“If you’re sure.” I gesture toward the stairs, trying not to think about that bed in my office again. “After you.”
Chapter
Seven
Whitney
“This is your dining room table?” The scarred, round slab of wood looks older than me—possibly older than my mother, even—and five ancient office chairs, some with arms and some without circle it. It all barely fits in the open space between a tiny kitchenette and the area that’s filled by a leather sectional couch and a TV.
He snorts. “I’m not sure this qualifies as a dining room, but this is where we gather sometimes and eat a meal or do paperwork or play cribbage.”
“It works for me.” I set my bag and coffee on the table, in front of the least ragged-looking chair. Then I pull out a sheaf of papers I kept together with a binder clip. “These look like sign-ups to be in the parade. I also found a master document that appears to be the rules and a waiver of liability. What I don’t see is completed and signed participation forms matching up with each one of the applications. Was this not done yet, or were some participants denied?”
“It’s not done yet.” He sinks into the leather office chair on the other side of the table, which I correctly assumed was his. After scrubbing his face with his hands, he nods. “That’s a top priority. I can’t decide the parade order until I know who’s confirmed, I guess.”
“Have these been vetted in any way? Are they all approved to participate, or does somebody have to go through them still? Needless to say, I’m not familiar enough with your town to know if you have any bad apples.”
“Every town has bad apples, but we rarely bounce anybody from the parade. Back in the late sixties, some people tried to get a nudist colony going on some land at the other end of the lake, and they were denied a float for obvious reasons. And the Little League team got a one-year ban after pitching candy to the spectators got a little competitive.”
“The first clue would be that you toss candy. You don’tpitchit.”
“Yeah. Well, you know those fat, heavy Tootsie Pops?” When I nod, he smiles. “I had a wicked fastball, but the float was moving, so instead of hitting the guy who had a crush on my sister, his dad ended up with a bruise in the middle of his forehead.”
I laugh, pointing at him. “You’reone of the bad apples.”
His eyes sparkle as he holds my gaze, his boyish grin taking my breath away. He grinned at me like that in my dream last night, right before he moved on to even more pleasurable activities. “They didn’t complain when we brought home the trophy, though.”
I want to hear more about what he was like growing up, but this isn’t a date. It’s a business meeting. “Okay, since this is a priority and we’re both here, you take the stack of forms. Once you’ve made sure they’re people who will wear clothing and toss candy instead of pitching it, you can hand it off to me. I’ll maketwo piles—one for those who have signed the participation form and one for those who haven’t.”
We work for a while, drinking our coffees and listening to the soft strains of Christmas music coming from an unseen speaker. His phone rings several times, and I pause in my task to listen to him answering questions for whoever’s on the other end. It’s nice, I think, that the people of Charming Lake can get help from him without having to go through 9-1-1 or a non-emergency dispatcher. Then again, he probablynevertruly gets time off, because everybody in town probably has his cell phone number, too.
We’re almost done with our task when his low, husky laughter draws my attention. He’s looking at me, so I guess I’m the source of his amusement. “What?”
“Considering your lack of holiday spirit, you sure know every word to every Christmas song.”
I hadn’t realized I was singing along to the radio, and my cheeks grow hot. “My mom sings all the time, and shelovesChristmas. Like, she’s obsessed with it.”
“And your dad?”
“He doesn’t care about holidays, which isn’t why they divorced when I was a kid, but probably didn’t help. He does the tree and the gifts for Christmas, and he’ll go to a Fourth of July barbecue, but he celebrateson the day. He doesn’t let them distract him for the weeks leading up.”
“I have to ask. Which parent did you prefer spending Christmas with when you were a kid?”
“I don’t know. Mom was fun, but Dad had money, so there was so much food and don’t even get me started on the gifts.”
“Okay, wait. Is the reason you hate Christmas that you think your dad had money because he didn’t let holidays distract him?”
I laugh. “That’s ridiculous. One, I don’thateChristmas. I just think it’s a…”
When I let the words trail away, his mouth quirks up at the corners. “Distraction. I thinkdistractionis the word you were looking for.”
“Don’t be smug.”
“Not smug. Just looking forward to you learning that celebrating the holidays with your community isn’t a waste of time.”
“Is this the part where you tell me I’ll be visited by three ghosts in the night?”
His laughter echoes through the spartan space. “I’m going to ask Penny if you sit alone in front of the fireplace, eating gruel.”
