Page 12 of A Very Merry Mistake

She laughs. “Bye!”

I end the call, leaving my phone in the truck, and bolt toward the entrance. The rain pounds down on me, and I silently scream as the wind cuts right through my fashionable yet useless jacket, but I keep jogging. If I don’t, I will embarrass myself more than I already have.

As I hit the entryway, I reach out to turn the knob, and as it opens, I trip.

All that’s missing are the sound effects as I fly forward like a cartoon character.

CHAPTER 4

JAKE

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Hank says, leaning against the counter as he scrolls on his phone.

I shake my head as I walk past the sitting area, where a remodeling show is playing on the old-fashioned tube TV. I stop at the soda machine, put in a few quarters, and grab me a canned cola.

“You workin’ hard? ’Cause it looks like you’re hardly workin’.” I take a sip.

“Pftt. In this weather? I’m waiting for the minutes to pass so I can leave. You know how Dad feels about closing the shop early; it’s ‌against his religion. ‌I let Charlie leave a few hours ago so he could grab some groceries, since everyone’s predicting the storm is gonna be pretty bad.”

I lift a brow. “Oh, you’re still takin’ customers, then?”

He points up at the clock that’s hung on the wall. I’m pretty sure it’s five minutes fast, but I don’t mention it. He probably changed it himself. “I still have fifteen minutes, then I’m hoping and praying for it to sleet and ice over so I can have a few days off. I would kill for a vacation right now.”

“Vacation? You mean you actually lift a finger while you’re here?”

“I can lift this one.” He shoots me the bird and sets down his phone. “Speakin’ of people who can fuck off, I saw Lacy yesterday in the grocery store.”

I glare at him, my mood instantly souring. It’s been years since we ended things, and I avoid that woman like the plague, but she still lives in Merryville. So we do have the occasional run-in. Usually it’s me running in the opposite direction from her, though. “Don’t mention her name around me. You know she’s like Beetlejuice. Say it three times and she appears.”

Lacy is my ex, the Wicked Witch of the South, who nearly ruined my life after a very messy breakup.

“She was fake nice and using that voice of hers that I can’t stand. The high-pitched, nasally one, like she’s talkin’ to a five-year-old. I was thinkin’ how you really dodged a bullet with that one. Woof. Her personality makes her ugly.”

“I know. Don’t know what was going through my mind,” I say.

“It wasn’t your mind that was thinkin’. It was your dick.”

“True. Can say this, though: every day I wake up and she’s not sleeping next to me, I say a silent prayer of thanks that I didn’t marry the devil.”

He slaps his hand on the counter and laughs. “True. Glad Satan ain’t waitin’ up for ya. But anyway, I know you didn’t come here to shoot the shit. What’s up?”

Before I can say a word, the door slams open, bouncing off the wall, sending the jingle-bell wreath sailing. Claire flies into the room, arms out like she’s Superman, hits the floor, and shoots across the recently-waxed tiles, slamming into a small table in the corner with a miniature Christmas tree, which topples over and lands next to her head.

“Holy shit!” barks Hank.

I have to stifle a laugh, as I know she won’t appreciate the humor. I cross the room in four steps and squat down beside her. “Claire, are you okay?”

“Please tell me this is a bad dream!” she moans, not meeting my gaze.

Hank rushes over. “Ma’am, are you all right?”

“Please wake up,” she whispers to herself, eyes squeezed shut.

I place my hand on her shoulder. “Claire? CeCe?”

Her eyes fly open, and she glares at me. I knew her newfound nickname would grab her attention.

“So I really am awake. Lovely,” she grumbles as Hank offers his hand and we help her up. “I’m fine. I’m fine.”

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