Page 5 of Mistletoe, Mayhem & Mr. Grump
We reach the square, and I have to direct him to the decoration station while trying not to notice how he handles the vintage ornaments with unexpected care, like he understands they're not just decorations but pieces of history.
"Thank you," I say, meaning it as he places the stuff down. "That was really?—"
"WREN!" Teddy's voice booms across the square. "Come meet the new fellow! He's single!"
I want to die. Not dramatically, just a little bit. Just enough to escape this moment.
"That's my cue to disappear," Holden says, already backing away.
"No, wait—I mean, you don't have to—Teddy's harmless, mostly?—"
But he's already melting into the crowd, leaving me to face Teddy's matchmaking enthusiasm alone.
"Who was that handsome stranger?" Teddy asks, wiggling his eyebrows in a way that should be illegal.
"Someone with excellent timing and even better escape skills." I mutter.
"He looks interesting."
"He looks like he is better at planning exit strategies than I am."
The tree lighting continues around me, but I'm distracted, scanning the crowd for a black coat and storm-cloud eyes. It's ridiculous. He's just some random guy who helped with a box. Probably a serial killer. Or worse, someone with good credit who makes sound financial decisions.
As the tree blazes to life and the crowd cheers, I make a decision. Three weeks to save my shop. If I need to find a fake boyfriend to do it, then that's what I'll do. How hard can it be to find someone willing to pretend to date me in this town?
Don't answer that, Universe. You've been really clear about your opinion of my life choices already.
Chapter 2
Holden
The coffee at The Frosted Pine Inn tasted like someone dissolved disappointment in hot water and called it artisanal. The fact that I've paid twelve dollars for this liquid tragedy is just adding insult to gastrointestinal injury.
I stand at the window of the local restaurant, watching Snowfall Creek wake up under fresh snow. The town looks exactly like the photos in the acquisition file—aggressively quaint, economically inefficient, and begging for modernization. Every building on Main Street screams ‘missed opportunity’. The town square alone could be converted into forty-thousand square feet of high-end retail space.
But then I remember amber eyes and self-deprecating jokes about bankruptcy, and suddenly profit margins seem less interesting than?—
Stop. I shake my head, forcing myself back to the task at hand.
My phone buzzes with the subtlety of a cardiac event.
Sterling: Status update required. Board meeting Thursday.
Sterling Blackthorne, Senior VP of Development and a professional pain in everyone's existence, thinks urgent means ‘interrupt whatever you're doing to tell me things I already know’. The man sends follow-up emails to his follow-up emails. He probably has anxiety about his anxiety.
The dining room fills with morning chatter—everyone knowing everyone, conversations flowing between tables like the whole place is one big family reunion. Inefficient. Unprofitable. Weirdly... nice?
"More coffee, Mr. Clark?"
The waitress—Iris, who apparently works in every establishment in town—hovers with a pot that smells marginally better than what I'm currently regretting.
"Is it the same coffee?"
"Oh, honey, no. This is a fresh pot. The one you're drinking is from yesterday. We call it 'The Widowmaker.'"
"You served me yesterday's coffee?"
"You ordered the continental breakfast. That comes with continental coffee."
