Page 4 of Jingle All the Plays

“Bo?” My eyes lock onto his…his…pained expression. But what are those awful gnats in my stomach? All fluttery. I hate—no, loathe—this man. Now. Not before. But definitely since our last encounter. Just seeing him here in the flesh makes my eyes itch with…damn it…tears.

“Thanks, Stephanie. I’ll take a seat,” he says to the wide-eyed staff, shocked that we know each other. Ya, Stephanie. You and me both. And fuck, why didn’t I ask for your name earlier?

With all the respect and camouflaging of feelings she can muster, Stephanie leaves the room.

“What are you doing here?” I ask at the same time he says it.

“What are you doing here?”

And it dawns on me. It was never going to be this easy. Nothing in life ever is, is it?

But fuck. It had to be him, didn’t it? “You’re…you’re here for the bat?”

He nods, solemnly as he sinks into the spot across from me. “I need it for—”

“Ah,” a loud noise and a clap interrupts our little heart to heart, “I see you’re both here on time.” Another clap. “Perfect.”

The older man takes a seat in the chair between the two of us. “I’m Percival. You’re both interested in the bat, yes?”

Wordlessly, we nod in agreement.

“And you both read the attachment I sent in your emails?”

“What attachment?”

“Wait. There was an attachment?” Bo asks.

A furrow forms in Percival’s brow. “I’m absolutely positive I sent it,” he mumbles just before calling out Stephanie’s name.

When she appears, he turns to face her. “Stephanie, my dear, did you send the attachment to the emails for Miss Maisy and Mr Bo?”

“Sorry, sir, but you never mentioned an attachment before.”

“Oh, no bother. My fault, completely. Thank you, Stephanie. That will be all. Oh wait, is the kitchen ready?”

“Whenever you are, sir.”

“Thank you.”

He turns back toward us. “Well, that was an oversight on my part, but it’s no big deal. Now,” —another clap— “you’re both here for the bat. And I have the perfect way to decide who should get it.”

I’m too stunned to speak or question what’s going on, so I just sit with my back ramrod straight because the man called me Miss Maisy and I want to live up to that title for some reason.

Meanwhile, Percival leans back in his chair to get comfortable. “Originally I bought the bat for my grandson. Sadly he’s gone now.”

“I’m sorry,” I interject.

“My condolences,” Bo adds.

“Yes. It was quite emotional. When he moved from Lit Creek to Calgary we were all reeling. I can say that I’m able to go into his old room again now, though. Thankfully.”

Out of habit, Bo and I steal a glance at each other with raised brows, only for me to look quickly away.

“Anyway,” he slaps his hands on his thighs, “when Pervical—yes, he’s my namesake—moved to Calgary, he no longer wanted the bat, so I decided to pass it along to someone else who might cherish it.” Percival reaches for a biscuit (I feel like I should call them biscuits instead of cookies for some reason) and takes a small bite, crumbs falling to the carpet.

“Percival loves Christmas. So we shall have a Christmas-themed contest to decide on the winner of the bat. I had two people compete last weekend, but I have a good feeling about one of you two being the winner. Shall we get started?”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s necess—”