Page 5 of Mr. Frosty Pants
His heart beat faster, and he shoved his hands into his pockets. A strange urge crept up his spine, not unlike the one he sometimes got on swarming subway platforms or in the middle of crowded New York streets. What would happen if he started screaming? What would happen if he made a huge, loud, painful scene? What would his mother do? What would shesay? What would happen if he stopped being Casey Stevens and started beingfree?
“Speaking of home-and-garden stores,” his mother said, interrupting his shadowy turn of thought with a smile, “will you do me a favor today? Can you run by Costco and pick up a Christmas tree? I haven’t had time, and your dad wants a real one this year.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Something about it just not feeling like Christmas without the real-tree smell.”
Casey smirked. “He didn’t say it was classier to have a real tree?”
His mother shot him a sharp glance to see if he was being a jerk. He softened his smirk into a genuine-looking smile. She laughed warmly. “You joke, but, well, there’s a reason it’s funny.”
“I’ll pick one up, sure.”
“Costco makes it easy. Just swing by there. I want it to be at least eight feet tall, if possible. Oh, and grab a few wreaths. Two medium-sized and one large. But nothing gaudy. Make sure it’s something that will look nice on the front door.” She winked and chuckled. “Keep it classy.”
Twenty minutes later, Casey passed Costco without even slowing down. Enough with feeling sorry for himself. It was time to act. He held the steering wheel tightly, and his gut churned. He had another destination in mind—a place he should have gone as soon as he crossed the Knoxville city line. Where, if he were lucky, he’d get a glimpse of the brown eyes he couldn’t forget.
And sure, he’d get his parents a tree and some wreaths while he was at it. Classy ones.
Chapter Three
Joel hauled thefive-foot Fraser fir from the half-full tree lot and out to the blue 1982Volvo waiting in front of his store. The temperature dropped fast as the sun skimmed the horizon, and he wished he had gloves on his numb fingers while he tied the tree to the rack on top. The late afternoon light, orange and bright, glared into his eyes as he worked the final knots.
“That’ll hold ’er.” He turned to his former neighbor, the sweet and old-for-as-long-as-he-could-remember Mrs. Hendrix. “You sure you don’t need me to follow you home to get her down and into the house?” He brushed the pine needles from his fleece-lined jean jacket before sticking his hands into the pockets of dirty blue jeans, smiling at her. “I’m happy to do it.”
“You’re a good boy, Joel.” She patted his arm with her arthritis-gnarled fingers. “But my grandson Troy—you remember him?”
Joel raised a brow. Remember Troy? How could he forget? Troy Hendrix had been bucktoothed, acne-pocked, and a nicotine fiend. He’d given Joel his first smoke during one of his summerlong visits to his grandma’s back when Troy was nineteen and Joel sixteen. Joel could never forget heaving and gagging after he’d smoked that cigarette or how he’d thrown up afterward, dizzy and overcome. For some reason, he’d taken the whole pack Troy had offered him even after that. “How could I forget Troy?”
“He’s going to meet me at the house to help me get it inside and decorate it.”
Joel shrugged. The Troy he’d known wasn’t always reliable, but maybe he’d changed. They were both grown men now. Supposedly. “If you’re sure?”
“Absolutely.” Her crinkled rose-petal cheeks glowed in the chilling air, and she winked at him. “You close up shop here and get on home now. Surely you have a young lady waiting with a good dinner for you?”
“Ladies and me? We don’t seem to hit it off, Mrs. H,” Joel said, grinning slyly. “I’m too much of a player, I guess.”
She pshawed and slapped his arm. “Silly boy!”
“Actually, I’ve got a crockpot, and it’s been simmering some nice bison chili since early this morning. From what I hear, that’s almost as good as having a wife. Maybe better.”
“Oh, law, Joel! You make me laugh, honey.” She rubbed his arm affectionately. “Too bad about the ladies. Though, I’m sure you’ll find the right one someday. I’m glad to hear you can fend for yourself in the meantime.” Her eyes crinkled with her smile. “I bet you’ll enjoy that chili.”
“I hope so. I sank my grocery money for the week into it.”
Mrs. Hendrix laughed like he was joking, and he let her think he was. She didn’t need to know how tight things were for him now that Pop was in the nursing home. A crockpot meal to get through the week was hardly the worst of it.
Between the weekly expenses associated with his father’s care and the way the big companies like Lowe’s and Costco had cut into Vreeland’s Home and Garden’s bottom line, Joel was just barely keeping the place alive. He’d reduced staffing down to just him, his assistant manager Brandon, and three employees. He’d even cut back on his smoking habit. He allowed himself a mere half-pack a week and limited himself to a six-pack of beer a month.
“If you need any more string lights for your bushes out front, I’m running a sale on the white ones. Half off.”
“Oh, white Christmas lights!” Mrs. Hendrix snorted, waving the idea away. “Who wants those? So boring! Put a sale on the colored ones and you’ve got a deal.”
He chuckled as she walked around to the driver’s side of her car and climbed in. He rubbed his hands against the cold wind and watched her pull onto Kingston Pike with the Christmas tree he’d just sold her shivering and shedding on top.
Turning back toward the brightly lit store, he whistled low under his breath. A shiny, white Lexus SUV pulled into the parking lot with the wide, telltale swing of an entitled S.O.B. with money to burn. It was late and he was hungry, but he couldn’t close up quite yet, no matter what Mrs. H seemed to think. Not when there might be customers to sell trees to, like this rich asshole. Hopefully, he’d buy more than a tree and make staying open worth Joel’s while.
Joel plastered on a “welcome to Vreeland’s” smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes as he rearranged a table of poinsettias positioned near the Christmas tree lot. He glanced at what he had in stock and made a mental note to get Angel—his annoying, goth-brat employee from hell—to contact the nursery for another dozen fresh trees tomorrow.
The SUV door slammed shut, and Joel’s back stiffened. Pivoting to greet the new customer, his breath caught in his throat and his heart skipped a beat. The young man standing in front of him was about six feet tall, slim, and as all-American as they came, with light-brown hair that was almost blond, a straight nose, creamy skin, and a pouty-looking mouth that Joel had always wanted to—
Oh, crap.
