Page 19 of Mad About Yule

“I like having it open.”

“You don’t want customers thinking you’re some kind of off-shoot from the bakery. I can’t tell you how many people have asked me if your gift shop belongs to Maureen Krause. I understand why you chose to sublease from her.”

She pauses, her judgment silent this time around. She’s a realtor—cutting out the middleman and going straight to Maureen showed a little bit of bad faith on my part. A tiny thread of guilt cuts through me, but it was the only way I could afford to open my own shop to begin with.

“But I still think you should have waited until you had enough saved up to open a legitimate business.”

“Itisa legitimate business.” I sound like a mafia member running a front.Legitimate Gift Shop.

“You know what I mean. Your own storefront. If you had accepted Josh’s offer to work for his company, you wouldn’t have to worry about any of this.”

It’s been a year and a half, and she still gets wistful over that misguided job offer. “I don’t think Josh really wants Lila and me working side by side.”

The offer was flattering, but the thought of moving to Seattle makes me want to curl up into a ball and hyperventilate. Big city, crowded streets, a famous tech firm where everything I do would constantly be on display,andI would report directly to my older sister? Heck no.

“I’m so happy Lila found Josh.” Her voice turns all syrupy the way it usually does when she talks about my future brother-in-law. “He’s the perfect man for her, don’t you think?”

She’ll go on either way, so I just listen. I like him fine, but I don’t need to write him fan letters or anything.

“They met working together on a project, too.”

I groan. She’s like a little kid with a favorite new toy, and her only option is to love it to death.

“I feel like working PR for Josh’s tech firm isn’t quite the same as working on a small-town Christmas festival.”

“No,” she says, still dreamy. “One of them’s a lot more romantic. If I had to choose, I’d take the one with opportunities for walks in the snow and mugs of hot cocoa, wouldn’t you?”

“Mom, please. We’re not going on walks in the snow. I have a lot of volunteers working with me, it’s no big deal.”

Not that I’ve thought much about any volunteer aside from the one with the sharp jawline and judgmental eyes. Apparently, I have a teensy weensy thing for arrogant bad boys. But admitting as much would set off an avalanche of pushing and prodding, and I can’t deal with that on top of everything else.

“I’ve seen your volunteers, honey. None of them are as good looking as Griffin.”

“Oh my gosh, I have to go.”

We hang up, and I drag myself off the couch for a quick dinner of a PB&J and an apple. It’s a pretty pathetic dinner, but I don’t have the energy for anything more ambitious.

I eye the canvas set up in the corner of my living room while I eat. My small apartment doesn’t offer much room for my art, but I use what I have. I’ve been working on a piece for Wren’s sister Tess—her son’s favorite lovey perched in her mom’s favorite chair. Something for her birthday in January.

Working on paintings I intend to give away means there’s zero pressure to display them in my store. Finagling my way into small business ownership was easier than mustering up the courage to share my art with the world.

I’d participated in a few showings in college, but nobody had known me there. Whispers about whether my art is any good or even worth pursuing hadn’t followed me around the way they would here. I can handle being judged by strangers. Being judged by neighbors? I don’t want to test it out.

I should tumble into bed, but I go to the easel and squeeze acrylic paints onto a palette. After the day I’ve had, I could use the creative outlet. Maybe a little progress on this cute stuffed ostrich will ease away some of my worries about the festival and Mom’s romantic schemes.

If I’m extra lucky, it will crowd out every last thought about Griffin McBride.

SEVEN

GRIFFIN

I clockin at Santa’s workshop at eight like a good little elf, unsurprised when Hope walks in not five minutes later. Cheeks and nose pink from the cold, eyes bright beneath that crazy red hat, she looks chipper as all get-out.

“You’re at it early,” she says, unwinding a scarf from around her neck.

“Eight’s not early.” I would have been on any construction site at least an hour by now.

She bobs a shoulder. “You’re at it late, then.”

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