Page 25 of The Night Before Grumpmas
Look at me. If my day job doesn’t work out, I could totally audition for Broadway. I’ve got this whole acting thing down, making it believable, and, well . . . I sing pretty decently too. At least I think I do. But let’s not get sidetracked since I have to finish dealing with the grump next door.
I flash him a cheeky grin. “Give me your playlist, and I’ll make sure to have it on repeat. But let’s avoid ‘Santa Claus Is Coming to Town’ because, seriously, that whole ‘he sees you when you’re sleeping’ thing is a bit stalker-ish if you ask me.”
“You’re a very weird person, you know that, right?” he says, shaking his head like he’s trying to figure me out but not really succeeding.
“Unique, quirky . . . weird? I’m not sure how I feel about that word,” I say with a thoughtful pause. “But coming from someone who hates people and holiday music, I’m not surprised.”
I dig around in my purse and pull out a small notebook and pen, like I’m about to conduct a serious investigation—or better yet, help him work through some deep-seated holiday trauma. “Tell me—does your aversion to Christmas cheer stem from your childhood? Or maybe your teenage years? Did you suffer some kind of cinnamon or peppermint scented overdose while, I don’t know, visiting a relative?”
He lets out an exasperated sigh. “No, I don’t hate anyone. People can’t possibly be that happy just because there’s a holiday going on,” he mutters. “All that music, the lights . . . it’s too much.”
“Too much, you say?” I tap my chin thoughtfully with the pen and scribble too much on my notepad. “So, if I take down a couple of ribbons, will that make you happy?”
“What is it about the holidays that makes you so happy?” he asks, clearly trying to shift the dynamic. Reverse psychology? Maybe, and I won’t let him do this to me.
I smirk, not about to let him take control again. This is my opening—a perfect moment to introduce something I’ve been waiting to spring on him since he almost told me to shove my cinnamon spice-scented candle into the trashcan and shut my music. “It all depends on the holiday and the activity. Have you ever . . .” I trail off like I’m holding back something juicy.
He raises an eyebrow, suspicious. “Have I ever . . . what?”
I work very hard, so I don’t smirk, then shake my head dramatically. “No, I don’t think you’d be interested.”
“Interested in what?” His eyes narrow, curiosity piqued.
I grin, leaning in just a little. “Learning what makes me—or, you know, most people—happy during the holidays. But honestly, it’s probably out of your realm of understanding.” I shoot him a teasing look, knowing he won’t be able to resist. “Maybe that’s it . . . you’re angry at what you can’t understand.”
His nostrils flare. “I’m not angry.”
I do my best not to laugh. He’s practically fuming. “Sure you’re not,” I try not to sound condescending but fail. “Which is why you’re trying to dismantle my decorations.”
“It’s November first. Why in the world would you have Christmas already happening when, just yesterday, you had brooms and candles hanging from the ceiling?”
I huff dramatically. “So your problem is that, according to you, I’m off-season?” I roll my eyes. “Are you the decoration police now?”
“No, but it makes more sense than what you’re doing, don’t you think?” he shoots back, clearly not giving up.
“So, let me get this straight. If I put away my Christmas stuff and put up some fall décor, you’ll stop complaining?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
He narrows his gaze, clearly skeptical. “Maybe, but you can only put up a wreath and nothing else.”
“Let’s make a deal, Jacob McCallister.” I flash him a challenging smile. “I’ll tone down the decorations, but in exchange, you let me teach you why people are actually happy when they celebrate.”
“Celebrate what?”
“Anything,” I reply with a shrug.
He gives me a dubious look. “Anything?”
“Yep,” I say, folding my arms and standing my ground, challenging him with a grin.
He smirks, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “I think you just like being on a permanent serotonin high.”
“Could be,” I reply, leaning into it. “Or maybe I just choose to see things from a different perspective. Not that you’d understand. After all, you’re made of pure Scrooge, with a scoop of Grinchy on the side—no sugar, no spice.”
“No, I’m not,” he starts to argue, the smirk slipping just a little. “I just?—”
“We could argue about this all day,” I cut him off with a playful shrug, “or we can agree that I’m your only hope.”
He frowns, clearly confused. “Hope for what?”
