Page 32 of A Love Like Christmas Time
“I want to—no, Ineedto—win against Nic.” Determination washes over her face. “But I have no idea what kind of booth to do.” The sigh that falls from her lips sounds as if it built up over days. “I did some snooping, and I think she and Henry are doing a dog-kissing booth.” She shakes her head softly, clearly in disbelief. “How am I even going to top that? She ordered Jensen Ackles a cute Santa costume. How am I even supposed to win against the most adorable husky in town? And then dressed as Santa Claus?”
“Sounds unlikely,” I agree, but that only makes her narrow her eyes for an intense glare that sends a shiver down my spine.
“It is. Which is why I need your help.”
“Listen,” I put my hands on the counter and lean closer, “unless you can either find a dog that’s cuter than Jensen Ackles, or … I don’t know, a Yeti or Rudolph, dress them up in a Santa costume and make them perform tricks on a unicycle, I don’t think you’re going to have much success.” Her pout intensifies, but I shrug.
“This whole thing is overrated as fuck, anyway. Why would you put hours of work in, and spend a bunch of your own money for what? Getting donations and deciding a theme for next year?” I roll my eyes. “I can also go ahead, donate directly myself and skip the whole carnival.”
“You could. But that won’t give you all the Christmas feels and the thrill that comes with being part of something bigger. Something meaningful. In this case, the lovely community of Wayward Hollow,” she enumerates excitedly. “And it gives me a chance to procrastinate.”
I muster her, watching her slowly sink into herself under my scrutinizing stare.
“Procrastinate what?”
“I mentioned my yet non-existent bookshelves, didn’t I?” she asks sheepishly, and pinch the bridge of my nose.
“Seriously? You still haven’t built them?”
“I have tried,” she points out, desperation in her voice. “I tried it with the manual, I tried it with a dang YouTube tutorial, and I tried to freestyle it. Spoiler alert: all three didn’t work. So, instead of wallowing in frustration, I’m trying to think about how best to become a positive beacon in this town’s community and collect a shitload of money for charity so I’m not confronted with my failures.” She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. Then another one. Then she continues, now calmer, “I thought about crocheting, but honestly, those needles scare me. With my luck, I’m going to take one of my eyes out with them. The same goes for knitting. Not that I can do those things, but they seemed attainable to learn and yes, I’m aware that is my toxic trait of ‘oh that seems easy!’ talking and in reality, it’s going to be a hundred times harder than it looks.”
She jumps up and paces in front of the counter.
“And then I tried to channel my 22-year-old self, who was on a press tour in Germany in December and wandered the cutest Christmas markets. But I’m not patient enough to pick up jewelry design or woodworking, nor am I talented enough to master it within two weeks.” She throws her hands up dejectedly.
“Getting myself a giant cheese wheel to offer fondue isn’t in the cards either—trust me, I checked. They would all take too long to deliver, and I’d have to get a grill or whatever they’re heating those things on. And what else is there?” She stops. “I’m tempted to get myself a Santa Claus costume with a scrumptious long white beard and take donations from parents to hand coal to their naughty kids.”
“I can tell you that Dimitri has woodworking covered and Rebecca usually does a booth with knitted hats and scarves,” I interrupt her, and she lays her head back, exhaling a deep sigh.
“Of course they do. Maybe I should dress up as Rudolph and learn how to river dance. Oh—” her eyes snap to me. “What about Christmas cocktails?”
“Where are you going to get an alcohol license from on such short notice?” I lift my eyebrow curiously, and her face scrunches up adorably as she realizes that’s not an attainable option.
“Damn it, that means I have to cross Feuerzangenbowle off my list too.”
“Excuse me, what?”
“It’s this thing they do in Germany. You get a mug, and there’s some sort of wine in it, and on it they put a metal grate that holds a sugar cube soaked in alcohol, and then they light it on fire.” A sparkle appears in her eyes.
“I’m pretty sure the safety issues would give Harry a heart attack.”
“Please. If the Germans do it, it’s safe. They’re super strict on safety. We filmed there for two days once and actually only had ten-hour days max. It was eye-opening. The alcohol license is the bigger problem.” She pouts, then closes her eyes. “Hold on—” Her eyes move behind the lids as she mentally walks through the Christmas market she visited, gently massaging her temples as she does. And while I can’t help but watch her, with that adorable wrinkle between her eyebrowsas she focuses…
“There was a stand that had giant gingerbread,” she suddenly says. When her eyes flutter open, I quickly avert my gaze. “Now, admittedly, the market I’m thinking of was kind of raunchy. They were shaped and decorated like ejaculating dicks—which, honestly, could be fun and they fit the 'naughty' of the ‘Naughty or nice’ theme.” Her eyes jump to me, and when she sees my expression, her grin widens. “Okay, I’m taking that as a no, but I also saw gingerbread hearts that had some nice sayings I didn’t understand on them. Oh, we could also do stars! Because it’s Christmas after all.”
“Don’t say ‘us.’ I haven’t agreed to anything. And don’t look at me like that,” I quickly say and shake my head, but her grin only widens.
“I’m not looking at you like anything.”
“You are totally trying to rope me into this.” I turn around and turn on my espresso machine. God knows I need some caffeine to keep up with her.
“Yes, Caleb, that’s what I’ve been doing ever since I accidentally almost gave you a heart attack. Nice of you to finally notice.”
“Well, I’m telling you, I’m out. I bake pastries, not cookies. I don’t do that delicate decoration stuff.” She opens her mouth to reply, but the sound of the espresso running through the machine interrupts her. Her fingers drum against the counter as she waits for it to be done.
“You can do the baking; I will do the decorating. It’s called teamwork, Caleb.”
“It’s still not going to win against an adorable husky with a Santa costume.”
