“No way. I won’t believe it.” She fishes a lip gloss from her purse and runs it over her mouth. “You give everyone a descriptor.”
“Not everyone. There is a good deal of the world’s population that remains descriptor-less.”
She screws the lid onto her gloss, and her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, “I thought maybe you heard the rumor.”
This is new. “What rumor?”
“That Fletcher Thomas isn’t as loaded as we thought. As the community barista, you know I’m like the coffee addict’s bartender. Fletcher’s personal secretary was complaining about a lot of budget cuts going on. She’s nervous she won’t get as big a Christmas bonus this year.”
“But he’s the Silver Creek Secret Santa.” Or was he? Fletcher didpoint out that he never actuallysaidhe was the community philanthropist. Maybe he works on behalf of the real one? I have no clue. It’s none of my business anyway.
Tilly shrugs. “Speaking of the Secret Santa business. I caught someone taking the letters from the mailbox at the café and stuffing them in the trash.”
I gasp. “Isn’t that a federal offense? Okay, maybe not.” Since those letters aren’t going through the actual postal system. “But it’s still a huge moral violation. Please tell me you threatened to never serve the culprit quality hot beverages again.” Tilly may be pageant material, but she’s fierce when she needs to be.
“When I yelled, he ran out the door. I had to dig the letters out of the garbage. Some were soggy. Here’s hoping they’re legible.” She gives herself a once-over in the mirror, then looks at me. “Enough about that. Tell me how many firefighters’ numbers you raked in. I’m thinking with that slit”—she motions at my dress—“you should at least be in the double digits by now.”
“I have three-fourths of the firefighters in my contact list now,” I say dryly.
“Sheesh. Leave some for me.” She tries to adopt an expression of mock offense, but we both know she’s usually the one attracting all the attention. Her vibrant personality, coupled with her pretty features, serves her well in the dating department. Which is why it frustrates me that Fletcher ignoredmy hints about asking her to dance. “Okay. I think I’ve waited long enough. Spill it. Who was the TDH you were dancing with before the keynote?”
TDH is code for Tall, Dark, and Hot. “That’s Leo.”
“TheLeo?” Her brown eyes widen, then narrow. “What? You danced with the man who stood you up?” Spoken in the same scandalous tone like,What? You ordered decaf?
“Well, apparently, he’s a firefighter and was facing a fire at the time of our meeting. Saving lives and all. Since he didn’t have my number, he couldn’t explain.”
Her bottle-rocket emotions seem to fizzle with a shrug of acceptance. “Okay, that’s valid.” She fiddles with her earring back, her mouth tugging into a frown. “Speaking of facing fires … I sent that email.”
I pull my gaze off our reflections in the mirror and gawk at my bestie, who just slayed her giant. But just to be sure, I ask, “To the regional campus?” Tilly had a rough go of things in high school, academically speaking, and so, after she graduated, she’d sworn she’d never step foot into another classroom again. Lately, she’s been toying with the idea of enrolling at a state college. “It’s all online, right?”
She bites her lip and nods. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going through with it. I just wanted more info on their communications program. That’s it.”
I bracket her narrow shoulders. “You can do this.”
“We’ll see.” She musters a smile. “Back to Leo. How am I supposed to act? Am I mad at him at all on your behalf? Is there any toilet-papering his house in the near future? Or do I hype you up? Guide me here.”
I know the change in conversation is more for her sake than mine, but I roll with it. “Nothing yet. But he’ll be stopping by the store Friday to discuss an antique.”
A knowing gleam enters her eyes. “So he’s inventing ways to see you again?”
I’m not sure that’s it. He’d planned on inquiring about the antiques before he knew I owned the store. Though something in my gut flips, nonetheless.
CHAPTER 9
I stubmy toe on the ornament box. I shouldn’t have kicked off my boots in favor of fuzzy socks. Cookie-patterned footwear is not professional, but I worked late last night on the float and this evening is the parade and Light-Up Night. Another day stretches before me of being on my feet.
I only work until noon, since all the shops on Main Street shut down in preparation for the parade. Are my shop’s halls decked with boughs of holly? No. But am I full of Christmas spirit to tackle this project? Also, no. Thankfully the float’s finished, and this is all I have left to do.
While my pinky toe’s in recovery mode, I plop down beside the decorations. If I’m being honest, I’ve been avoiding decorating the store. My gaze takes in Gran’s handwriting on the cardboard box—Bulbs 1950s. I trace my finger along each letter, the ache settling in me, hollowing out another portion of my soul. I open the box, and my eyes slide closed.
I can’t do this.
It feels so wrong to decorate without Gran. Last year, she sat poised in her wheelchair, directing where she wanted everything. One may think she was bossy, but I encouraged her involvement, since each day had seemed to rob her of anotherfreedom. I lean my head back against the wall. This pity party sucks. The company’s dull, the stereo’s autoplay switched to the Jackson 5, and there aren’t any snacks.
I should’ve done all this during off hours. Because I clearly don’t have it together right now. Why did I think I could power through?
The bells jingle over the entrance, indicating a customer’s presence, and I want to curl into a ball behind the tree. Though whining never pays the bills. I swipe at my cheeks, blink away the moisture from my eyes, and climb to my feet.
