Page 15 of The Hockey Grump Saves Christmas

“Ooh, yes, please. I filled it with water but then couldn’t figure out how to start it. I’m a simple French press girlie.”

I wouldn’t have described a French press as simple. Maybe…traditional?

I think better of it and pull out mypod—if she gets a shot of strong caffeine inside her, who knows what else she might decorate before the road’s clear.

Hmm, a paler brown one is labeled “South American" with the words “light and crisp” in smaller writing. That sounds like something she might like.

Hold on. What the fuck is wrong with me? I have absolutely no idea what coffee she might like. Nor do I care. The only thing I care about is getting her out of my house along with all the holiday garbage and baked goods.

The music coming out of the integrated speakers changes from an irritating boyband singing “Funky Funky Christmas” to something more acceptable. “Finally, a tune without singing frogs or rattling bells.”

“You like this one?” I can almost hear the sound of straws being grasped.

“Likemight be a bit strong. But I can tolerate it.”

“It’s the march fromThe Nutcracker,” she says as the music gets louder. “One of my favorites.”

“I didn’t mean you should turn it up.” I pull the lid down on the South American pod and an awkward silence, other than the bubbling of the coffee machine and the not-unpleasant music, falls between us.

It’s broken by the ping of her phone. Except, of course it’s not an actual, normal phone ping. It’s a short jingle of Christmassy sounding bells.

“Christ, you even have a festi?—”

“Oh, fuck.” Natalie’s exclamation has that tone that, even coming from a virtual stranger, tells you instantly that something terrible has happened. Even if I hadn’t picked up on it, the crash of the spatula into the mixing bowl would have been another clue.

I turn my attention from the snowy scene outside the kitchen window, unsullied by any artificial decoration, tosee Natalie staring at her phone, mouth wide open, cheeks pink. It’s impossible not to notice how pretty the flush is, even if it has been caused by panic.

I’m about to ask if everything is okay but think better of it, because it obviously isn’t.

“What’s happened?” I ask. “I mean, if it’s not private and you don’t mind?—”

“There’s been a fire.”

CHAPTER 6

NATALIE

I gaze at the text from Aunt Lou, my heart crawling up to my throat.

AUNT LOU

Fire at theater overnight. Electrical. No one hurt.

My hands shake as I open the attached photos, which show that all the scenery the volunteer crew and I had made is ruined. Some of it is charcoal, some charred around the edges, some soaked with water. And part of the stage is completely wrecked.

Panic sends my eyes darting across the image, from the blackened backdrop to a hole in the floor to a pile of debris where just yesterday ten large cutout pine trees had stood.

The disbelief quickly turns into a heavy weight of dread in my stomach.

Shit. The kids will be devastated. What the hell am I going to do?

The warmth of Gabe’s large form next to me cuts through the shock.

“A fire at the retirement home?” There’s genuine concern in his voice, and a furrowed brow under his tousled mass of thick, dark, morning hair.

“No.” I hold up the image of the wrecked stage. “At the theater.”

He leans in closer, bringing a delicious waft of warm bed with him, and screws up his eyes as he examines it. “Shit. Were there a lot of people there?”

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