Page 12 of Falling for the Grinchy Bad Boy

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COOPER

The kids were looking at us like we were heroes coming to save the day.

Seeing their faces light up like that never got old. For all the petty crap calls we ran—locked cars, smoke from burned toast, cats in vents—this was the payoff. Wide-eyed kids who thought we were heroes. It was good for the heart.

Unfortunately, everything else about this scene was bad for my blood pressure. Adults were standing around in Santa hats and festive sweaters like they had all just come off the set of some Hallmark special. Kids were rolling snow into lumpy snowmen and sticking pencils in for noses. Twinkle lights had been strung in the trees outside the school.

The holiday spirit was everywhere. Infectious. Relentless.

And I refused to catch it.

Not this year. Not after last Christmas.

“Man, look at this,” Matt said. He tugged his helmet off and shook his hair. “Love the hats, love the lights, love the vibe. First of December, baby. Doesn’t get better.”

“Speak for yourself,” I muttered.

The principal, a balding man in a sweater vest patterned with little wreaths, hurried up, breath puffing in the cold. “Oh, thank goodness you’re here. We’ve got the children outside, all accounted for. The problem is in the cafeteria.”

“Show me,” I said.

Matt gave a wink to a cluster of kids still waving like maniacs, then followed me and the principal through the double doors. Tony hung back while we went to investigate.

Inside, I picked up on the familiar smell of burning wires. Shit. But I didn’t see smoke. And the burning smell was lingering more than it was active. He led us into the cafeteria. The smoke had cleared, but the scene looked like Santa’s craft room had exploded.

Tables were littered with half-finished posters: lopsided Christmas trees in marker, reindeer drawn with weird square bodies, glitter glued in erratic constellations. Construction paper scraps littered the floor. A tipped-over tub of crayons had rolled to the far corner.

“Over here,” the principal said. “I think it was cocoa on a burner but obviously we can’t take any chances.”

Matt and I exchanged a look before we turned to survey the scene that was literally an accident waiting to happen. The spill on one plate had crusted into a charred, sticky mess. The smell of burnt sugar hit me. “This could’ve gone bad.”

Matt shook his head. “Looks like somebody dumped powder straight onto the coil. Boom. Instant smoke bomb.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “It’s not like we don’t put enough effort into fire prevention. Posters, drills, safety talks. Then this.”

“Hey,” Matt said, still chipper. “Nobody’s hurt. Just some toasty cocoa.”

I shot him a look. “That’s not the point.”

I pointed at the extension cord haphazardly taped to the floor. It was plugged into the same outlet as one of those karaoke machine things.

I picked up the frayed cord from one of the hotplates and looked at the principal. He looked properly embarrassed. That was when I noticed the brown sludge.

I examined the water that had pooled around the base of the hotplates. It had mixed with cocoa powder to create what looked like chocolate milk gone wrong. Someone had managed to spill water everywhere—on the cord, on the burner, probably on themselves. The whole setup was a disaster waiting to happen, and somehow it had only resulted in some smoke and burnt cocoa instead of actual electrocution or a serious electrical fire.

I let out a laugh. I couldn’t help it. The sheer incompetence of it all was almost impressive. “Whoever did this managed to hit every single thing that could go wrong with a hotplate setup. It’s like they were trying to create a hazard.”

Matt sighed and shook his head. “Come on, man. Don’t be a dick. Accidents happen. That’s pretty much our whole job.”

“This wasn’t an accident,” I said, gesturing at the mess. “This was a series of poor decisions that somehow didn’t end in tragedy. Look at this—water everywhere, extension cords taped to the floor, equipment that belongs in a museum, and someone who apparently thought cocoa powder belonged directly on a heating element.”

The principal cleared his throat nervously. “It was just a volunteer helping with our Yuletide Festival preparation.”

I shook my head and walked around to look for more hazards. I put my hand against the wall above the outlet. It wasn’t warm. It didn’t appear the hazard on the table had actually sparked an electrical fire. The school was old. It was built in the eighties. I doubted there had been any updates.

“This is a fire hazard,” I said again. I tried to stay calm. Not everyone knew what we did. Not everyone saw what we did. But there were kids here.