Page 47 of How My Neighbour Stole Christmas
The drinkware are all hobnail glasses.
The shakers are all gold.
The staff is in white button-down shirts with red-and-green plaid ties.
And classic Christmas music is constantly played through speakers placed throughout the space, not too loud but just loud enough to drown out the conversations around you so you feel like you’re alone with your company.
“Uh, I asked you a question,” Max says, nudging me with his shoulder.
“Huh?”
“Your cologne? Is it new? Kind of sweet, and I like it. I think it will pair well with our drink.” He leans in closer and smells my neck.
I swat at his face. “Can you not fucking do that? Jesus fuck, man. You gave me chills.”
He smiles. “Didn’t know I had that kind of effect on you.”
I eye him. “It was your hot breath on my neck that gave me chills, not your…whatever you want to call yourself in those reindeer antlers.”
“You know exactly what I’m called.” He leans in close again. “Your holly jolly sidekick. And I thought the reindeer antlers added some whimsy to our team. You might be wearing the sash, but I’m bringing the sass.”
“I hate you,” I mutter. “I really hate you.”
“Thank you, Ursula,” Frank says as she steps away from the judging table.
Thachary flashes a smile at the crowd. “Storee Taylor, please bring your drink to the table and tell us what you’ve made.”
Storee—in the most ridiculous sweater I’ve ever seen—jingles herway up to the judging table with her drinks on a tray. She smiles sweetly, which nearly makes me gag on the spot, but I’m sure to hold true to my alter ego—Snow Daddy, name provided by Max.
I wasn’t on board with Snow Daddy, but after grumbling for a solid hour while trying to come up with a concoction that would blow the socks off Thachary and Frank, Max got sick of me and lectured me on the importance of staying positive and cheery, hence the new nickname.
“What do you have for us?” Frank asks.
Storee clasps her hand together in front of her. “I’m presenting you with my dear aunt Cindy’s favorite way to drink her eggnog.”Insert eye roll.Way to add Aunt Cindy in there, and I can tell it worked because Frank and Thachary glance over at Cindy, who—dear God!She’s slumped in her chair, one shaky hand raised in the air as she attempts a crooked smile.
Uh, that’s not the woman I just saw outside of her house.
That woman was lively.
She had some pink in her cheeks.
She…
“Holy shit,” I mutter.
“What?” Max says.
“She’s playing dead.”
“Who’s playing dead?”
“Cindy Louis,” I say from the side of my mouth. “Look, they washed her face out with powder—she practically looks like a corpse in the wheelchair.”
Max leans forward for a look and then leans back. “Yikes, that is some grim reaper-type shit over there.”
Storee’s voice rings through the bar. “The rims are coated in crushed gingerbread cookies, and the spices we used are allspice, nutmeg, cinnamon, and a dash of cardamom. I hope you enjoy.” Then she shimmies toward the judges, earning a laugh with her jingling breasts.
Damn it.
