Page 4 of Mistletoe, Mayhem & Mr. Grump
The town square is already transforming for tonight's tree lighting. The massive spruce waits patiently, probably the only thing in this town not judging my relationship status.
I detour to the shop to grab the box of vintage ornaments I donate every year. It's good marketing, I tell myself, though really I just can't bear the thought of Christmas without contributing something beautiful. Even if I'm personally contributing to the statistics on ‘sad single women with dying businesses’.
The box is heavier than I remember, or maybe I'm just weaker from stress-eating nothing because I can't afford stress-eating. I'm struggling down the front steps when a voice comes from the shadows.
"Need help?"
I nearly drop the entire box, which would be the perfect end to a perfect day—thousands of dollars in vintage glass exploding like my hopes and dreams.
A man steps into the streetlight, and my brain short-circuits momentarily. He's tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a black wool coat that's seen better decades—much like my will to live. His dark hair looks like he's been running his fingers through it in frustration, which is relatable. His jaw has that perfectlyimperfect stubble that suggests either careful grooming or complete indifference to grooming.
But it's his eyes that stop me—gray like winter storms, like bad moods, like the color my soul turns when I look at my bank balance.
"I'm fine," I say automatically, though the box is already slipping and my arms are apparently made of overcooked linguine.
He moves forward anyway, taking the weight from me with an ease that makes my arms feel insulted. How dare they be shown up by a stranger's superior musculature.
"Doesn't look fine," he says, and his voice is like gravel that's been to therapy—rough but trying to be better.
"Yeah, well, looks can be deceiving. I look like a functional adult, for instance."
One dark eyebrow rises slightly, and something that might be amusement flickers in those storm-cloud eyes. Or it could be pity. Hard to tell in this lighting.
"Where to?" he asks.
"Town square. The gigantic tree that's impossible to miss. Unlike my ability to make good life choices, which is apparently invisible."
He walks without another word, carrying my box like it weighs nothing, like he's not transporting several thousand dollars' worth of antique glass through icy streets. I scurry after him like some sort of festive duckling who's made poor financial decisions.
"You're new," I observe, because apparently my brain-to-mouth filter is on vacation.
"Observant," he says, and I genuinely can't tell if he's being sarcastic or just stating facts.
"It's a small town. New faces are notable. We actually had a newsletter about it once. 'New Face Spotted: Town Adjusts Accordingly.'"
His lips twitch slightly. "Was there a committee?"
"There's always a committee. We have committees for everything. The committee committee meets Thursdays."
"Sounds exhausting."
"You have no idea. I'm Wren, by the way. I own The Jolly Trunk."
"The toy shop?"
"You've heard of it?"
"Hard to miss. The window display with the train set is impressive."
"Thanks. Most people just snicker at toy shops these days. People snicker at everything when you're slowly going bankrupt."
Why did I say that? Why am I telling a stranger my financial woes? Next, I'll be showing him my stress rash.
"I'm Holden," he says, saving me from further over-sharing anymore. "Holden Clark."
"Well, Holden Clark, welcome to Snowfall Creek. Try not to let the aggressive cheerfulness scare you off. Or the committees. Or the fact that everyone will know your business within twenty-four hours."
"Noted."
