Page 24 of Merry Christmas, You Filthy Animal
And it’s cute, like being in an actual gingerbread house. Brown walls, brown flooring, brown furniture, all outlined with thick loopy white paint. Seriously, it’s one of the cutest shops I’ve ever seen.
And from the smell of it, the gingerbread is not imported but baked fresh daily.
There’s a sign outside stating this, but then again, I’ve seen my fair share of liars in business. Not the Evergreen Farm owners. They seem to be running a very upstanding establishment.
I walk over to the shop portion of the gingerbread house and examine the gingerbread house kits, the extra fixings and candy for decoration, as well as frosting. It would be cute if they did amake-your-own kit. Like a candy shop with bags and scoops for candy, but instead of buying candy for yourself, you’re buying it to decorate your house. A pay-by-the-pound situation. People can pick out their structure, icing, and then candy.
Loving the idea, I write it down in my notes app, just as I feel someone step up right behind me.
“Can I help you?” a deep voice says, startling me.
I turn around, my eyes slowly scanning upward until a very tall and handsome man comes into view. Dark hair that curls at the ends, dark eyes, square jaw peppered in scruff, and a bandage above his eye...
Wait . . .
I know him. “Harpoon stealer?”
He leans back in surprise. “Vigilante?” His eyes scan me for recognition. When his gaze meets mine, I see the moment he connects the dots. “You’re... you’re the girl with the eyes?”
“What?” I ask as I back up, my attention focusing on the cut above his eye. Was that cut there before?
And why does he look familiar in a way that doesn’t register happy, joking memories on the sidewalk?
Why does he . . .?
His height, his width, the deepness of his voice.
Oh.
My.
God.
“You . . . you’re him . . . You’re . . . you’re following me.”
“What?” the man asks.
I clutch at my jacket and back up. “Stay... stay away.” I reach for the closest thing to me and pick up a tube of icing. “I’m warning you, I’m not afraid to hit you in the head again.”
“Hit me in the head again...” He pauses, and then his eyes narrow. “Are you the lady who pummeled me in the head with a Pepsi bottle last night?”
“Yeah, and I have no problem blacking out your other eye.” I take another step back. “So s-stay away before I get a restraining order.”
“Listen.” He takes a step forward. “I’m not here to cause?—”
“Back up.” I wiggle the tube at him. “I’m not kidding. Not another step closer.”
Hands up, he looks around the shop and then leans in closer, too close for me.
Before he can whisper whatever is on the tip of his tongue, I scream, “Restraining order,” then chuck the icing tube at his head, nailing him right between the eyes before I bolt past him and out the door as I hear him groan behind me.
Outside, I make my way down the stairs, only for him to bust out the door as well, looking around while holding his head. When he spots me, he charges in my direction.
“Stay away,” I call out and start to jog just as I look over my shoulder and spot him stumbling down the three stairs on his back.
A loud groan fills the cheery farm, and he grips his back as he looks in my direction. Determination sets in his features as he stands and starts limping forward.
Yelping, I hurry toward the parking lot, making sure to be careful, because even though they do a good job of clearing all the snow and ice, there are still some spots that are slightly slippery.
