Page 13 of About Last Christmas
Speaking of texts, my phone buzzes.
Tilly again.
Tilly
He’s in YOUR STORE!!!!
Not exactly helpful, but I appreciate her excessive use of punctuation. Because this is a four-exclamation-points situation.
On top of Fletcher being wealthy and handsome, he’s genuinely a nice guy. His family owns a large law firm, and his ancestors helped establish Silver Creek. For being a man of means, he does the whole nine-to-five workday thing.
“Sorry about my”—I wave at my mouth, drawing his attention to my lips. Not my intention, but it’s better than the ketchup smear on my wrist—“little mishap. I totally thought I was alone. I usually don’t eat like a crazed beast in front of customers. I keep that secret between me and my waffle fries.” As usual, oversharing does not curb my embarrassment.
He laughs, and I notice how his bright blue eyes pair well with his sandy blond hair. “I love a girl who attacks her food with no mercy. My only complaint is you didn’t offer to share. Waffle fries are my weakness.”
I smile at his remark because our shared love of cholesterol-inducing food is theonlyarea in which we’re compatible. Thanks to many exchanges where my social ineptness was on full display in his immediate presence, I have zero chance with him. Still, I can’t help but become a tad swoony-eyed in his presence.
He glances around, most likely to ensure we’re alone. “Just wanted to verbally confirm you’re still good with having a Silver Creek Secret Santa mailbox.”
“Um, yeah. I’ll place it on the counter like always.”
“Great. I’ll have the box sent over tomorrow morning.” Those who want to nominate an individual or family to the community’s own Secret Santa can send their letters to a P.O.Box or send an email. I love the many options allowing anyone to participate. And if people don’t have access to email or a stamp, they can place a letter here at The Memory Bank or Brewtiful Grounds, the local café. “Is our agreement still okay with you?”
“You mean, I still can’t auction off your identity to the highest bidder? I’m not sure, Fletcher, I’ve been getting some pretty interesting offers. Adelaide Springfield offered me the knife she said was used in the Lincoln assassination if I leak the name.”
His brow lowers. “But Lincoln was shot.”
“Yeah, I didn’t say it was theactualweapon. It just happened to be her con of the week. So now you see what I have to deal with to keep this secret.”
This pulls a laugh from him. “I appreciate your sacrifice.”
Sacrifice? I wasn’t the one giving out thousands to the community. Last year, he granted the wish of a military family whose basement flooded while the dad was deployed. Not only did Fletcher pay for the cleanup, restoration, and the glow-up of the space, he somehow managed to bring the dad home so the family could be together for Christmas. “What you’re doing is really generous.”
He gives another smile, but this one lacks … something. I bet he gets tired of people complimenting him left and right. “I’ll have the box collected the day before Thanksgiving. That will give residents about three weeks to submit their nominations.”
“That works.”
“Great. Are you, by any chance, running in the Turkey Trot this Sunday?” His family’s law firm sponsors the yearly event, and all the proceeds go toward charity. Because, of course, it does. Fletcher Thomas can do no wrong. Well, except for his tie choice. It’s synthetic material and really lacks drape. Since it’s him, I can easily believe a loved one gave him that tie, and he knows it’s cheap, yet wears it anyway.
As for the marathon. “Uh, no. I don’t run unless someone’s chasing me. Even then, it’s debatable. I’m in charge of snack distribution at the aid station. That’s more my skillset.” I glance over, and he’s watching me. I must still have ketchup on my face. I subtly swipe at my chin again. Which reminds me. “I promise I don’t have the same vigor for granola bars as I do fries. Those marathon snacks are safe around me.”
“I’m counting on you, Greta,” he says in a mock seriousness that amps up his charm. He leans in, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Just be sure to hold back the one with chocolate chips for me.”
And if there isn’t one of that flavor, I’ll be sure to swing by the store and grab it for him. “You have my word. The only thing that makes granola bearable is chocolate.”
“Agreed.” He dips his chin. “By the way, I never said I was the Silver Creek Secret Santa.”
“You never denied it, either.”
Another full smile and he was gone.
Whoever coined the term “Turkey Trot” must’ve been hurling spitballs at the whiteboard during life science class. “A trot is technically a pattern of limb movement reserved for four-legged animals. Like a horse,” I explain to Tilly who doesn’t seem interested in my monologue. “Turkeys have two legs. Only two. They are not equipped to trot.”
She adjusts her marathon number and rolls her eyes. “But trot sounds better.”
“So alliteration goes before anatomical accuracy?” I realize the irony of using alliteration to prove my point, but I digress.
“I don’t understand why you’re in such a weird mood over the marathon name.” She looks to the left, and her dark ponytail swishes over her shoulder. “Ah, now I know.”
