Page 23 of The Grump Who Stole Christmas
My dad looked at me funny, clearly not understanding all the fuss around a simple coffee mug, but he was not aware I was engaged in a silent war.
Could I wake up extra early and get to the mug first? Sure. But that plan was flawed in many ways. One, I didn’t like waking up early if I didn’t have to. Two, I didn’t want to be the one to make coffee if I didn’t have to.
Which meant that instead of waking up early, I had to wait until everyone was asleep. Then I could sneak downstairs like I was doing now, and take the mug. This time not leaving it out on my bed stand like an idiot.
But oh, no. The plan was not complete. There was more to it, a second layer. Not only was I going to pull the mug out from under Paul’s nose, I was also going to sneak a brownie when no one was looking.
As Jasmine had predicted, I’d tasted a sample of Darlene’s malted brownies at Darlene’s bakery. One bite and I’d immediately contracted with her to do the baking for the inn. We’d come up with a number of items, delivery times, and plans for the holidays.
It was a big ask, but there was no way someone who ate one of Darlene’s brownies was not coming back for more.
That’s how my mom did it. Made the magic. The decorations, the comfortable furniture, the perfect Christmas touches. Plus homemade baked goods.
I was still working on the Christmas touch, but at least I’d nailed the homemade baked goods.
I hadn’t been able to leave Darlene’s bakery without buying a dozen brownies.
For my dad. For Ethan, too, because I knew he loved brownies, and maybe, when I sat him down and presented him with the hard facts about the business, it would go down easier with malted chocolate.
The person I hadn’t bought them for…me. At least, that’s what I’d said when Paul asked meIwhy I wasn’t having one after dinner. Dad and I had split a frozen pizza, because he needed to be off his broken leg, and making frozen pizza was about the extent of my culinary skills.
Paul had come in from the tree farm and proceeded to make himself a spinach omelet with toast. Apparently his cooking skills seemed limited to breakfast food. I’d been utterly gracious when he spotted the bakery box on the counter, and I’d told him they were brownies and he could have one.
That’s when I saw it. A look on his face. Something like desperation. Something that suggested he didn’t let himself have brownies very often, but he wanted one.
It was childish, but in that moment I’d felt a moment of superiority when he caved and took a brownie for himself while I’d abstained.
My father told me I was crazy for passing up the treat, but Paul understood. Ours was a contest of wills, and mine had been the stronger one in that moment.
Which was why I’d waited until everyone retired for the night. Why I’d listened for Paul’s steps passing my bedroom down the hallway to Ethan’s room. Why I’d waited patiently for him to go about his nightly ritual before settling into bed and then waited another hour to ensure he was asleep.
Why I was creeping down the staircase now, careful to put my feet where I knew they would make the least sound. Back in the day, I’d made sneaking in and out of this house after my parents were asleep an art form.
Not that I ever did anything that bad. Usually I just hung out with my girlfriends, drinking whatever we could pilfer from the family fridge without its absence being noticed. Wine coolers at best, beer at worst. But there was always that adrenaline rush. Like I was getting away with something because I knew which steps creaked the loudest and which ones would remain silent.
That same adrenaline rush crept over me now, knowing the mission.
Take the mug. Eat the brownie.
I’d made it downstairs and was now headed for the kitchen. Did I turn on the light to see better? It must be a cloudy night because there was no moonlight filtering through any of the windows.
I was pretty sure once I reached the kitchen I’d be safe to turn on the light over the sink. I made my way directly there, already tasting that brownie and how I might pair it with a glass of milk.
Flipping the switch, I turned toward the counter where I’d left the bakery box and…
Screamed!
“Shhhh,” Paul shushed me. “You’ll wake your dad.”
He was sitting on the stool next to the counter. He had a glass filled with milk in one hand and a half-eaten brownie in the other.
My heart pounding in my chest, I took a few deep breaths, then I saw the bakery box was nearly empty.
My dad had had one brownie after dinner. Paul’d had one brownie after dinner. There were only, one, two three, four…
“You ate five brownies?” The disgust was evident in my tone.
He swallowed. “Six, if we’re counting the one after dinner.”
