of that happening anytime soon,” he says with a small, self-aware smile.

After I make myself a cup, too, spraying a dollop of whipped cream on top and adding a few sprinkles for fun, I turn to him.

“Should we toast?” he asks, lifting his usual green Santa mug.

The simple suggestion surprises me. I don’t point out that they’re possibly the merriest three words I’ve ever heard my Scroogy neighbor speak, and instead reply, “Only if I get to decide what we toast to.”

He rolls his eyes teasingly, somehow getting more handsome to me all the time. “That feels dangerous. But have at it.”

It takes me only a few seconds to come up with the perfect thing. “To wishes,” I say. “In boxes and on stars.”

He bumps his mug against the candy-cane striped one I’m holding and says, “I guess that’s nottoobad. To wishes then.” After which he glances across the shop to the white box. “So you say people are into this, huh?”

I nod. “Got a few more wishes today, in fact. I don’t think anyone has come in since the box arrived who hasn’t put one inside.”

“Well, I’m glad it’s what you wanted it to be.”

“You should put a wish in, too,” I tell him.

He looks like I’ve made an outrageous proposal. “Me? I don’t think so.”

“Why not? You just toasted to wishes.”

He shrugs. “That was because I was thankful you hadn’t toasted flying reindeer or snowmen coming to life when you put old hats on their heads,” he tells me with a grin I feel in my solar plexus.

But he should know by now that it’s going to take more than that for me to give up such a good idea. “Seriously,” I persist. “What would be the harm in writing down a wish and dropping it inside? Everyone wishes forsomething,whether you write it down or not.”

He lowers his chin, looking as if he’s about to tell me a secret. “I’m afraid you wouldn’t approve of anything I’d wish for.”

“Like what?” I challenge him.

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