Page 4 of The Hockey Grump Saves Christmas

“My ankle.” I point at the left bunny foot. “You’ve hurt my ankle.”

His barrel chest expands, then contracts with a heavy sigh as he nods toward his outstretched hand, clearly no longer deeming me even worthy of speech.

“I can’t hold on.” I slap at it with my big bunny hand. “See?”

Without a word, he drops the head in the snow, bends over, scoops his hands under my armpits and lifts me up like I weigh no more than a bag of chips.

He lands me on my good foot, and I balance on the toe of the other, like a ballerina who’s just executed a perfect landing despite her shoes being two feet long.

“Is it bad?” he asks.

“Is what bad?” I ask, still a little lost in trying to figure out how I got from lying in the snow to a graceful standing position with no effort from me.

He sighs and brushes snowflakes from his dark whiskers. “Your ankle. Is it bad?”

Is that a hint of genuine concern in his voice? Or is he just worried I might sue him? I mean, he must have some cash if he really does own this house now—my favorite one in town. The Sullivans were definitely well-off, both respected New York lawyers.

I try to put some weight on my left foot, and a noise comes out of me that resembles a three-year-old trying to sing scales and not doing an awesome job of it.

“Oh, Jesus.” Mr. Muscles’ head drops forward, his hat hiding his whole face from me. As he rubs his upper arms, I process for the first time that he’s not wearing a coat. Just a hoodie.

“Aren’t you cold?”

“Very. I wasn’t planning on hanging around outside. I was just grabbing my bag and going straightinside.” He lifts his head just enough to peer at me from under the bill. “But I was grabbed from behind and thought I was being mugged by someone who’d staked out my new house and…well”—he gestures from my face to my bunny feet—“here I am.”

Christ, my hair must be all over the place after being shoved inside that head for two hours and he didn’t exactly pull it off carefully.

I go to run my fingers through it, but just smack myself on the head with the giant bunny hands I’d momentarily forgotten I’m wearing.

“Anyway,” he says. “What the fuck is all this shit doing all over my house?”

“Did you really buy this place from the Sullivans?”

“Probably. Maybe. I don’t recall the name on the papers.” He shakes his head. “None of your business. Who the hell are you anyway? And why have you turned my house into some sort of festive freak show?”

I pull off one of the hands and try to tidy my hair, which is a bit tricky in the wind.

“I watch the Sullivans’ kids whenever they’re here. It’s their vacation home. Or, I guess, it was.” I pull out a strand of hair that’s blown into my mouth. “If you’re telling the truth, that is.”

“Of course I’m telling the fucking truth. Which makes you a trespasser. A trespasser with appalling bad taste in Christmas decorations.”

“The kids love them.” I ease my left foot flat on the ground and wince. “I decorate the house beforethey arrive for the holidays. And they always arrive on December tenth at around six p.m.”

“And you’ve been standing there, pretending to be a Christmas bunny lawn ornament for”—he checks an expensive-looking watch—“two hours?”

“God, no. I’d have been frozen stiff by now. I set it all up and waited in the garage. That’s where the Christmas decorations and the ladder were. Just like usual. And they’d even left a large note on top of the box of lights that said, ‘Enjoy!’”

My shoulders droop inside the suit as the penny drops in my brain. “Oh. The note was for…”

He nods. “Probably me. Yes.”

“Ah.” So I really have decorated a complete stranger’s house and then jumped on him… dressed in a bunny costume. Most of which I’m still wearing. I suddenly feel incredibly stupid. “They didn’t tell me they were selling. Or had sold. Or anything. So I was all business as usual.” I sweep my non-bunny hand at the house and lawn.

Dammit. I really had outdone myself this year too.

“And you usually dress up in a completely non-Christmas-related animal costume and pounce on them?”

“No, that was a special surprise.” God, this does all sound so utterly ridiculous as I’m saying it out loud to a grumpy stranger while snowflakes pile up on his hat and get caught in the edge of his not unattractive beard. “At Thanksgiving, their daughter was super into rabbits. So I thought if I dressed up like this and pretended to be part of the display, then jumped out at them, she’d think it was hilarious.”

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