Page 19 of The Grumpiest Elf

“I think I can handle grumpy,” I mutter, and even though I don’t really mean for him to hear me, he obviously does, because he jerks his head in my direction.

But then he relaxes. “Yeah,” he says with an easy smile. “I suppose you can.”

Who are you, and what have you done with Dylan?I want to ask, because if I believed in alien abductions, I might think he’s the victim of one.

Instead, I ignore him, fussing more with the basket of picture books by Santa’s throne, though it doesn’t need it at all. I switch a couple of books around so they’re in perfectly descending order by size, not that it matters, but it’s something to do with my hands.

Behind me I hear Dylan let out a sigh, and I sneak a glance over my shoulder to find him staring at me. When I accidentally make eye contact, he offers me another smile, which I return with a tentative one of my own.

After I finish with that, I turn and watch the other vendors filtering in, lights coming on, displays getting ready, low conversations starting to fill the air as people greet one another and make small talk as they get their booths ready. Normally we don’t have any problem waiting for the doors to open in silence. I wouldn’t call it companionable, but it’s never held this weird charge of uncertainty and anticipation before. I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all.

When the doors finally open, relief floods through me. If Dylan wants to be weird, that’s fine. I’ll have something else to focus on now.

CHAPTERELEVEN

Dylan

When the doorsopen and our first appointment makes a beeline for us, I let out another frustrated sigh.

My grand plan of getting Lydia to be more friendly to me by being friendly to her doesn’t seem to be working. If anything, my friendliness seems to have made her more wary, which is not the result I was going for at all.

I can’t help noticing the way she seems eager for our first customers to arrive, waving and welcoming them to Santa’s Workshop, complimenting the kids on their outfits—a toddler girl in a red dress and a preschooler boy in a dress shirt with a vest and bow tie that matches his sister’s—and asking the parents about their Christmas plans.

See? She’s chatty and welcoming to literally everyone except me.

I realize her treatment of me is my fault. Clearly I set the tone, and her comment about knowing how to deal with grumpy people was an obvious dig, but how do I reverse it?

I smiled. I tried to make conversation. I tried to joke around, and I know she enjoys that because she and Nora joke around alllll the time, and instead of acting how she normally does with everyone else, she’s evenmorestandoffish.

She spends the morning casting suspicious glances my way. At first I smile back, but that just makes her brows pinch more, and I don’t want that to affect her ability to get the littles to smile or have positive interactions with the parents, so I start ignoring her instead.

It feels wrong to do that now that I’ve decided not to be that way toward her anymore, but I don’t know what else to do.

When Dad takes his first break of the morning, I reassure the parents waiting in line that we’ll be back shortly—a task I usually leave to Lydia with her cheery charm—then squeeze her arm and tip my head behind Santa’s Workshop to indicate we should head back there for our break.

“How’re you holding up?” I ask once we’re out of sight.

Her delicate pink lips purse and her brow pinches. “Fine?”

Grinning, I ask, “You sure about that?”

She looks away, her arms crossing more like she’s trying to hug herself than out of irritation. “I’m fine,” she says. “It’s just a normal day. Busy, like you said, but not unusually so.”

“It’ll probably get worse once school lets out.”

She nods. “Yeah. I’ve picked up on that.” Her eyes meet mine, cold and hard. “I know I haven’t done this as long as you have, but I’ve been doing it long enough to notice that’s a pattern.”

“Of course. I’m not—”

She puts a hand out, shaking it back and forth to get me to stop and cutting me off. “It’s fine Dylan. I’m just gonna go get a drink. I forgot my water bottle in my bag.”

With that, she slips out the back and presumably heads for the locker room. “Dammit,” I curse softly. She left her water bottle behind due to my appearance. She hurried out because I’d started changing.

Honestly, I’d thought she wouldn’t care that much. Or maybe she’d joke around with me. Something.

Instead, I’d sent her scurrying away like a frightened mouse, and apparently made her forget her water, which is important to have on hand when you’re on your feet all day and cajoling kids into smiling for their photos with Santa. Talking almost nonstop dries you out. I keep my bottle under the counter where the computer sits so I can grab a drink whenever I need to, and Lydia usually keeps hers by the camera. If I’d noticed she didn’t have it before we opened, I would’ve sent her back to get it from the locker room. There’d been plenty of time.

Apparently me trying to be nice made her forget about it completely.

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