Page 189 of The Holiday Clause
At the register, the proprietor showed them bone china plates painted with Victorian Christmas scenes in rich burgundies and forest greens.
“Oh, these are beautiful.” Wren traced the gold-leafed edge with wonder.
“We’ll take them.” He didn’t give a damn about china patterns. The pure joy radiating from her face was worth every penny.
“We’ll need a set of eight.”
“Eight?” His mind raced. “Last I counted, we were a party of five.”
“There’s you and me, your brothers, and your dad. Then my dad, Aunt Astrid, and Jocelyn.”
“Jocelyn’s coming to fake Christmas?”
“It’s not fake, Greyson. Christmas is a vibe, not a date. And Jocelyn’s my best friend.”
He scowled. “I’m your best friend.”
“Yes, but you’re also...” She brushed close, batted her lashes playfully, and whispered, “Mylovah.”
They carved a zigzag path through town, hitting every shop. Hand-dipped candles, artisan soaps, and locally-made maple syrup in bottles shaped like Christmas trees. If Hideaway sold it, and it had a Santa, angel, or elf on it, they bought it.
Three trips back to his truck barely made a dent in their haul.
At the Christmas Market, Wren bartered like a seasoned trader. He loved when she got fired up about a few pennies, and found it irresistible when she got all huffy about not getting her way.
“Eight dollars for jam! Who does he think he is?” she griped, stomping away from a booth at the Christmas market that was apparently overpriced.
“Isn’t jam just fancy jelly?”
“Exactly.”
When they drifted back to the town square, her mood quickly lightened. An ice sculptor transformed a massive block into Larry theLobstah.
“Ralph would die,” Wren joked. “He’s finally getting his moment of fame and he’s nowhere to be found.”
“I’m sure he’ll see it eventually.”
Outside Love at First Sip, they were caught in spontaneous caroling. Of course Wren sang along without needing lyrics.
They grabbed more hot cocoa and a gingerbread man the size of a dinner plate. Wren bit off the head with theatrical relish and smiled up at him. “Mmm, so good. Wanna bite?”
“Any more sugar and I’ll go into diabetic shock.”
“Impossible.” She laughed. “Everyone knows, calories aren’t real in December. It’s science.”
“None of this is real.” The words escaped before he could stop them.
She paused mid-bite, her happy expression frozen and then crestfallen. “You don’t mean that.”
Truth was, he didn’t know what he meant. “It’s just…a lot.”
“It’s supposed to be a lot. It’s Christmas.”
“I think I’m just tired. I didn’t sleep well last night.”
Her expression fell even more. “We can go home if you want.”
“No.” Despite his incomprehension of holiday cheer, he liked seeing her happy. “I’m enjoying myself.”
