Page 5 of Flirting with the Scrooge

I chew a couple of times. Something doesn’t taste right. Maybe sheistrying to poison me?

I chew again and my teeth sink into something soft that isn’t a chocolate chip. I gag as I frantically search for a garbage can. When I come up empty handed, I rush to the sliding glass door, yank it open, and spit out everything. Bits of cookie speckle the pristine white snow. Glancing down at the other half of the cookie in my hand, I see it. What the crap? Raisins. Fucking gross. She is trying to kill me. Okay, maybe not actually kill me, but who disguises oatmeal raisin cookies as chocolate chip? Slamming the door shut, I stomp back to the plate and toss the half-eaten one on top. I rest my palms on the mustard yellow Formica countertop and glare at the cookies as if they did something wrong. Pushing off, I rip off a piece of paper towel and collect the last three good cookies and leave the other vomit patties on the plate. Since I don’t want these in my house, there’s only one reasonable place for them to go.

I slide on my boots and coat. With the plate of cookies in hand, I mosey across the street and set the plate on her doorstep. Two of us can pass cookies in this neighborhood. Granted mine are the same ones she gave me. But it doesn’t matter.

Snowflakes fall from the sky as I trek back to my house. I stifle a yawn. Seeing as this is my first day here, and I already got most of the living room cleared out, I’m calling it a day. Tomorrow I’ll work on moving the furniture and ripping up the old carpet. I’m curious to see what’s underneath.

As I stroll down the hallway to my bedroom for the month, I lift my shirt off and toss it into the corner of the room. Note to self: find a laundry basket. I shove my pants to my feet and pull a towel from one of my bags. A muffled knock sounds from somewhere in the house and I freeze to listen more closely. It happens again, but louder. With a towel wrapped around my waist, I follow the sound until I’m back in the living room. I peel back a corner of the curtain and peer out the window. Looks like my new neighbor is gracing me with her presence once again. Can’t say I’m complaining, though. I throw open the door and prop my forearm on the wood frame.

Her gaze drops from my chest down to where my hand is holding the towel closed. Her plump lips part slightly. A pink blush covers her cheeks and I know it’s not from the cold. Interrupting her lustful gaze, I ask, “Can I help you?”

FOUR

THE SNOW SHOVEL POLICE

Tatum

The door flies open and my breath hitches. I’m eye level with a very impressive, sculpted chest with a light dusting of dark hair in the center. With a mind of its own my gaze travels down to his bare stomach and over every ridge and valley of his six-pack abs. There’s no way it’s that defined when he’s relaxed. He must be flexing. I’ll just stare at his stomach until he relaxes, that’s the only way to find out for sure.

“Can I help you?”

Once again, his deep, smokey voice turns my nipples into stiff peaks. Or maybe it’s the crisp winter air? I’m going to go with the latter. My gaze jerks up and meets his. Heat spreads over my cheeks, knowing he caught me admiring him.

“Aren’t you cold?” Shamelessly, I take another peek down south following a strip of hair that disappears under a towel wrapped low around his hips. Is that his bulge under the towel? Even in the cold? I try not to salivate but I feel like Pavlov’s dog. I swallow. Hard.

“Matter of fact, I am, so what do you want?”

His voice jolts me from my gawking. I want to say “lick you like an ice cream cone” but he’s a little rude. Any new neighbor has always been so friendly and enjoyed the warm welcome. Everyone except him. “You left these on my doorstep. Including a half-eaten one.” I shove the plate of cookies at him.

His gaze drops to the cookies, then back to me and he says matter-of-factly, “I don’t like raisins.”

“Well you could have thrown them away or given them to someone else.”

“I did. I gave them to you.”

I scoff.

“If that’s all, I’m going to jump in the shower.” He pauses for a moment and when I just stare at him dumbfounded, he closes the door on me. Again. Ugh!

I stomp my way back to my house as snowflakes flutter from the sky and slam my door shut for no other purpose than I hope the scrooge from across the street heard. I doubt it, but I’ll pretend. Not only did he slam the door in my face earlier and take the cookies I left for him, but then he had the audacity to give half of them back and shut the door on me. And who doesn’t like oatmeal raisin cookies? I blow out an exasperated huff. No one has ever done that to me. Perhaps he’s busy and didn’t want the interruption. There were stacks of boxes behind him, but he didn’t need to be so rude about it.

Flustered once again, I sigh. I need to find my Christmas Zen. I turn on my favorite movie,The Holiday, in need of a distraction. Maybe I need to swap houses with someone and find true love. Clearly, whatever I’m doing now isn’t working. I got dumped and now the grump who hates Christmas lives across the street. This is shaping up to be a great holiday.

While the movie plays in the background, I lug out boxes from the spare bedroom closet filled to the brim with decorations. I start with hanging the stockings on the mantle, then move on to draping pine garland adorned with red bows and ornaments around the doorways, and lastly, I place wreaths on both the front and back door. But my favorite part is setting up my nana’s porcelain Christmas village.

While growing up, the first thing I would want to do is help her lay out all the buildings and place the ice skating rink in the center. Christmas music would softly play in the background, and a wide grin would never leave my face. This weekend I’ll top off all the decorating by going to Fir Meadows Tree Farm to pick out the perfect tree. I’m ready to transform my house into a winter wonderland.

* * *

Two hours later, my heart is full of Christmas cheer once again. When I glance out the window, I notice not only has the sun gone down, but the snow has also gotten heavier. I better do some shoveling before it gets any worse. Peeling myself off the couch, I make my way to the door. I throw on my coat, hat, mittens, and boots. With a flip of a switch, the exterior lights flood the top half of the driveway. Glancing out the window in the door, large snowflakes fall to the ground and by the looks of it, the snow isn’t light and fluffy.

My boot sinks into the snow as I close the door behind me, leaving a perfectly shaped boot imprint in my wake. If I don’t clear this now, it’s going to be ice tomorrow. With my shovel in hand, I start at the top of the driveway and make my way toward the street.

Halfway through, I partially unzip my coat, the heavy snow giving me a workout. With only a few rows left, I glance up and I’m greeted with the holiday grump as he stalks toward the end of his driveway, shovel in hand.

“This your first time shoveling?” he yells from across the street.

I lift my shovel and heave the pile of snow over my shoulder. “No. It’s not,” I sneer. I don’t want him assuming he has me figured out. While I have shoveled before, it was only when there was a dusting of the feather light snow. Never the wet, heavy snow, like now. Growing up, my dad always took care of it or I lived in an apartment where a maintenance crew was hired. Once I got my house, either Adam did it or we hired someone else to do it.

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