Page 17 of Never Sleigh Never
“You know the entire town is going to know about their breakfast and a show in about five seconds.” She nods to a group of Gigis ten feet away already vibrating with the thrill of public underthings.
My shoulders slump. “Yep, they sure will. Also—his poster?” I raise my brows.
She rests her hands on the counter. “Oh no, you don’t get to be mad at me. This is business. I’m a business owner supporting another business. You’re more than welcome to put yours next to his.”
“You know what? I will do exactly that.”
She holds out my coffee for me. “A gift. From Logan.”
My lips curl as I glare at the cup in her hand. I hate the idea of taking it, but it’s coffee that I desperately need right now. At least he didn’t make it, so I know it’s not poisoned.
After grabbing my breakfast sandwich from the Jolly Biscuit, I head to the town hall. Since I’m already behind on marketing, I spend the afternoon designing posters for the Holly Jolly Festival. Sadly, each design is worse than the last. By the end of the day, I was over it and added “hire a graphic designer” to my to-do list along with adjusting the budget to pay for said graphic designer. I’m better at planning events than creating marketing materials for them. In years past, we never had to do much print advertising, mostly because we were the only festival in town. Once again, Logan’s return not only ruins my day but also throws my festival budget off kilter.
The next morning, I one-boot hop through the entryway, wrestling my peacoat and cursing the treacherous alliance between the Snooze and Off buttons. Someone really needs to rethink that design flaw. Now, if I want coffee and a breakfast sandwich, I’m going to be late-late. I yank open the door mid-button and kick something with a papery thwack. A red gift bag sits on my “Merry AF” mat, dusted with snow. My brows pinch together as I bend down and pick it up. I follow the large boot prints that trail off down the sidewalk. I glance up and down the street but it’s empty. Cautiously, I peel back the white tissue paper and peek inside. I roll my eyes, but bite back my smile. Reaching in the bag, I pull out a reddish orange box. Dryer sheets. Taped to the top is a note with short, straight-line handwriting.
Thought these would come in handy.
I shove the box back into the bag and curl my fingers around the handle. Instantly, my mind goes to Logan. This has his name written all over it. As much as I want to be annoyed if it was him, it’s oddly kind of sweet, and I hate I enjoy he was thinking about me.
Seven
Clüsterfünke
Brie
This is my favorite weekend of the year, and after the week I had, I need it. Desperately. The Saturday after Thanksgiving is my day to start prepping for Christmas—I’ll be hand selecting the perfect tree that will spread Christmas joy up until the New Year. I meander down row after row of pines on my quest for the perfect tree. Not too big, not too small, not too bushy, but not bare.
There’s an art to this. Step one: freshness test—no mass needle loss, no brittle limbs, no flimsy “I gave up in July” vibes. Fresh trees will have flexible boughs and an abundance of crisp needles. I’ve spent years perfecting my tree-picking abilities, and every year, it pays off. I run my fingertips over the dark-green needles and shake my head. Sorry, tree, you’re staying here. Step two: sturdiness test—no bowed or crooked bases. I crouch down and peek underneath at the trunk. Slight lean to the left. That won’t do. Rising, I move on to the next row, which features Canaan firs. They’re rich in color with full branches that are great for displaying ornaments. But it’s not my favorite tree, so I move on to the next row and inhale the woody scent of a balsam fir. The scent of Christmas fills the air. While an acceptable tree, the needle retention makes me twitchy, so I move on to the next. I run my hand over the soft, dark-green needles. Now this is Christmas tree perfection. The classic conical shape with compact upward-sloping branches makes for excellent support for all types of ornaments. Be still my tinsel heart. I continue to stroll around the Fraser fir. Step three: scent test—I inhale the crisp, woody pine fragrance as I inspect every branch to make sure it’s flawless. Suddenly, a familiar voice piques my interest. Glancing up, Logan’s wearing a red and white Santa hat while the little girl, who must be his daughter, is wearing a reindeer headband.
She runs past to a tree a few feet in front of me. “Daddy! Daddy! Let’s get this one!”
That confirms my suspicion. Slinking back, I hide behind the dense branches of the Fraser fir. Between the needles, I fix my gaze on Logan as his head drops to the base and lifts up, and up, and up. It’s almost twice his six-foot height.
“I don’t think that one’s going to fit in our living room. Let’s keep looking.” Logan rests his hand on his daughter’s shoulders and guides her to a row of much shorter trees.
Spying on Logan is like gawking at a terrible car wreck. It’s intrusive to stare but impossible to look away. I finally get to see him as Logan, single dad, and not Logan who annoys the hell out of me. Consider it research. Plus, hiding saves me from any potential unpleasant interaction, especially when he’s with his daughter.
As they stroll from tree to tree, I ping-pong along, seeking refuge behind the needles of a white pine.
“Daddy, what about this one?” She points to a Canaan fir.
“Good choice,” I whisper to myself.
“I don’t know. Do you think you’ll be able to put the star on top?” he asks.
“Yes!”
“Let’s see.” Logan picks up his daughter and hoists her above his shoulders. She pretends to place a fake star on top of the tree. “I think that one’s going to be perfect.”
“Me too!” She exclaims.
A tiny sliver of my Logan hate… thaws. Ugh.
He glances over his shoulder—toward my white pine and I duck. Unfortunately, the tree doesn’t offer as much coverage as I’d like. Holding my breath, I send a prayer to the Christmas Gods he doesn’t catch me spying on him.
“Hey Brie! I figured I'd see you here.”
Willa. Shit. I pinch my eyes shut. My cover is blown. I whirl around and promptly hook my right foot behind my left, throwing off my balance. My arms windmill, but it’s useless. Like a lumberjack chopping down a tree, I topple over. Willa lunges to help, but instead of saving me from falling, I grab her jacket sleeve and take her down with me in a tangle of limbs. I take the brunt of the fall. That’s a lie—a white pine took the brunt while I came in a close second. Like dominoes, the entire row of trees crashes onto the snow. Willa cackles while heat flames up my neck.
