Page 13 of Her Christmas Fix
Twenty minutes later, we’re walking through the automatic doors of Wild Rose Point Market, and I have to resist the urge to throw my arms wide and declare my love for fluorescent lighting.
“Okay, what’s our plan of attack?” I grab a cart but can’t get it unstuck from the one in front of it.
Griffin watches me struggle, clearly fighting back a smile, and finally takes pity on me and frees the cart like it’s no big deal. “We should start with a list.”
“I have a mental list.”
“Let me guess.” He pulls out his phone and flashes me some wicked side eye. “Organic everything, gluten-free, locally sourced?”
“I’ve been craving enchiladas,” I say with an exaggerated eye roll that I doubt he notices behind my sunglasses. “And I want to make cookies for Riva.”
His expression softens, and my heart does a silly little flutter. “What kind of cookies?”
“Sugar.” My voice sounds as squeaky as the old cart. “Grammy and I made them when I visited.” The memory hits me without warning, and I swallow around the sudden tightness in my throat. “She let me roll out the dough and cut them into shapes, and use way too much frosting.”
“Sounds like a good tradition to continue.”
“Yeah.” I clear my throat and start pushing the cart toward the produce section. “I’m sure Riva will be baking with her stepmom, but I thought I could send her some. So she knows I’m thinking about her.”
Even though we talk and text daily, it kills me to be away from her during the holidays. But Ian and Sadie, who is admittedly amazing, can give my daughter the kind of Christmas I can’t right now. Normal traditions that don’t involve paparazzi or work obligations.
The produce section is small but well-stocked, and I grin as I pick through the bell peppers. “We used to come in here during my visits. I remember thinking the store was huge back then.”
“How many summers did you spend here?”
“Just that one. My parents were going through a rough patch, and Grammy offered to take me for a month.” I select a carton of strawberries and examine them for blemishes. “Still the best month of my childhood.”
“And the market made that big of an impression?” Griffin leans against the cart, but instead of looking bored, he seems genuinely interested.
“More than I realized, I guess.” I reach for onions and then cilantro. “It’s all part of why the house means so much to me. This town was special to her, so it’s special to me.”
“She’d be proud of what you’re doing,” he says quietly.
The straightforward words hit me hard. “I hope so. I’ve screwed up so much lately.”
“Hey.” His hand covers mine on the cart handle. “You’re here now. That’s what matters.”
We move through the store like we don’t have another long day of remodeling in front of us, and I find myself relaxing into the simple rhythm of it. Griffin suggests a local salsa brand, and we argue over whether round tortilla chips or strips are better for scooping. Once again, I’m blown away by how underrated normal is.
The cashier, who looks to be in her mid-fifties, does a double-take when Griffin smiles and barely spares me a glance, even though I’ve tucked my sunglasses into my jacket pocket. Maybe I can be normal in Wild Rose Point. The thought sends a thrill through me, although not as much as I feel when Griffin places a hand on the small of my back as we exit the store.
“It’s still quiet,” he says as we load bags into the trunk. “Might be a good time for a downtown stroll.”
My smile feels like it starts in my chest and expands outward. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
The whole town is decked out for the holidays. Garland wraps around every lamppost, and store windows are filled with twinkling lights and seasonal displays. It’s like a movie set designed to make an audience believe in Christmas magic.
It makes me want to believe.
“There’s a holiday art festival this weekend.” I point to one of the colorful flyers stapled to a nearby light post. “I bet that’s fun.”
Griffin runs a hand over the scruff on his strong jaw. “Festivals are pretty common around here. Any excuse for a celebration. This weekend, local artists will be selling their stuff, wreath making, hot chocolate, and kids running around hopped up on too much sugar.” He wiggles his brows. “And I’m sure Edgar will make an appearance.”
“Who’s Edgar?”
“The town’s unofficial mascot.”
“You have a mascot?”
