Page 25 of Mistletoe, Mayhem & Mr. Grump
"We can't fall for each other," I remind him. "Section 3, subsection 2a."
"I know," he says.
"It's in the contract," I insist.
"The laminated contract," he adds with a small smile.
"Exactly. Very official," I say.
"Very binding," he agrees.
"So, we're clear on that," I state firmly.
"Crystal clear," he confirms.
We stand there for another moment, still holding hands, snow landing in our hair, both clearly lying to ourselves.
"Committee meeting," I finally say.
"Committee meeting," he agrees.
We turn around and head in the right direction this time. Twenty minutes to convince the committee we're real. Three weeks to save my shop. And a laminated contract that’s feeling less like protection and more like a prediction of exactly how this is going to go wrong.
Section 3, subsection 2a is basically a promise I'm about to break with myself.
Chapter 6
Holden
The Christmas Committee meets in Delia Ashworth's living room, which looks like Martha Stewart and a Victorian duchess had a baby and that baby exploded. There's gold leaf on surfaces that shouldn't have gold leaf. Doilies on things that don't need doilies. And at least forty-seven throw pillows that seem to serve no purpose except making sitting impossible.
"Don't touch anything," Wren whispers as we enter. "She'll know."
"How?" I ask.
"She has a system. Everything's positioned at specific angles. She once noticed when someone moved a coaster half an inch," she explains.
"That's not possible," I protest.
"Tell that to Jimmy Brennan. He's still banned from the annual tea party," she says.
The committee is already assembled, sitting in a semicircle that feels less like a meeting and more like an intervention. Or possibly a tribunal. Delia presides from what can only be described as a throne, wearing pearls that could probably fund a small country.
"Wren, Mr. Clark," she greets us with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "How timely."
"We're three minutes late," Wren points out.
"Exactly. How timely of you to be precisely three minutes late. Very consistent with your usual patterns," Delia says, making punctuality sound like a character flaw.
We sit on the only available loveseat, which forces us uncomfortably close together. My thigh presses against Wren's, and I try not to think about how she still smells like cinnamon despite the lasagna lunch.
"So," Delia begins, pulling out what appears to be a leather-bound folder. "Holden Clark."
"That's me," I confirm unnecessarily.
"Is it?" she asks pointedly.
The room goes silent. Even the clock seems to stop ticking out of respect for the awkwardness.
