Page 10 of Mistletoe, Mayhem & Mr. Grump
"She collected them her whole life. Said they were proof that beautiful things could survive anything if they were loved enough. Also, she said tequila was proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy, so her wisdom was hit or miss."
Something flickers in his expression—maybe recognition, maybe sadness, maybe just the realization that he's standing in a failing toy shop at 9 AM.
"Interesting business model," he says.
"Not everything is about business models."
"Everything is about business models. Whether or not people admit it."
"What's the business model for standing in my shop fondling music boxes?"
"Research."
"Into what? How to look brooding and mysterious while also being weirdly into antiques?"
That almost-smile appears, the one that transforms his face for exactly 0.3 seconds before he remembers smiling isn't part of his brand.
"Something like that."
The shop door chimes, saving us from whatever weird tension is building. Mrs. Connor shuffles in with her knitting bag, which definitely contains more gossip than yarn.
"Wren, dear! I need more of those vintage cookie cutters. My grandchildren are coming for the holidays and—oh." She stops, noticing Holden like she's discovered the Holy Grail. "I don't believe we've met."
"Holden Clark," I supply when he doesn't immediately respond, probably because he's allergic to human interaction. "He's new in town. Working at Finn's garage."
Mrs. Connor's face lights up like Christmas came early and brought a single man under sixty. "How wonderful! Are you married, Mr. Clark?"
I want to sink through the floor. Through the basement. Through the earth's crust into the molten core, where embarrassment can't follow.
"No."
"Girlfriend?"
"No."
"Boyfriend?"
His lips twitch slightly. "No."
"Perfect!" She claps her hands together like she's just won the lottery. "Wren is single too. And she makes the most wonderful hot chocolate. You should ask her about it. It's terrible, actually, but she tries very hard."
"Mrs. Connor, the cookie cutters are in aisle three," I interrupt, my face achieving temperatures that could melt steel. "The Christmas ones are on the second shelf."
She toddles off, but not before giving me a wink visible from space.
"So," Holden leans against the counter, suddenly closer than necessary. "Tell me about this terrible hot chocolate."
"It's not terrible. It's just... mediocre."
"That's quite a claim."
"I burn it. Every time. It's like a talent. I could burn water if given the opportunity."
"Water doesn't burn."
"You haven't seen me try."
He actually laughs—a short, surprised sound, like he wasn't expecting it. Like laughter is something that happens to other people. "How do you burn hot chocolate?"
