Page 25 of Stuck in Christmas

I sighed. “Before I was a features writer, I was a TV news reporter.”

We turned to walk toward the town square where the Gingerbread Competition was set up. Eli opened and shut his mouth a few times before asking, “You didn’t like working in the news?”

“I did for a time,” I said, my gaze drifting to the bustling square. “I was good at it too. Always first on the scene of breaking news. But after a while, I got tired of telling the stories about the terrible things people do to each other. I wanted to talk about things that were going right.”

“That seems admirable,” Eli offered, then frowned. “But, did you ever do stories about restaurant health grades?”

I covered my eyes with my free hand. “Ugh. What an embarrassment. A former boss thought it would be good television to pull the health inspector reports every week. The Restaurant Report was so embarrassing. How many times did we need to report that a buffet had a ‘B’ grade because of room temperature coleslaw on the salad bar?”

“Or what about a brand-new restaurant with a mixup with its coolers?”

My stomach dropped as the realization set in. “Wait. Eli. Is that short for Eliot?”

Eli threw his full hot chocolate into a nearby trash can. “Yes.”

I gasped. “Oh, no.”

He paced away from me angrily, then turnedback, a fire in his eyes. “That report meant a one-week delay for my restaurant opening.”

“Eli. I’m so sorry.” My stomach twisted as I thought about the repercussions of that kind of delay.

“Do you have any idea how much that cost me?”

I shook my head. “No. I don’t.”

His lips pressed together, and the jovial Head Chef from the previous baking montage disappeared. In his place was the suspicious adopted son of Bonnie and Joe from the first day. The man whose career I nearly ruined when he opened Eliot’s in New Orleans.

“What can I do?” I stepped closer toward him.

He raised his hand and stepped back. “Nothing—just leave me alone.”

He strode away from me, and my heart sank. I couldn’t do anything right in this freaking holiday hell. “Eli, wait.” I ran after him, and just as I caught up to his retreating back, I tripped over a set of loose Christmas lights and went down.

Right into a snowbank.

I pounded the ground with my fist. “Mother of Pearl!”

Part Seven

Twelve

A snowball landed right in my face. “Seriously?” I looked at Eli, the launcher of said snowball. He had no remorse.

“What? I thought I could get payback for that report you did,” he yelled from behind a random child who walked through our impromptu snowball fight.

“Big bad Marine hiding behind a child?” I shook my head. “I only told you that to come clean. You said you didn’t take it personally. That I was only doing my job.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t get a little payback.” Eli lobbed another one at me.

I stepped to the side, and it sailed wide. Eli came out from behind his tiny human shield, and I let loose a snowball-style fastball at him. Eli, not the kid. It hit my quarry right in the neck, and I dove behind a carnival booth. “I said I was sorry!” I yelled.

No one in the Christmas Carnival seemed to be paying attention to us. It was as if they had their parts to play and couldn’t be bothered by our maincharacter energy. They were the extras in this story. Or, if this were a role-playing game, they’d be the NPCs - non-player characters.

This wasn’t a game.

This was my personal holiday hell time loop.

And in this hell, things had gotten too quiet. I peeked around the booth, looking for Eli. He was nowhere to be seen.

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