Page 6 of Wrapped Up with the Three Scrooges
“Yeah, well, Ronan looked like he wanted to wrap me in paper and ship me to Antarctica,” I replied as we headed for our stations. “Though honestly, that might be his normal face.”
I approached station twelve, where a middle-aged man stood waiting. He looked like he’d been starched right along with hisclothes. His black polo was tucked into khakis with military precision and there was not a hair on his head out of place.
“Hi! I’m Emery,” I said brightly, trying to mask my nerves with extra enthusiasm. My hands fidgeted with the hem of my shirt. “Ready to show me your wrapping secrets? And by secrets, I mean techniques, not like, deep dark confessions. Though if you have any gift-wrapping tea, I’m all ears.” I cringed at my rambling, but sometimes my mouth had a mind of its own when I was anxious.
Blake stared at me with the expression of someone who’d bitten into an unexpectedly sour lemon. “The first rule is silence. Concentration is key.”
“Right. Silence. Got it.” I mimicked zipping my lips, which earned exactly zero reaction from Blake’s perfectly composed face.
“Every morning you’ll get your wrap sheet from Sophia, and you’ll find your first cart of the day waiting at your station.” He gestured to a large gray bin on wheels that was filled with unwrapped gifts. “On the wrap sheet it will specify the wrapping paper and any extra details.”
He handed me the wrap sheet, and I resisted the urge to tell a joke. “Wow, all these go to the same person in New York City?” There were twenty presents under one name, all with matching paper.
“Yes. This is one of our biggest clients throughout the year. They ship the gifts to us, we store them in our warehouse until the time comes to wrap them all, then send them to her.” He gestured to a large rolling cart that had several section dividers. “You place the wrapped presents in here and then take the completed wrap sheet to shipping.”
I gave him a salute, which only made his frown deepen. This guy was probably Ronan’s dad.
Even though I’d sat through an hour-long video on how we were expected to wrap, Blake showed me the “proper” way to measure paper, cut straight lines, and fold corners. It was like watching a robot—precise, methodical, and completely devoid of joy.
Watching someone else wrap presents for almost half an hour was a bit overkill. “Do I get to wrap now? I’m pretty sure I have it down.”
With an assessing gaze, he slid a box toward me. “I’ll be the judge of that.”
I picked up the scissors, determined to prove I could be professional. The paper was gorgeous, with little golden reindeers that seemed to dance in the light. I wrapped the first box perfectly, with Blake giving me an approving nod once I slid it into place on the cart.
The next item wasn’t in a box, so I selected one for it and nestled it into matching tissue paper before the wrapping began. As I measured and cut, I couldn’t help but hum “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.”
“No humming,” Blake said sharply.
“Geez.” I gave him a sad look and a pout and that’s when tragedy struck. The thick paper sliced through my finger faster than my ex had unsheathed his turkey baster. “Mother of Santa!” I yelped, jumping back.
“Volume control,” Blake hissed, looking scandalized.
Blood welled up from the paper cut, and I stuck my finger in my mouth. “You know what would make this less painful?” I asked around my finger. “If we could sing while we work. Like Snow White’s dwarfs. Hi-ho, hi-ho, it’s off to wrap we go...”
To my surprise, Tyler picked up the tune from his station. Then Maria joined in. Soon, others within hearing distance were humming, some even adding their own gift-wrapping-themed lyrics.
“Hi-ho, hi-ho, these corners need to show...” someone sang.
“With scissors sharp and paper bright...” another added.
“We’ll wrap these presents day and night...” I contributed, getting into the spirit.
Blake looked like he was having an aneurysm. “This is very unprofessional.”
But the impromptu musical number had already taken on a life of its own. I grabbed an empty wrapping paper tube from the garbage and held it like a microphone.
“Hi-ho, hi-ho...”
“Ms. Williams!”
The singing cut off like someone had hit the mute button. Everyone’s heads snapped up to the second-floor overlook where Ronan stood, hands gripping the railing, looking like a disapproving deity about to smite us all.
“My office. Now.” His deep voice echoed through the suddenly still room, making my stomach do an anxious flip-flop.
The silence was so complete you could have heard a bow drop. Even the rustling of wrapping paper had ceased, and I swear I could hear the collective held breath of every employee on the floor. My paper-cut finger throbbed in time with my racing pulse.
“Well,” I said to no one in particular, trying to mask my nerves with humor as I set down my makeshift microphone, “guess I better face the music. Though apparently, music is strictly forbidden here.” I shot Blake a pointed look, but he was suddenly very interested in straightening his already perfectly aligned scissors.
