Page 11 of The Christmas Cookie Crush

I wave off her apology. “No, no. It’s fine. You didn’t do anything wrong. Thanks. It just surprised me is all.”

And made me want to shove the Warheads down Austin Stanton’s throat, wrappers, bag, and all. But that’s not this nice lady’s fault.

Setting aside my murderous thoughts—for now—I turn my attention to the computer to show her the shots of her adorable toddler and print out the ones she selects, going through the usual spiel about where to download the digital copies and order more prints if she wants to.

I’m seething, but I can’t do anything about it right now. I have to keep my happy smile in place and continue with the rest of my shift. Kids aren’t going to smile for a grumpy elf. Well, unless I’m being extra grumpy for pretend in a bid to coax a smile out of them. That’s definitely not the same, though.

When the last person finally takes their prints and their child and leaves, I wave to get Mom’s attention. “I’ll be right back. I need to take care of something real quick before it’s too late.”

I’m not sure if Mom protests or just acknowledges my statement because I grab the bag of Warheads and take off before I hear her answer, practically sprinting across the event space to get to Give and Cake’s kiosk before Austin leaves for the day.

I’ve had the last two hours to figure out how to respond to this clear declaration of war—I mean, he even sentWarheads, for chrissakes—but the only plan I can come up with is to chuck them at his head.

But he’s not behind the cash register when I get there, though it doesn’t look like it’s closed. I slam the bag on the counter, boosting myself up on my toes so I can look behind the cases.

Austin stands slowly from his crouch behind the pastry case, eyes wide, eyebrows raised. “Hey,” he says cautiously.

Dropping down to my feet, I fling the bag in his direction. It hits his black-apron covered chest and bounces back to the counter. When he meets my eyes again, he’s grinning.

My scowl deepens. “Seriously?” I demand. “Warheads?”

He holds up his hands in what would be a comical gesture under any other circumstances. “What? I thought it was funny. Didn’t you?”

“No,” I hiss. “I certainly didn’t.” Huffing out a sigh, I cross my arms. “What is your problem? Like, I can kind of get you harassing me when we were kids and you were hanging out with my brother. But you’re like twenty-four now. Shouldn’t you have outgrown the need to harass me?”

His hands fall, and he starts laughing like I said the most hilarious thing in the world. “Me?” He even has the audacity to lay a hand on his chest dramatically. “What about you?”

“What about me?” I demand.

“Shouldn’t you have let go of the fact that I picked on you some when we were kids? Youjustsaid that you understood that impulse. Older brothers pick on their little sisters. Surely your other siblings did it, too.” When I shake my head, he shrugs that away. “Still. Dylan and I picked on my little brother, too.”

“Oh? You fed him licorice until he puked? And fed him Warheads to see what kind of reaction you could get?”

He shrugs again. “Well, not the first one.” He holds up a hand to forestall my reaction. “That was more about taking advantageof an opportunity with you. My brother didn’t like licorice that much, for one thing.”

“Neither do I—now,” I mutter, and he grins.

“For another, I never had the chance to feed him so much candy he threw up. We did do the Warheads thing with him, though.” He laughs at the memory. “It was everything we hoped for.” One of his eyebrows arches up. “Unlikeyou. You acted like it was the most delicious candy you’d ever had. I think you even said, ‘Mmmm,’ when you put it in your mouth.”

I snort. He’s right. I definitely did that a time or two. They tried to get a reaction out of me more than once. Honestly, part of the reason I like sour candies now is because they fed them to me. Not Warheads. Those are way too strong, and I’m not sure why anyone likes them. But Sour Patch Kids and Lemonheads? Those are my go-to candies when I’m cramming for tests or putting in long hours working on papers for school.

I’m not givinghimthe satisfaction of knowing that, though.

He shrugs. “Anyway. I just thought it was funny. Besides, you were so sure that I was giving you something sour on purpose the other day”—he points a finger at me—“which, by the way, is false. Our cranberry scones are delicious. They’re Grampy’s recipe, and that man’s not going to sell something no one’ll want to eat.”

He’s right, dammit. I’ve had those scones and they are delicious. Again, I’m not tellinghimthat, though.

“But if you’re going to expect me to fuck with you, I figured I might as well.”

“Well—” I pause, really not sure what I’m supposed to say to that. I don’t have a snappy retort, or a good comeback. “Well, don’t,” I finally spit out, then I whirl on my heel, toss my braid back over my shoulder, and storm back to the North Pole.

God, I’m glad this day is over.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Austin

The pileof candy waiting in my room makes me feel guilty when I get home. She wasreallymad about me having someone deliver a few Warheads. Yeah, okay, I figured it’d get some kind of reaction, but the sheerfuryemanating from her caught me off guard.

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