Page 16 of A Very Merry Enemy
“Excuse me?” Holiday’s voice cracks.
“Every cookie. Every brownie. All of it. Whatever you have in the back, too.” I pull out my card and tap it against the counter. “Ring it up.”
Her face goes from confused to furious in three seconds flat. “You cannot be serious.”
“Emma told me you get to leave when you sell out. I was serious when I said I want you gone.” I smile, giving her the fake one I save just for her. “Start boxing it up, Peaches. Or should I call you HoHo?”
“Don’t you dare call me either of those,” she nearly growls.
The last one is the nickname I gave her when we were kids. The one I whispered against her neck in the dark. The one that used to make her laugh.
“Oh, it bothers you. Great, that’s the only way I’ll address you going forward.”
The Christmas music switches to “Peace on Earth,” and the irony isn’t lost on me. There’s no peace between us. There never will be.
“This is low, even for?—”
“You refusing me service?”
Her jaw tightens so hard I think I can hear her teeth grinding. The muscles in her body tense.
The guy behind me groans. “Just ask for her number already. Damn.”
“Lucas, hurry up,” Janet Miller calls from six spots back.
Behind her, the line stretches out the door. I can already hear the complaints starting.
Holiday slams cookies into boxes, lids snapping shut like gunfire. Her movements are violent, angry. “Sorry, everyone. Lucas Jolly decided to selfishly buy everything.”
“Everything?” Janet’s face falls. “But I promised my book club I’d bring two dozen of your brownies?—”
“Blame him. He bought everything.” Holiday’s voice is saccharine sweet, and her eyes throw deadly daggers at me. She smirks as the crowd behind me groans and glares. They look at me like I’m the villain.
But she’s the bad guy. She always has been.
The grumbling gets louder and someone else mentions needing cookies for their kid’s birthday party tomorrow.
“But,” I say, raising my voice and turning to face the crowd, “I’m giving them away for free just for being on the farm today. Give me one second and we’ll head to the picnic tables by the snack shack. There are plenty to go around. You can take as many as you want. My treat.”
I turn back to Holiday. “How many did I buy?”
Her mouth is a tight line. “Twenty-five hundred.”
That’s more than I expected, but it makes the crowd erupt in cheers.
Holiday’s face goes beet red, and I love this for her.
I lean in, speaking loud enough for her to hear. “Go away.”
I can see dark flecks in her blue eyes.
“You wish,” she says, rolling her eyes.
Twenty minutes later, every cookie is boxed. Guests help carry them outside.
Holiday stands behind the register, arms crossed, pissed. I haven’t seen her this mad in a very long time.
“With your employee discount, it’s two thousand, four hundred thirty-five dollars and sixty-three cents.”
