CHAPTER 1
It’s beginningto look a lot like a crime scene. Well, a future one. While elfnapping is not on my itinerary for this evening, nothing about this night has gone as planned. All my hopes were pinned on surviving the chaos of the community Christmas parade, checking on Gran’s light display at the adjoining park, then returning home in time to give Gran her meds and hibernate on the sofa while consuming my body weight in overpriced fudge.
I’ve earned every calorie.
The 207thSilver Creek Christmas parade may be a tradition brimming with holiday cheer and yada yada yada, but so far, I’ve taken a Tootsie Roll to the forehead (thanks to the Sunrise Senior Center residents) and heard enough creepy renditions of “Santa Baby” to haunt my waking moments (again, thanks to the Sunrise Senior Center residents). I’m a huge supporter of our local elderly, and several of Gran and Pap’s friends live in the state-of-the-art facility, but whoever’s grand idea it was to glow up the “Ageless Angels” float with a karaoke machine and strobe light didnottake into consideration the rest of Silver Creek’s population. Doesfamily-friendly environmentmean nothing anymore? To make it worse, the giant nutcracker on my “Santa’sAntique Toys” float kept toppling over in the wind and almost brained the mayor as the float passed the judging station. Nearly giving the leader of our fine town a concussion did nothing for my eligibility for the Most Festive Float Award.
Now this.
I never thought an elf would provoke me to a life of crime, but here we are.
Every season, Gran sponsors a turtledove light display. She pays extra to secure the area beside the street clock where Pap had proposed over sixty years ago. This year, the reservation rate spiked an additional two hundred dollars. I didn’t have the heart to tell Gran, so I forked over the extra Benjamins to make it happen. Moreover, a few weeks back, I broke a thumbnail and got my hair snagged on one of the birds’ beaks while pulling the display out of storage. But instead of a pair of turtledoves with my DNA all over it gracing this snowy patch of earth … it’s an elf on a surfboard. I assess the six-foot-tall light display and declare war.
The elf isn’t to be blamed, per se, but its sponsor—Josie Dubois. She moved Gran’s turtledoves.
I’m generally not two heartbeats away from feral mode, but this happened last year too on account of Josie hating my guts. Her loathing must be a three-for-one package because it obviously extends to Gran and Pap. A year ago, I was the bigger person and went through the proper channels to resolve the issue. Tonight though—I adjust my Mrs. Claus hat—it’s on.
Josie put her display and adjacent sign advertising her tanning salon here out of spite. All because her ex-boyfriend took me on a handful of dates, and then tossed me aside like used wrapping paper. Oh, and these infractions occurred in high school. Nearly a decade ago. Josie’s grudges last longer than her spray tans. So in petty revenge, she swiped my deargrandmother’s spot and placed the turtledoves—I twirl in a slow circle—by the …
I see red. And it has nothing to do with the blinking Santa sleigh to my left.
Josie placed the turtledoves by the porta-john. It’s a good hundred feet away, but I could recognize my grandparents’ display anywhere. My fingers twitch at my sides, even as a fire builds within me hot enough to counteract the thirty-degree temp.
I’ve never claimed to possess main character energy. My introvert soul reads side character, at best. You know, the quirky ones in rom-coms with fun fashion sense and witty one-liners. The supporting roles never get the guy though. Such is my life. So yeah, I may not be heroine material, but at this moment, I will happily be the villain. I glare at the surfing elf, and my heart shrinks two sizes. The Greta who stole Christmas … lights. Not exactly original, but I can roll with it. I cast furtive looks to my left and right to ensure the coast is clear. It’s not. At least several hundred people are milling about, enjoying Light-Up Night.
Most days I feel invisible—today is not that day. I’m freaking dressed like Mrs. Claus. The Christmas parade always precedes the Light-Up Night ceremony. My family’s antique shop makes a float every year. Translation:Imake the float every year. I usually enjoy being crafty, but with running the store during the day and being Gran’s caregiver at night (and often into the early hours of the morning), my Christmas spirit isn’t just weak—it’s on life support. So here I stand—in a dark green velvet creation trimmed in white fur, that I whipped up over the past week—contemplating how to effectively remove an elf carcass without attracting attention.
Determination igniting my veins, I bend low and toggle the power switch. The bright lights outlining the metal frame go dark.
Once any risk of electrocution is removed, I plant my feet on either side of the hulking display. My boots may be appropriate for ushering small children toward Santa’s lap, but they’re a sorry match against the frozen ground. I work the two spikes from the ground, but the last one proves to be the most challenging. With a savage grunt, I tug on the elf’s torso.
Nothing.
Did Josie cement this thing to the earth’s core? I roll my shoulders and tilt my head from side to side, cracking my neck as if I’m entering a WWE ring instead of wrestling an inanimate object. But my hype trick works because on my next pull, the earth releases its icy hold, and the festive imp is in my clutches.
A throat clears. “Do you?—”
I swivel toward the masculine voice. My left ankle balks at the ridiculous amount of physical activity it’s been subjected to and decides to collapse like a diva. I pitch to the side and … stab a random stranger with an elf.
The man’s reflexes are impressive, but even his panther-like grace can’t compete with my undefeated clumsiness. I find myself on the damp ground, and the mystery man has an elf hanging from his broad chest like an appendage.
“Oh my gosh!” I stagger to my feet. “Are you hurt? Bleeding?” My criminal activity has escalated from property theft to possible man slaughter in less than five minutes. As far as PRs go, it’s impressive. But twenty-to-life is not on my Christmas list. “Medic!” I yell and the guy chuckles.
I blink. “Is shock setting in?” I almost stutter on the last word because I’ve allowed my gaze to take in my unintended victim. His tall, dark, and handsome contrasts with my petite, ghostly, and somewhat mediocre. Should I expect anything less on a day like today? Other women have meet-cutes. Me? Meet-kills. I’ve hit a new low.
“I’m okay.” The man’s husky voice carries remnants of amusement. “It’s caught on my jacket.” With one smooth move, he disentangles his massive body from the stupid elf. The guy’s lopsided grin matches well with the gleam in his eyes. “See? No harm done.”
I’m about to exhale relief, but then gasp. The confusion in my airways results in my croaky voice. “Your coat. It’s gashed.” I flutter my hand at the gaping hole.
He glimpses the damage and shrugs. “No big deal.” His gaze roams over my outfit, then to the abandoned light display. “Is everything okay, Mrs. Claus?”
No, I’m trying to avoid a nuero-meltdown. “It’s a long story.” It’s actually not. But I don’t want to explain myself—or my actions—to a random person, but then again, I just nearly impaled him. I guess he’s entitled to an explanation. “I’m in the process of staking my ground.” I offer a dramatic lift of my chin as if I’m some pioneer in a land run rather than a small-town antique store owner with seasonal run-ins with a high school nemesis with questionably orange skin.
“So you’re from …” He reads the small sign I forgot to kick over. “Josie’s Tan-tasy Island.”
I’m paler than eggnog. “Uh … no.” At his raised brow, I adopt a new strategy. “It’s just a little mix-up. My gran’s display is supposed to be here. On this spot.” I gesture toward the prostrate elf, its head near the toe of my boot as if it’s groveling. “Not that.”
“So where’s your gran’s?”
