Page 11 of Mistletoe, Mayhem & Mr. Grump
"With determination and a fundamental misunderstanding of how heat works."
"You should put that on the menu. 'Wren's Burnt Hot Chocolate: A Triumph of Hope Over Experience.'" He teases.
"With a disclaimer about potential tongue scarring."
"That's just part of the experience. Builds character. And scar tissue."
"Very resilient, scar tissue." I smirk.
"Exactly. It's basically a medical service."
Mrs. Connor returns with an armload of cookie cutters, clearly having ransacked my entire inventory. "You two are laughing! How delightful! You know, Mr. Clark, Wren hasn't laughed with a man since that incident with the traveling salesman."
"There was no incident?—"
"He sold her a set of encyclopedias. In 2023. Physical books! Can you imagine?"
"I collect vintage things!" I defend myself. "I thought they were being ironic!"
"Twenty-six volumes of irony," Mrs. Connor says, shaking her head. "Poor dear even read some of them."
"I was trying to understand cryptocurrency. Volume C was very unhelpful."
Holden's definitely fighting a smile now. "Did you try Volume K?"
"For cryptocurrency?"
"For 'Krypto.' It's hiding." He teases.
"That's the worst joke I've ever heard." I tell him.
Mrs. Connor beams at us like she's watching a rom-com in real time. "You two are perfect for each other. Both are terrible at jokes."
She leaves with her purchases and what I'm sure will be hot gossip for the next committee meeting. I can already hear it: "Wren was flirting with that mysterious new man. They were talking about cryptocurrency. It was very romantic."
"I should get to work," Holden says, already moving toward the door.
"Wait—" I don't know why I stop him. Maybe because he's the first person in months who hasn't looked at my shop with pity. "The Christmas committee is always looking for volunteers. You know, if you want to meet people. Get involved. Make enemies. The usual."
"I don't do committees."
"Nobody does committees. We all just pretend until someone brings cookies."
"There are cookies?"
"Delia makes these bourbon balls that are technically illegal in three states."
He pauses at the door. "When?"
"Saturday morning. Eight o'clock. We're decorating the town square. Bring your own ladder. The committee ladder has trust issues."
"Trust issues?"
"It betrayed Mr. Peterson last year. We don't talk about it. There was a lawsuit. Well, almost a lawsuit. Mr. Peterson’s also the town lawyer, so he would have been suing himself. It got complicated. Don’t ask."
He's gone before I can explain further, leaving the shop feeling oddly empty. Like all the interesting air went with him.
I stare at the music box he was touching, and I swear I can still see the ghost of his fingerprints on the wood. Which is ridiculous. Fingerprints aren't visible. That's why crime shows need that powder stuff.
