Page 6 of The Grumpiest Elf

The kids yell, “Yeah!” and scattered applause fills the space.

L-name elf—Lydia? Maybe it’s Lydia. I really need to find out—ushers some people forward to gather around Dad, gesturing others to fill in behind them so the kids can hear and see the story. I step out of the way, gesturing a few more people in, taking up my spot behind the computer and waking it up so I can see the name of the first appointment, wishing, not for the first time, that I either actually enjoyed this or could get out of it altogether.

CHAPTERFOUR

Lydia

My face lights upwith a smile as Santa and Mrs. Claus appear on the dais holding Santa’s oversized throne. I can’t help it. This is my favorite part of the day.

The kids clap and squeal, thrilled that Santa has finally arrived.

I know that they’re just normal people who live here in Arcadian Falls, making their living like everyone else, who’ve somehow decided to make their livelihood making kids happy.

Honestly, if I could choose something that makes people half as happy as they make these families, I’d consider that a good career.

The problem, of course, is deciding what that should be.

I stand, as rapt as the children, as Santa reads them a Christmas-themed picture book. I don’t care what anyone says, there’s something magical about all this, and I’m thrilled I get to be a part of it.

After the story’s finished, I survey the gathered families, trying to pinpoint who’ll need extra work to coax a smile out of. A few of the youngest toddlers look apprehensive, staring solemnly at Santa from the safety of their parents’ arms, a finger in their mouth—or nose—dressed in varying degrees of Christmas finery—from poofy dresses and suits to Christmas onesies and T-shirts. There’s even a little boy in his own Santa suit, his blond curls peeking out from under his Santa hat. He’s adorable, and everyone’s commenting on how cute he looks.

Dylan’s at the computer, checking people in to get their pictures taken with Santa, having the people who don’t have appointments forming a line on one side, while the people with appointments line up to the other. Someone starts crying, and I glance back to see one of the kids in the non-appointment line pointing to where Santa sits on his throne, a dark haired boy in a red and green argyle sweater vest and bow tie striding up.

I take up my spot behind the camera as Santa helps the boy into his lap, and I confer briefly with the parents about which props they want to use—the storybook or the Rudolph plush—and whether they want a silly face picture.

The mother’s face pinches. “We only get to choose one for prints, though, right?”

Nodding, I offer her a reassuring smile. “Yes, but all of them will be available online for you to download, and you can always order additional prints later.”

She decides on the storybook and the silly face photos, and the little boy smiles happily as I snap the pictures after he’s told Santa that he wants a new LEGO set and Hulk action figures.

There’s a steady flow all morning, and I’m grateful when Dylan puts up the sign that says Santa’s on a break. Santa and Mrs. Claus disappear the way they came in with another, “Ho, ho, ho!”

I straighten up the books and stuffies while Dylan replenishes the candy canes, and then we head for the locker room together.

“How’re you holding up?” he asks, his voice more gruff than amiable, but I decide to take the question at face value. Dude’s grumpy, but he showed up that way, so it has nothing to do with me. And even if it does somehow have something to do with me, that’s still one hundred percent a him problem. I’ve done nothing but exist and do my job, and if he has a problem with that, it’s on him.

“Good,” I respond, offering him my sunniest smile. “Mornings are my favorite.”

He grunts. “You sure singing’s not your favorite?”

The question catches me by surprise, and I laugh. “No. And I promise that I won’t start singing Christmas carols at the top of my lungs to try to infect you with some Christmas cheer, either.”

He nods, his hands in his pockets. “Thanks. ‘Preciate it.”

“But you have to try not to be such a sourpuss all the time too.”

His eyebrows jump in surprise when he looks at me. “Sourpuss? I don’t think I’ve ever been called that before.”

I arch one brow, disbelief written all over my face. “Maybe not to your face. But if this attitude”—I circle a finger around his face—“exists on a regular basis? I’m sure plenty of people have thought so.”

Shaking his head, he mutters something under his breath that I don’t catch.

“What was that?” I ask archly, but he just shakes his head.

“Can we tone down the cheerful elf routine at least during lunch? If you can do that, I’ll do my best not to be such a”—his mouth twists in a combination of distaste and amusement—“sourpuss.”

I cackle at the way he repeats that word, like it’s made of undiluted lemon juice and cayenne pepper, but nod. “Deal.”

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