Page 9 of Mistletoe, Mayhem & Mr. Grump
"Well, I told Mrs. Henderson where she could stick her halo after she suggested I needed a boyfriend to play Joseph, so my angel status is currently under review."
Before I can respond to that, someone calls her name from across the room. She sighs with the exhaustion of someone who's been voluntold for something.
"Committee emergency. Apparently, there's a debate about white versus colored lights that's reached DEFCON 2."
"DEFCON 2?" I have to ask.
"Last year, DEFCON 1 involved the mayor crying. We don't talk about it."
She disappears into the crowd with an apologetic smile that suggests she'd rather stay and talk to me, which is both flattering and terrible for my mission.
I watch her through the window as she mediates what appears to be a hostile negotiation over string light colors. She's gesticulating wildly, at one point appearing to act out what I can only assume is the birth and death of a light bulb. The committee members nod seriously, as if this is perfectly normal behavior.
I stay another hour, cataloging inefficiencies. The coffee shop could serve twice as many customers with a better layout. The open mic could be monetized with a cover charge. The entire evening could be optimized for profit instead of... whatever this is.
Community. The word sits uncomfortably in my mind, like a suit that doesn't quite fit.
By the time I leave, Wren is still trapped in committee purgatory, now apparently showing the proper way to hang garland using interpretive dance. She catches my eye through the window and makes a face that clearly says, "Save me."
I almost do.
That's when I know I'm in trouble.
Tomorrow, I become Holden Clark, minimum-wage mechanic. It's the perfect cover for a corporate raid, as long as I remember that's all she is to me. Part of the cover. Part of the job.
I head back to the inn, but my mind keeps drifting to green vintage dresses and tinsel capes and the way she laughs with her whole body when something really amuses her.
Definitely in trouble.
Chapter 3
Wren
He's touching my grandmother's music boxes.
Not grabbing or manhandling—his fingers barely graze the carved wood of an 1890s Swiss cylinder box, the one with the dancing couple that plays 'Clair de Lune.' But still. Those are Grandma’s most precious pieces, and this grumpy stranger in work-worn flannel is studying them like they actually matter.
"That one's not for sale." The words come out sharper than intended, like I'm protecting a child from a stranger with candy. Except the candy is my emotional support music box, and the stranger is unreasonably attractive for someone who apparently hates joy.
Holden doesn't startle, just turns those storm-cloud eyes toward me with what I'm recognizing as his version of interest. In most people, it would be indifference. On him, it's practically a marriage proposal.
"I wasn't planning on buying it."
"Then why?—"
"It's beautiful." He says it simply, like he's commenting on the weather, but his fingers still hover near the delicate inlay like he's afraid it might disappear if he looks away. "The craftsmanship. Someone spent months on this."
"Longer. André Beaumont spent three years perfecting that mechanism. He made it for his daughter's wedding in 1894." The words tumble out before I can stop them. Nobody ever asks about the history. They usually just ask if I have anything from this century that beeps or requires batteries.
"You know its history?"
"Every piece here has a history. That's kind of the point. Well, that and slowly going bankrupt with style."
He nods slowly, his attention shifting to the rest of Grandma’s collection displayed along the counter. Each piece is positioned exactly as she left them, a shrine to beauty that I dust religiously while questioning my life choices.
"Your grandmother's?"
I don't remember telling him that, but then again, the whole town knows my entire life story, including that embarrassing incident in third grade with the glue stick. Small-town information networks work faster than the internet and with twice the judgment.
