Page 17 of Not In The Christmas Plan
Grant’s tune changes real quick when we get to the store and arrive at the baking aisle.
“What…what happened?” he asks, horrified.
It’s pure chaos. It looks like we’ve entered a scene from a post-apocalyptic movie. Shelves emptied out, flour coating the floor, a package of sugar laid out in the middle, torn halfway as if people were fighting over it and they both lost.
“Oh all this?” I say, injecting an air of nonchalance while secretly laughing at Grant’s stunned expression. “People around here treat their Christmas baking like an Olympic sport. There are always so many cookie exchanges and bake-offs starting as soon as Thanksgiving is over. You’re lucky we didn’t have to come out here on Black Friday.”
“It gets worse than this?”
“Let’s just put it this way: witnessing a grown man get trampled over some confections is one of my core memories.”
I wheel our cart forward, but Grant latches onto my elbow. “Wait. I don’t think we should go down there.”
“Don’t be ridiculous—”
“Out of my way!”
Grant and I both jump to the side when someone comes barreling by us. It’s an older man with a Santa hat on top of his head and a manic look in his eye scanning where the flour should be.
He shouts, “Hallelujah!” before reaching way, way back into the shelf and emerging with a gold-labeled bag that he holds up high like he’s on top of Pride Rock.
Grant and I both gasp when the man’s head swivels in our direction, giving us the stink-eye and daring us to try rolling up on him and his flour. As if we’d ever be foolish enough. When he finally drops the bag into his basket and clears the aisle, Grant lets out a low breath from behind me.
I smirk at him over my shoulder. “Remind me. Who’s supposed to be guarding who?”
Leaving Grant there sputtering, I make my way to the same shelf the man found his treasure. There’s one lone store-brand bag of flour left. After a glance to the left and then right—just in case someone tries to roll up onme—I reach for it with a small thrill of victory. The second I step back though, my heel slips on the coated floor, sending me airborne.
Before I can hit the ground, warm hands catch me around the waist, and I’m pulled against a solid chest.
“I got you.” Grant’s voice is low and so close to my ear.
I swear, no matter how much I fight it, these little moments keep happening between us—like fate is trying to push us together.
Fate grabs my chin. Fate jerks my face up toward Grant. Fate punches through my chest, squeezes my heart until it forgets how to beat when our eyes lock. And fate anchors my feet to the ground, keeping me right in his arms even though I know I should move away.
Someone behind us pointedly clears their throat and Grant stiffens, tugging me even closer, ready to throw down in defense of me and my flour.
“Eve is that you?” a familiar voice asks.
I gasp and lurch from Grant’s arms so fast that my heel slips. Again. Before I hit the floor, Grant catches me. Again.
“Really?” he mutters, steadying me.
Once I’m upright, I shoo Grant’s hands away then look up and find Ms. Thomas watching the whole spectacle with wide, amused eyes.
Ms. Thomas has lived across the street since before Ivy and I were born and was the only adult on the block who could tell us apart. She was always so sweet, opening her yard for the neighborhood kids to run wild during the summer and spoiling us with her gingerbread cookies during the holidays. When Ivy and I moved away for college, Dad would tell us about her stopping by with containers full of pork chops, catfish, or her homemade tamales, and I would tell him to snatch her up so he could keep eating good.
She was a great friend to him and took his passing hard.
“It is you!” Ms. Thomas says, stepping away from her basket with her arms outstretched.
Grant grunts as I shove the flour at him and brace myself for Ms. Thomas’s hug. She’s eighty percent signature faux fur coat, twenty percent sweet grandma, and one hundred percent love.
We exchange hellos and I tell Ms. Thomas how I’m in town to help Ivy. All the while, her gaze volleys between Grant and me. Subtle at first, until she just full-on stares at him while talking to me.
“And who might this tall glass of mulled wine be?” she asks.
I don’t even bother looking at Grant as he lets out a deep chuckle, knowing he’s eating this up.
