Page 85 of Mistletoe, Mayhem & Mr. Grump
The shop is empty this early in the morning, just us and Helena's music boxes catching the dawn light. The Swiss cylinder box plays softly in the background—Wren winds it every morning now, a ritual that started the day after we officially became partners in every sense of the word.
"We should open soon," she says, but makes no move to leave my arms.
"We should," I agree, pulling her closer instead.
"Customers might come," she points out.
"They might," I acknowledge, lowering my head to kiss her properly.
The kiss is interrupted by a loud tapping on the window. We break apart to find Teddy grinning at us, his Santa beard now styled into small braids courtesy of his granddaughter.
"Committee meeting!" he shouts through the glass.
"It's Tuesday," Wren calls back. "Committee meetings are on Thursdays."
"Emergency meeting!" he insists. "Mr. Jackson bought another dog!"
"That's not an emergency," I tell him. "That's just Tuesday."
"This one's a Saint Bernard!" Teddy announces. "It doesn't fit in his apartment!"
Wren sighs and goes to unlock the door. "How many dogs does this make?"
"Fifteen," Teddy says cheerfully. "He's started a dog committee."
"Dogs can't be on committees," I remind him.
"Tell that to Mr. Jackson. He made them all official badges," Teddy says, showing us a photo of a Corgi wearing a laminated committee credential.
"That's actually adorable," Wren admits.
"Don't encourage him," I plead. "Yesterday he tried to teach them Robert's Rules of Order."
"Did it work?" she asks.
"The Border Collie figured it out," Teddy reports. "Very smart dog. Mr. Jackson wants to make him secretary."
The door chimes again and Giuseppe enters, carrying a tray of something that might be muffins or might be an art project.
"I made breakfast!" he announces proudly.
"What's in them?" Wren asks suspiciously.
"Love," Giuseppe says.
"What else?" I press.
"Flour. Eggs. The usual," he says vaguely.
"Define usual," Wren requests.
"Edible," Giuseppe assures us. "Mostly."
"Your confidence is overwhelming," I mutter, but take one anyway. After six months, I've learned that Giuseppe's food is unpredictable but rarely actually dangerous.
"Oh!" Giuseppe remembers. "Malcolm sent another yacht photo."
"Of course he did," Wren sighs, checking her phone.
