I’d vastly overestimated how much I could prep solo. And underestimated what a celebrity appearance—plus Jack and his very helpful friends—could do to a crowd.
As the crowd trickles off to find their sugar fix elsewhere, I grab a rag and start wiping down the counter as if the leftover crumbs are somehow responsible for my failure to anticipate being swarmed.
“Hey.” Jack’s shoulder nudges mine, the contact light but annoyingly effective. “You don’t look thrilled for someone who just sold out.”
Before I can answer, or re-clean my counter, Felix Jones and Elizabeth Moore approach the booth like returning conquerors, red-nosed and glowing.
“Whew.” Felix shakes off the light dusting of snow from his shoulders. “Glad that’s finished.”
“Oh, get over yourself.” Elizabeth, arms wrapped tightly around the hairless cat, leans against the booth’s counter. “You know you loved it.”
All smiles, they go back and forth teasing each other while Felix reaches out to relieve his fiancée of her feline burden.
Their camaraderie is light and easy, and I hate that it makes me feel heavy.
I gather the last of the crumbs, snap out of my funk, and plaster on a smile. “Thank you both so much.” I meet their eyes. “Unlimited whoopie pies for life.”
“Yay!” Elizabeth laughs, shaking out her arms. “Don’t say that unless you mean it.” She nods toward Felix. “He’s got a mean sweet tooth.”
Felix, now holding Mike like he’s won an award, grins. “Big-time.”
“Am I included in this lifetime supply deal?” Jack, who’s been suspiciously quiet while I attempt to stop my self-recrimination, nudges me again. “Asking for a hungry friend.”
I press a palm to the shoulder he keeps leaning into, suddenly very aware of how warm that spot feels. “I?—”
“Woof.”
As one, the four of us turn to find Skippy, Hideaway’s unofficial mascot, staring at the hairless cat curled up in Felix’s arms. But while Skippy’s barks are usually ‘got snacks?’ barks, this bark sounds more like a ‘there are enemies among us’ alert.
Mike Hunt hisses, thoroughly unimpressed.
Sensing impending doom, Felix, still holding a whoopie pie, tries to tuck Mike inside his coat only to find one hand isn’t enough to undo his buttons.
Skippy, shuffling forward, barks louder.
Mike, clearly over being threatened by the miniature yeti, decides to leap into action—literally.
Pushing off Felix’s chest with his back legs, Mike launches himself into the air.
Not away from the dog.
At the dog.
Elizabeth gaspsHome Alonestyle.
Felix lunges, but all he catches is one sad cat bootie.
Skippy takes one look at the rapidly approaching demon in a birthday suit and makes the only rational choice.
He runs—tail tucked, paws skidding, snow flying.
Mike Hunt gives chase, looking like a naked missile of vengeance.
People scatter. Squeals echo. Felix and Elizabeth take off after them.
“Holy shit.” Jack’s gaze follows the shrieking, flannel-clad trail of people parting like the Red Sea.
They’re heading for the Christmas tree—Hideaway’s enormous, thirty-foot symbol of peace, joy, and municipal liability.
