Page 1 of A Very Grumpy Christmas

ONE

Kip

I lingerin the shadows of the parking lot, waiting for her to come out and feeling like a creepy stalker.

Well, I mean, I guess I kind of am a stalker.

Shit.

Only hers, though. I’ve never done anything like this before, never wanted to. Not until I saw her.

Ginger Baker.

She moved to town with her sisters about a year ago, and I’ve been watching her ever since, trying to learn everything that I can about her. It’s become an obsession, a compulsion. My feelings for her are out of control.

I’d like to say that it started as a mild interest, but the truth is that I’ve been obsessed with my curvy girl since the moment that she stepped foot in this town. It’s why I’ve been doing crazy things, things that I never would have done in the past. Things like following her around and leaving notes for the last few months.

The sun is dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in swirls of orange and pink, but I’m not paying attention to the view. My focus is on Ginger. It’s always on her.

I just need to get my daily dose of her, just one glimpse. That’s why I’m out here, freezing my ass off.

Over the last year, I’ve learned a lot. I’ve learned that she’s everything I’m not. She’s bright, open, and full of life. Every time I see her, it feels like my chest tightens just a little bit more. She has my heart in a vise grip and doesn’t even know it.

I’ve wanted to talk to her,reallytalk to her, for months now, to say something—anything—but every time I get close to her, the words get stuck in my throat, and I end up nodding or grunting at her like an asshole. And that scar on my face feels like it burns, reminding me of why someone like her would never want someone like me.

But I couldn’t stay away from her, not for long. I had to get close, to bask in her light, to hear her infectious laugh. So, I did what any lovesick fool would do, and I started writing her secret love notes.

The first note was simple. I wrote that I loved seeing her smile, that her laugh was my favorite sound, and that I couldn’t stop thinking about her. Then I left it on the windshield of her car, hoping it would make her smile.

And it had.

Now, it’s been three months of me leaving letters, of pouring out my heart without ever signing my name. She’s kept every note. I’ve seen them tucked into the pocket of her bag and coat, seen her rereading them sometimes when she’s at work and it’s slow. It’s a small miracle, watching her read the words I’m too much of a coward to say out loud.

Tonight, there’s another note, the same stationery as all of the others, carefully folded and placed under her windshield wiper. I stand far enough away that she won’t notice me, myheart racing like a teenager waiting for his crush to notice him. It’s pathetic, really.I’mpathetic. But when she walks out of Shelf Indulgence, her sister’s bookstore, her dark red hair catching the last bit of daylight, all I can do is watch and hope she likes what I’ve written this time.

My eyes drink her in greedily, and I can’t look away from her as she heads over to her old beat-up car.

I hate that damn thing. I’ve lost track of the number of hours that I’ve spent leaning over the hood, fixing the radiator and then the alternator, and then the spark plugs. The damn thing has been on its last leg for way too long, and she needs to replace it. For whatever reason, she refuses to, though, so I spend half of my nights making sure that it runs and my girl doesn’t get stranded somewhere.

She reaches her car and spots the note almost instantly. She smiles, and it’s like the whole world comes grinding to a halt. Her smile is the kind that makes you forget everything else. The kind that feels like warmth on a cold winter day. I watch as she takes the letter, her fingers brushing the edge of the paper as she opens it carefully, like she’s afraid to damage it, like my note is something precious to her.

My breath hitches as she starts reading. I don’t know why it still surprises me that she reads them so quickly, so eagerly. Or why I get so nervous as I watch her.

By the time she’s finished, her smile has softened into something sweeter, something I wish was meant just for me.

"Are you stalking her again, Kip?"

I jump, startled, and glance to my right to find my best friend, Huxley, standing next to me, his arms crossed and a knowing smirk tugging at his lips.

"Not stalking," I lie, keeping my eyes on Ginger as she climbs into her car. She’s still holding the letter as she starts the engine, and I can’t help but feel a flicker of pride, or maybe it’s hope.

"Sure," Huxley says with a shrug. "That’s why you’ve been standing out here in the freezing cold for the last half an hour. Who doesn’t love being outside when it’s negative ten?”

“Exactly. I love it. It’s… bracing.”

He laughs, and I sigh. He’s right, it’s cold as fuck out here, and I’m pretty miserable. Seeing Ginger, though, makes it worth it.

“You could always try to watch her from indoors, ya know,” he says.

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