Page 56 of Mistletoe, Mayhem & Mr. Grump
"Your situation has improved remarkably," Miranda says, flipping through my file with the efficiency of someone who's crushed dreams before breakfast.
"Has it?" I squeak, trying not to sound as desperate as someone whose entire life depends on this conversation. Which, let's face it, I am.
"The committee has noted increased foot traffic at your shop," she continues, making a note that's either good news or my death warrant. "Several large purchases. And of course, your... relationship status change."
There it is. The archaic real reason I'm not currently being escorted from the building by security.
"Holden has been very supportive," I say, which is true if you define 'supportive' as 'accidentally destroying my ability to think about anything except his mouth.'
"Mr. Clark seems quite established for someone so new to town," Miranda observes, her tone suggesting she knows something. But then again, her tone always suggests she knows something. It's probably taught in banker school. ‘Introduction to Omniscient Condescension 101’.
"He's integrating well," I manage.
"I heard about the tree incident," she says, almost smiling. "Very heroic."
"He does have a way with rope," I blurt out, then immediately want to crawl under the desk and live there forever. "I mean, for tree-straightening purposes. Official town tree purposes. Not weird rope purposes."
"I wasn't implying weird rope purposes," Miranda says, definitely fighting a smile now.
"Good. Because there are no weird rope purposes. Zero rope weirdness. We're completely rope-normal," I babble, because my mouth has decided to operate independently of my brain.
"Ms. Holloway," she interrupts gently, "I'm approving your extension."
"You're—what?" My voice cracks like a teenage boy discovering puberty.
"Three-month extension. With the understanding that you'll maintain your current... trajectory," she says, sliding papers across the desk.
"My trajectory of having a boyfriend?" I ask just to clarify the absurdity.
"Your trajectory of financial improvement," she corrects professionally, but her eyes say 'yes, the boyfriend thing.'
I sign the papers with shaking hands—equal parts relief and caffeine overdose. I may have had six cups of coffee this morning as a coping mechanism.
"Thank you," I breathe, clutching the documents like they might evaporate.
"Don't thank me yet," Miranda warns. "The committee will be watching your progress. Closely. Gary Hutchinson has binoculars."
"Why does everyone in this town have binoculars?" I mutter.
"Birdwatching," she says with a completely straight face.
"Right. Birds," I agree, standing to leave before I can say anything else about rope.
The moment I burst out of the bank, Mrs. Patterson practically tackles me. She's been lurking by the door like a very enthusiastic stalker.
"Wren! How did it go? Are you homeless? Do you need to move in with me? I have a spare room, but the cat uses it as his personal kingdom and he's very territorial," she rapid-fires, grabbing my arms.
"I got an extension," I manage.
"Oh, thank goodness! The cat really doesn't like sharing. He has anxiety. We're working through it in therapy," she explains, then pauses. "The cat's in therapy, not me. Well, I'm also in therapy, but that's unrelated."
"Everyone in this town needs therapy," I observe.
"It's the committees," she says sagely. "They'll drive you to madness. Speaking of which, emergency meeting in ten minutes."
"Emergency committee meeting? It's Thursday. Thursday is Bingo," I protest.
"Bingo's been postponed. Teddy ate all the markers," she explains.
