Page 37 of Cross Check Christmas
Hendrix blows out a whistle, mumbling something that sounds suspiciously like. “Wow, this is going to be harder than I thought.”
“What did you just say?”
“Nothing.” He feigns an innocent look on his face. “Wow, these ornaments are gorgeous." He changes tactics, admiring the ornaments. "Gran would love these. And Aunt Goldie's been collecting angels."
"Please don't touch the merchandise."
He ignores me, selecting more ornaments. "Grannie’s been complaining her tree needs more sparkle."
"They're not for sale." The words fly out before I can stop them.
"Really? Because your sign says otherwise." He grabs a handful. "I'll take four of these, two angels, and..." He grabs a few more. "These snowflakes too."
"I'm not selling you anything."
"Why not? Isn't that the point of a fundraiser?"
I hesitate. The pageant fund is desperately low... "Fine. But this doesn't mean we're friends."
"Wouldn't dream of it." He pulls out his wallet and hands me a hundred-dollar bill. "Keep the change."
"Wait, these are only-" But he's already walking away.
"Hey!" I call after him. "You forgot your ornaments!"
"I'll be right back!"
I grumble while wrapping his purchases in tissue paper, irritated by his presumptuous behavior. Who just walks away from a transaction like that?
Ten minutes later, he returns holding two steaming cups. "Peppermint hot chocolate, extra whipped cream." He sets one in front of me. “Peace offering?"
I stare at the steaming cup of hot chocolate, fighting the smile threatening to form. The whipped cream is piled exactly how I like it, with just a hint of candy cane pieces sprinkled on top. How does he even know it’s my favorite?
"So," I clear my throat, trying to maintain my composure. "About Friday's game..."
"Oh, you got the text?" His expression shifts, something flickering across his face that I can't quite read.
Daisy's words echo in my head. Channel that rage. Get creative.
"Yes, and I'd love to go." The words feel foreign on my tongue.
He takes a sip of his drink, studying me over the rim. "You hate hockey."
"I'm expanding my horizons." I shrug, "But I should drive."
"You want to drive? To Toronto?" He raises an eyebrow.
"I get car sick as a passenger." I'm actually quite proud of how smoothly the lie comes out. "Plus, your driving terrifies me.”
I take a deliberate sip of hot chocolate, cursing internally as he gives me that golden retriever look. Why did he have to remember my favorite drink? And buy all those ornaments? And why does he have to look so... so Hendrix-y with his windswept hair and that stupid dimple that appears when he's thinking hard about something?
Focus, Colette. The mission is to get him back to Toronto, not admire his dimples.
"So?" I press. "My car or no deal."
"Fine." He holds up his hands in surrender. "But I'm picking the music."
"Absolutely not. Driver picks the music."
