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“Yes, how can I help you?”
“I’m Curt Painter, the fire chief.” He walked over to my desk. “You’re on my team this year for the Winter Showdown.”
I stopped typing and looked up at him. “The what?”
He lowered his brows, looking aggravated. “The Winter Showdown. The gold level supporters of the Sven’s Beard Business Bureau all send a representative to compete. We’re throwing axes and snowballs, running an obstacle course, and jumping in the lake.”
I laughed a single note. “Jumping in the lake? When?”
“Saturday.”
Yeah, that was a big no. I shook my head. “I can’t make it, sorry.”
Bess sighed her disapproval.
“You have to make it, or we’re disqualified,” Curt said. “Both teams have to be full.”
There was a zero percent chance I was going to jump into a lake in subzero weather. I looked over at Devon but spoke to Chief Painter.
“Can’t someone else from the Chronicle do it? I’m sure Devon would be better than me.”
“I’m not a full-time employee,” Devon said, not looking away from his screen.
“Has to be a full-time employee,” Bess said, giving me a scolding look.
How was I supposed to know that?
“Sam would be great, and he’s full time,” I suggested.
“Sam has a heart condition,” Bess said.
“One of the pressmen?”
Bess shook her head. “Pete always did the showdowns.”
“You don’t want me on your team,” I told the chief. “Try one of the pressmen.”
“The rosters are already finalized and you’re on my team,” he said firmly.
I scoffed. “No one even asked me.”
“You don’t want to do it?” the chief asked, disbelief in his tone.
Bess jumped in. “Of course she wants to do it. The Chronicle has always been a top supporter of the business bureau. The businesses in the community are the lifeblood of this newspaper. Avon’s just stressed because she’s on deadline. She’ll be there.”
I met Bess’s gaze, her eyes doubling in size as she silently warned me not to say another word about not wanting to do the showdown. And deep down, I knew she was right. We couldn’t afford to offend anyone from the business bureau.
“I’ll be there,” I echoed, dreading my jump in the lake already.
The chief nodded. “Wear comfortable clothes and good boots, and bring a change of clothes for the lunch after.”
“Where is this event being held?”
“At The Sleepy Moose,” he said. “You guys have a table for eight for the lunch.”
Lunch after jumping in the lake? That sounded great. Just great.
“We’ll see you Saturday, Chief,” Bess said. “And good luck in the showdown.”
He grinned at her. “I won’t need luck. Grady got Georgette.”
Grady. Of course. It seemed like wherever I went in this town, there he was.
Two hours later, Bess, Sam and I all stared at Devon’s computer monitor, getting our final look at the front page of the paper before it went to press.
“That’s a nice layout,” Sam said.
“Thanks,” Devon said. “I thought I’d try something different.”
We’d all pored over large hard copies of the front page already, all of us checking for spelling errors or other oversights. But this step—staring at it on Devon’s monitor—was always part of the process.
The silence was broken by a loud gurgling noise from my stomach. Bess gave me a disapproving look, like I’d offended her with my hunger.
“I skipped breakfast,” I said absently.
“You want a granola bar?” Sam offered.
“No, thanks. Once we finish this, I’m going to Tipper’s to eat lunch and read.”
“So we’re good?” Devon asked.
I looked at Bess, and she nodded.
“I think so,” I said.
“You betcha,” Sam said. “Nice work, everyone.”
The group disbanded and I grabbed my laptop and put my coat on, hoping to get to Tipper’s before the lunch rush. Some days I went up to the apartment and made lunch, but Tipper’s food was better. I also liked to run into business owners there so I could casually mention advertising to them.
More than a foot of snow covered the ground, but it wasn’t actively snowing now. Sun glinted off the piles of fallen flakes, giving the downtown a picturesque look.
I smiled as I passed Sweets of Gold, the locally owned candy shop and bakery that had a gold brick walkway leading up to its front door. It was my favorite place to stop in to drop off the latest edition of the Chronicle, which I’d be doing this afternoon. The owner, Olivia Carmichael, was always behind the counter cutting and wrapping her fresh chocolates in gold foil wrappers. Even her cupcakes had gold dust sprinkles on top. Her signature candy was a chocolate-covered beard filled with caramel.
Not even the smell of her caramel could distract me today, though. I needed an actual meal. I’d worked late last night and made do with a few pieces of leftover turkey in my fridge for dinner, and I was starving.
When I opened the door to Tipper’s, I deflated when I saw people at every table and booth.
