“What the hell is happening?” I whisper to Audrey, who’s now wide-eyed, her gloved hand covering her mouth.
“I think—” She lowers her hand, only to snort when Donner muscles in—“I think they think you’re agirl reindeer.”
If you’ve ever wondered what a reindeer tongue feels like in your ear—don’t.
“Why the hell do they think that?”
“Um… maybe your coat?”
“What?” Giving up on playing dead, I try sliding myself out of range.
Audrey waves at something—or someone—in the direction of the barn before turning back to me. “Its color does look an awful lot like their hides.”
I squint my eyes shut, protecting my vision from both a tongue lashing and the sight of Blitzen’s undercarriage getting dangerously close to my face. “Is that your way of telling me my new coat is reindeer porn?”
Audrey snickers. “And youwereon all fours under the tree for an abnormally long time.”
“Way to kick a guy when he’s dow—oomph.”
Donner’s snout just got a little too friendly withmyundercarriage.
Audrey loses control and wheezes a laugh before regaining her composure.
Thankful it was a nose and not an antler or hoof, I flail backward, boots slipping, while my alleged tormentors grunt happily and continue their assault.
And then it clicks. Audrey’s not panicked. She’s entertained. Which means…
“They’re tame, aren’t they?” I hiss, arm up to protect my face as Blitzen and Donner argue with body bumps over who’s going to grope me next.
Her reply is a fresh round of giggles.
The handler, who Audrey was probably signaling earlier, jogs over, shaking a bucket of feed, and just like that, Donner and Blitzen forget all about me.
They trot back to the pen, leaving me used and abused as well as damp, pine-scented, and fairly certain my future obituary will read:Fondled by festive livestock.
Audrey’s still laughing when I stand, brushing snow and reindeer hair off my coat.
“This is why I should’ve purchased the new Moncler parka and just paid for expedited shipping.”
Then, as if on cue, the tree behind me topples over, whacking me in the back and sending me head first, ass-up into the snow.
CRUMB COAT
Audrey
The bakery is quiet.
Ovens sigh themselves to sleep. The last trays of gingerbread house pieces cool on the racks. Outside, Hideaway Harbor has emptied, the clatter of boots and chatter of townspeople drifting toward the docks where the lobster-trap Christmas tree waits to be lit.
Normally, I’d feel a pang of wistfulness at missing out—the whole town gathered under twinkling lights, Santa arriving by boat, a crustacean deity glowing from the top of a pyramid of traps.
But considering that the last tree lighting ended with me getting pancaked in the town square by a Saint Bernard, a Hollywood agent, and a satanic cat, wistful isn’t exactly what I’m feeling.
So while everyone else is bundled in scarves and mittensto ooh and ahh over the town’s mascot—Larry the Lobstah—twinkling from on high, I’m content to be surrounded by my cooling racks and my gingerbread-domination blueprints. Here in my sugar-scented sanctuary, I am safe from vengeful animals and the unnecessary distraction of broad male shoulders.
I glance at Jack’s corner—that’s how I’ve come to think of the desk I once used for stacking business papers until it was commandeered in the name of trademark law and questionable Wi-Fi. My Croc’ed feet tap with restless energy as I spread another blueprint on the prep counter, rattling through my box of pencils like a woman searching for a lifeline.
Knock. Knock.
