Page 13 of Mistletoe, Mayhem & Mr. Grump
"So, if I showed up with a boyfriend?—"
"It might help. Especially if he's established. Employed. Stable. Not a traveling encyclopedia salesman."
"That was ONE TIME."
After she hangs up, I stare at Grandma’s music boxes. The dancing couple in the Swiss box spins endlessly, frozen in their eternal waltz. They make it look so easy, that connection. Just hold on and keep dancing, and somehow you won't die alone surrounded by vintage toys and broken dreams.
An absolutely terrible idea starts forming. The kind of idea that only makes sense when you're desperate, haven't slept properly in weeks, and have been inhaling too much furniture polish.
Holden Clark. New in town. No connections. No expectations. Employed at a respectable local business. Single. Shows up when I need him. Helps without being asked. Has arms that could definitely carry heavy things, which I’m sure the committee would find very important in a man.
Also grumpy, mysterious, and probably has more baggage than an airport.
But he looked at Grandma’s music boxes like he understood them. Like he understood some things are worth preserving even if they don't make financial sense. Plus, he has that whole brooding thing that committees seem to find respectable.
This is insane. I'm seriously considering asking a stranger to fake date me to save my business. Grandma would be either appalled or impressed. She always said desperate times called for desperate measures. She also said you should never trust aman who doesn't like dogs, but Holden hasn't been tested on that yet.
"What do you think?" I ask the Swiss music box couple. "Should I ask the grumpy man who hates joy to pretend to love me?"
They continue their waltz, offering no advice. Typical. Even inanimate objects won't give me relationship advice.
By closing time—which is whenever I give up on the idea that customers exist—I've talked myself into and out of the fake dating idea approximately thirty-seven times. Pro: it might save my shop. Con: it's insane, and he'll probably say no, and then I'll have to move to another state to avoid the embarrassment.
Actually, thirty-eight times now. Thirty-nine. The counting isn't helping.
I'm locking up when I spot him through the garage windows across the square. He's under a car, only his legs visible, and Finn's laughing at something.
Before I can lose my nerve—and what little dignity I have left—I'm walking across the square with the determination of someone about to make either the best or worst decision of their life.
I'm about to ask a man who treats emotions like a food allergy to be my fake boyfriend. Grandma would be so proud. Or horrified. Definitely one of those.
The December air bites at my face, and I can already hear Finn's voice getting clearer. This is happening. I'm really doing this.
God help us all.
Chapter 4
Holden
The underbelly of a 1998 Honda Civic looks exactly like my life choices—rusted, questionable, and held together by denial and duct tape.
"That's the oil pan," Finn says helpfully, pointing at something that could be an oil pan or possibly a small alien colony. "You drain it by removing the plug."
"Which plug?" I ask, staring at the mechanical chaos above me.
"The one that looks like a plug," he replies with excessive patience.
"They all look like plugs. Or tumors. It's hard to tell."
Finn laughs, the sound echoing off the concrete floor. "You really know nothing about cars, do you?"
"I know they move when you press the accelerator," I defend myself.
"That's a start. A very small, very sad start, but still." He hands me a wrench that I'm definitely going to use wrong. "Try not to break anything expensive."
I'm about to defend my complete lack of mechanical knowledge when I hear footsteps approaching. Determined footsteps.
"Finn, is Holden—oh." Wren appears, slightly out of breath, her cheeks pink from either cold or embarrassment. Possibly both. She's wearing the reindeer sweater again. The reindeer now appears to be winking at me specifically.
