Page 57 of Never Sleigh Never
“If you can’t manage it, I’ll certainly do it myself. But it won’t bode well for your initiative to become the Mount Holly event coordinator.”
Shit. Shit. Shit. I square my shoulders. “No. I got it. New Santa. Check.”
“Mr. Wilkins’s son plays an excellent Santa in the Chester Creek parade,” she adds. “Poach him.”
I choke. “You want me to steal Chester Creek’s Santa?” How do I find myself in these situations?
“Make him an offer he can’t refuse.”
I’m assuming “make him an offer” doesn’t mean sexual favors. Sure, I joked about exchanging sexual favors for services earlier, but she must be kidding. Right? But it’s Mrs. Kingsley; she’s a do-whatever-it-takes kind of person. From the gleam in her eye, I’m not entirely convinced.
“I assume you will make this happen. I’d hate for this to be your last opportunity to make something great of the Holly Jolly Festival.”
“Yes. Absolutely. I got this.” Or it will be an epic fail, and I’ll be searching for a new job by New Year’s.
Stalking Santas in a twenty mile radius wasn’t on my holiday to-do list, but if I want this promotion, I need to stalk like my life depends on it—because it does. My first phone call was to Nathan Wilkins. He informed me he’s not playing Santa this year, as he’s going on vacation. Even if sexual favors were on the table, they’d be useless. I dial a number and cross it off my list when they decline. Unfortunately, bribes of free tickets to the Holly Jolly Festival don’t make a good exchange when the festival is already free. I even offered free coffee and cookies for the duration of the festival, but they all pass up the amazing opportunity to play Santa in the best Christmas festival in the state, if not the entire nation.
By my twentieth phone call, my voice is raspy from leaving so many messages. I sip tea to soothe it as I scan over my dwindling list of potential Santas. Suddenly the room goes dark. Setting my pen down, I rise to my feet and glance out the kitchen window. The streetlight in the alley is out as well. Checking all the windows, the entire street is dark. By the time I stumble back into the kitchen to grab my phone to make sure I have cell service, the lights flicker to life. At least it didn’t last for days like two years ago. I’m the proud owner of a generator that I’ve only used once because of it. But my dad insisted I get it.
One hour and ten more calls later, I’m no closer to finding a Santa. Then my phone rings. All my muscles tense. This could be the future Holly Jolly Festival Santa. Without glancing at the screen, my fingers fumble to answer. “Hi, Brie speaking.”
“Brie, we need your help.”
“Simon?” Did I accidentally ask Simon to play Santa? My brows raise. He wouldn’t be a bad Santa. It’s workable.
“Yes. Bring every cooler you have. And ice to the diner.”
I pause. “Look, I know we’re good friends and all, and we have each other’s backs no matter what, but I don’t want to be interviewed by the police later.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Coolers. Ice in the middle of winter. Next, you’ll ask me to bring a chainsaw, which, by the way, I don’t have.”
“I don’t know what you’re referring to, but no. All of Willa’s freezers went out. The power outage must have caused a surge or something. We need to get all of her food into coolers.”
“Oh!” I jump to my feet. “Yeah. I’m on my way.”
The diner is pure chaos when I arrive. People rushing from one side of the kitchen to the next. “Hey Willa! I have coolers.”
Her usually perfect hair is frizzed as much as she is. “Thank you so much.” She exhales a deep breath.
“How long were they out?”
“An hour tops. When I came in to work on menu planning, I noticed the freezers weren’t running. We tried the breaker, but nothing. I can’t lose thousands of dollars of food.” Her voice trembles.
“Don’t worry. We’ve got you.” I spin around and crash into a wall of muscle. “Oh, sorry.” A wall that smells like fresh laundry and manliness. Logan. Of course, he would be here. Why wouldn’t he be here? If the day needs saving, he’s not far away.
I offer him the world’s tightest smile before darting away. We’re in limbo—somewhere between enemies and not-quite-friends—and this is neither the time nor place to analyze why he makes my heart stutter.
We form an assembly line, hustling containers out of the dead freezers and into coolers. Then Mrs. Peterson’s voice booms over the clatter.
“I’m so glad you could come help, Logan. It’s nice to see strapping young men who are ready to lend a hand.”
“Happy to help.” Logan smiles, the dimple on his cheek making an appearance.
Fuck me.
“Why don’t you go near the front of the line to help there?” She grabs his hand and leads him toward me. “Here, this is a good spot.” She pats his arm before walking away.
