Page 35 of Never Sleigh Never
I bite my lips together. “It’s a long story.”
From behind the counter, Mom calls, “Does this have anything to do with Logan Crawford?”
I whirl around. “Why do you say that?”
“I just heard you had a run-in with him at Reindeer Ridge. Something about you two being awfully close. A lot of sexual tension.”
My nose scrunches. “Mom, don’t say sexual tension.”
“Well, when you stare longingly into someone’s eyes?—”
“There were no long stares.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
“He just caught me off guard. I tripped and took some trees with me. Because they were damaged, I told Henry I’d buy them.”
“That was nice of you,” Mom adds.
My dad plucks a stand from the shelf and hands it over. “Here you go, dear.”
“Thanks.” We wander to the counter.
“So how is the festival planning coming?” he asks.
My shoulders tense. Do I give him the truth or how I wish it was going? I plaster on my best Christmas cheer smile. “It’s going great!” Minus the giant roadblock named Logan Crawford. “I got an assistant today, so hopefully we can double the fun activities we have planned. I think this will be the best festival yet.”
Mom shoves the magazine to the side. “We have all the faith you will do an amazing job and get the promotion. You haven’t been this motivated since your class-president campaign.”
“Yeah, and all I got was treasurer.” While the golden boy himself got the crown. All hail President Logan Crawford.
“If you don’t, you know there’s always a job waiting for you at the hardware store,” Mom adds. Dad clears his throat and shakes his head.
I laugh. “Well, I really hope that won’t be necessary. We all know how the first time went, but thanks for the offer.”
My dad’s been Mount Holly’s resident handyman since before I was born. He can fix anything, from broken fences to cursed snowblowers. I, on the other hand, can barely operate a tape measure. After losing my last job, I came home to work at my parents’ hardware store with a one-year plan but it somehow turned into four. Honestly, I think they kept me on payroll out of pity. Luckily, when the Mount Holly assistant coordinator job opened up, they finally got to fire me with slightly less guilt.
“Bring a flyer when you have them,” Dad says. “We’ll put it on the corkboard.”
“Will do.” I slide my card into the reader, turn toward the exit, and freeze. The corkboard boasts exactly one flyer. Logan’s carnival. Center stage. Of course. Dammit. Number one item on the to-do list tomorrow. Flyers. So I can staple them over Logan’s.
I pull out my phone and dial Lauren’s number. “I have my first task for you.”
“Yes, I’m eager to get started.”
“How are your design skills?”
“I love design. Fonts, color palettes, the whole thing—sometimes I do mock posters for fun?—”
“Perfect. We need the best flyers Mount Holly has ever seen. Bright, bold, candy-cane gorgeous. I want Logan’s posters to look like reindeer poo in comparison.”
“On it!”
“Text me drafts tonight,” I say sweetly, end the call, and glance back at the board. My parents are across the store debating a giant inflatable snowman. I casually pluck Logan’s poster from the corkboard. It rips satisfyingly down the middle, the tack staying put like a tiny, triumphant flag. I crumple the paper, drop it in the trash, and smile.
Game on, Logan fucking Crawford. Game on.
Thirteen
