Page 1 of Never Kiss a Krampus
CHAPTER 1
The third bulb on the left died.
I stood on the stepladder, watching in dismay as the Christmas tree’s middle section went dark. One moment it blazed with cheerful white lights, the next—nothing. Just a gaping hole of shadow between the top and bottom strands, like the tree had given up halfway through its festive mission.
Perfect. Just perfect.
I climbed down and pressed my forehead against the tree’s fake pine needles. They smelled like dust and broken dreams, which was fitting because that’s exactly what this morning felt like. The artificial branches scratched my cheek, but I stayed there anyway, breathing in the scent of failure disguised as evergreen.
The jingle bells above the door of the shop stayed silent. They had been silent for two hours.
I pulled back and surveyed the damage. The tree stood in its usual spot by the bay window, still decorated with handmade ornaments and ribbon garlands I’d spent three eveningsperfecting. From outside, it probably looked fine. From inside, all I could see was the dead section and the way the whole display tilted slightly to the left because I’d never properly secured the stand.
My grandmother would have known how to fix it. She’d known how to fix everything. She’d also had this magical ability to make everyone who walked through that door feel like they’d discovered something special, something just for them. She’d built relationships and turned casual browsers into devoted customers. But Gran had been gone for two years, and apparently I hadn’t inherited her gift for sales along with the shop.
I sighed and straightened my hand-knitted red cardigan as I headed behind the counter. The ancient cash register gleamed in the morning light, its brass keys polished to a shine. I’d cleaned it yesterday during the four-hour stretch between customers. Before that, I’d reorganized the ornament display. And dusted the shelf of vintage Christmas villages. And rearranged the scented candles by color instead of scent because something had to change, even if it was just the order of “Cinnamon Spice” and “Winter Wonderland.”
“Music,” I said to the empty shop. “Music makes everything better.”
I pulled out my phone, pointedly ignoring the notification from First National Bank, and queued up my “Ultimate Christmas Cheer” playlist. Mariah Carey’s voice filled the shop, bright and hopeful and so sure that all she wanted for Christmas was… well, not a failing business and a mountain of debt.
The stack of envelopes sat exactly where I’d left them, mocking me with their official letterheads and final notice stamps. Ishould open them. I should face the numbers, add them up, figure out exactly how screwed I was.
Coffee. I needed coffee first.
I filled the ancient coffeemaker I’d bought at a yard sale earlier that fall and waited impatiently as it groaned and wheezed its way through the brewing cycle. When it gave a final death rattle and produced something that resembled coffee if I didn’t think too hard about it, I dumped in three spoonful’s of sugar and a healthy pour of peppermint mocha creamer.
I’d invested in the fancy creamer the previous week—a splurge I absolutely couldn’t afford—because sometimes you had to choose between paying the electric bill on time and maintaining your will to live. I chose the creamer.
The mug was one I’d painted myself with “Jolliest Elf in the Workshop” in looping gold script and tiny toys dancing around the rim. It had seemed clever at the time. Now it just felt like mockery. I took a long sip, letting the warmth spread through my chest, and peeked at the pile of envelopes, hoping it might have grown smaller. It hadn’t.
Next to the bills, folded into a neat, menacing square, was Mr. Grinchly’s latest offer. I didn’t need to open it. I’d memorized the contents of the first three. The improbably but accurately named developer wanted my building. He wanted the whole block. And he was willing to wait just long enough for desperation to do his negotiating for him.
The jingle bells chimed and I nearly dropped my mug. Coffee sloshed over the rim, burning my thumb. I bit back a curse and plastered on my best customer service smile instead.
A woman stood just inside the door, grey coat buttoned against the December chill, eyes scanning the shop with the kind of polite interest that meant she was killing time, not actually shopping. She looked to be in her forties, tired around the edges, with grocery bags hanging from both arms.
“Good morning!” I chirped, channeling every ounce of enthusiasm I could muster. “Welcome to Noelle’s Nook! Can I help you find anything?”
She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Just browsing, thanks.”
The universal code for “leave me alone.”
I retreated behind the counter and pretended to organize receipt tape while secretly watching her drift through the aisles. She touched a snow globe, picked up a scented candle, and examined a set of hand-painted ornaments. Everything went back on the shelf.
My stomach twisted. I knew that look. That “everything’s lovely but I can’t justify the expense” look.
She made it to the clearance bin near the back. I’d marked everything down last week—fifty percent off, some items even more. Hand-knitted stockings that didn’t sell last Christmas. Specialty wrapping paper with slight creases. A collection of wooden nutcrackers with paint chips on their uniforms.
She pulled out a small ceramic angel, white with gold trim. The price tag read five dollars, marked down from fifteen.
“That’s handmade by a local artist,” I said, keeping my voice light. “Each one’s unique.”
“It’s lovely.” She turned it over in her hands. “My mother collects angels.”
She brought it to the counter, and I wrapped it carefully in tissue paper, moving slowly to make the transaction last longer. The register drawer opened with its familiar ding, and I made change from the nearly empty cash tray.
“Thank you so much for shopping locally,” I said, handing her the small red and white striped bag withNoelle’s Nookprinted in silver glitter. “Have a wonderful day!”
