Page 45 of The Holiday Hate-Off
The best cappuccino in Hideaway Harbor!
Then laugh harder when she underlines “best.”
“You’re really testing my grandmother,” I caution. “I couldn’t care less, but those are fighting words. Especially since she claims she taught Eileen how to make cappuccinos.”
Lucy gives me a feral smile as she tucks a curl behind her ear. I notice her red lipstick and feel a lurching sensation. Is she wearing it to taunt me, or did she put it on for another man?
I shouldn’t care—this woman really does seem to loathe me, and I enjoy arguing with her too much to try to change that. But I do care. Far more than I’d like.
“Speaking of really testing people, how’s the power in your shop?” she snaps. “Funny how our building was the only one affected on the whole block, and the power was perfectly fine in the morning.”
I rub the back of my neck, avoiding her gaze. I feel hot all of a sudden. Like I need to plunge my head in a snowbank.
“How are you adjusting to the snow?” I blurt.
“What? I—” Her brows knit. “How do you know I’m not from a place that has tons of snow?”
“The way you dress.”
She scowls at me. “I run hot.”
“I certainly believe that.”
She wraps her arms around her body. “I like the snow.”
Her gaze strays to the town square. The snow is still fresh other than a few track marks across it. No yellow spots yet.
“It’s beautiful. Like it was plucked from the pages of a fairy tale.” She pauses, looking thoughtful. “I take it there’s some service that comes through and cleans the stoops?”
“Maybe it’s the Hideaway Elf. Wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened. Word is, some mysterious altruist cleared your snow and ours in the middle of the night a couple of weeks ago. Just doing something good for humanity.” I’m not totally making this up. I overheard a few people gossiping in the shop earlier about random acts of Christmas kindness.
“Sure. Whatever. Someone cleared the snow today. It wasn’t me, it wasn’t Charlie or Lars, and itdefinitelywasn’t Eileen, thank God.”
“Must be a really great person to have done something like that. Possibly a god among men. Or a goddess among women.”
She narrows her gaze at me. “Did you?—”
“Did you take our cinnamon broom?” I ask, not wanting to confirm or deny that I shoveled the snow.
“You think I stole your stupid broom?” she asks in a tone of disbelief.
I tsk-tsk. “My grandmother made that broom.”
“I would never steal anything.”
“You should have,” I say. “They smell really good, and she already sold out of her latest batch. I’ll talk to her about making some more.”
From the expression on her face, I’ve confused her. Good. We might as well both be confused.
A moment of silence hangs between us. A breeze whips her hair into her face, and I watch eagerly as she tucks it behind her ear.
“You better not do anything to interrupt Crochet Club tomorrow.” She glowers at me, wielding the dry-erase marker she’s still holding as if it were a sword.
“Or else you’ll beat me with that dry-erase marker?” I ask, raising my eyebrows. “Consider me intimidated.”
A scowl creases her brows, but then she uncaps the marker and attacks the BANNED flyer with it, giving me a red mustache that makes me look like a cartoon villain.
“You know, I don’t look half bad with a mustache,” I muse, knowing I shouldn’t needle her but enjoying it too much to stop. “Maybe I’ll stop shaving. How about adding a kiss mark on my cheek? Red’s the perfect color. You wouldn’t even need to use the marker. You could?—”
