Straightening, I groan, tossing my colored pencil back in the box. “We’re closed!” I call, even as my feet betray me and head toward the door.
Another knock. Louder this time.
Thinking it’s some poor caffeine addict who overshot the coffee shop, I flick on the front light. And freeze.
It’s not a lost tourist or a hangry peppermint-mocha hopeful.
It’s Jack.
He stands in the glow of the streetlight, collar turned up against the cold, juggling two enormous shopping bags that look ready to burst. His grin is so wide it tugs one out of me too.
Which, of course, sets off alarms ricocheting in my chest.
It isn’t until his smile slightly dims that I realize I’ve been staring and letting him freeze on the doorstep.
Rushing over the last few steps, I open the door. “If those bags contain your human cruelty lawsuit against Pine & Dandy’s reindeer that you want me to witness, I’ll sic Skippy on you.”
Still smiling, Jack turns sideways to fit through the door. “Ha ha.” He hefts the bags higher, proud as a kid showing off their Christmas morning haul. “I come bearing your much-needed holiday cheer.”
The twisted paper handles look ready to tear from the weight of whatever’s inside. “What are you talking about? I got a tree, remember? Or are you purposely blocking out any memory related to the reindeer incident?”
“You’re awfully jokey for someone who has a dead tree in a literal mop bucket of water leaning against their apartment wall.”
“All Christmas trees are dead, Jack. That’s what happens when you cut them down. They die.”
“Yes, but when you decorate them, like a normal person, they feel alive.”
I peek into the top of one of his bags and jerk back, nearly blinded by the glare off a jumbo package of tinsel crammed on top.
“You got my tree decorations?”
Jack nods, moving past me into the kitchen. “Decorations. Lights. The whole nine yards.”
“Jack…” I warn, “tomorrow is the gingerbread competition.” I point to the blueprints.
He levels a flat stare, one brow barely twitching like even his face can’t be bothered.
“Besides, where’s Amanda?” I cross my arms, bracing myself even as doubt prickles underneath. “You haven’texactly been spending much time with the client who brought you here to figure out how to film a movie.”
“One, Amanda is happier than an actress at the Vanity Fair Oscars afterparty. Apparently there was a taffy pulling spectacle at the candy shop that Amanda has become infatuated with which morphed into something mildly pornographic that she decided to follow with witnessing a tree made of lobster cages get lit by a Santa arriving by boat at the harbor.”
I snort at the image.
“And two, I think it’s pretty clear that if Amanda Willis wants to do something, she does it—whether or not her lawyer-slash-agent approves.”
I smile, despite knowing I’m continuing a losing battle. “Must make tough work for the lawyer-slash-agent.”
He sighs dramatically. “You have no idea.”
We share a moment of levity before I shake it off and point to my prep table. “Well, I still need to?—”
“No, you don’t.” His tone is light as he sets the bags directly on top of my gingerbread blueprints, but his eyes leave no room for argument.“You’ve done more than enough already.” He taps an uncovered section of my design. “You added a boathouse, for Santa’s sake.”
I fold my arms, frowning. “What’s wrong with a boathouse?”
“Nothing, if you’re the architect for the Gingerbread Vanderbilts wanting to build their extravagant Maine getaway with room enough for their yacht.”
A reluctant laugh sputters out, undermining my position and making Jack grin.
