Page 5 of Better Not Pout
I nod. “Thankfully. I’m not sure Kennedy was going to make it another second. She’s ready for more because she demolished the ones I gave her a few days ago.”
“That girl,” Gramps murmurs. “She’s been crazy about those since she was just a little one, running around here with you.” He finishes setting them to cool along the pan and walks over to Grams, pressing his lips to her cheek in a quick kiss. “I’m going to go check the cases before the evening rush.”
She hums, turning back to the counter, where she’s prepping another batch of cinnamon red-hot candies. They’re Sweet Sullivan’s best seller and the one thing we can never seem to have enough of.
While Gramps’ specialty is the toffee and chocolate, Grams’ is the red-hot candy hearts and candy canes. Everyone at the shop has something they do best. Mine is the business aspect, like social media. And decorating and, of course, responding to Santa letters, and I love that part of things. But I alsoloveto make cookies. One of my favorite things to do is to come up with new combinations of flavors. My dream is to one day have the cookies in store too. Another thing that we make homemade here at Sweet Sullivan’s.
I follow Gramps out of the kitchen back into the store, my shoulder brushing his as I fall into step next to him. We stop inside the front of the store, both of us gazing around the room, and a swell of pride surges behind my chest as I take in all of my work.
The inside of the candy shop has been transformed into something even more magical than it was before. That in and of itself seems impossible when you live in a place like Mistletoe Falls, a town that feels like it’s stepped off the pages of a cozy, picturesque movie all year round, and I truly couldn’t imagine a more magical place to live.
And now, Sweet Sullivan’s has that extra-special touch of magic. There are decorations touching nearly everything inside. The walls, the ceiling, the space around the candy cases—a whimsical Christmas display.
The large window nook facing the street is full of fluffy, fake snow, with a variety of nutcrackers lining the glass beside the glass jars of different heights, colors, and styles, all full of our signature candies. My grandparents have been collecting them for over twenty years, getting a new one to represent each year that has passed, and they’re one of my favorite things about the shop. They’re not just a decoration. Each piece tells a story, a memory of the time that’s past.
There’s a large fir tree in the corner, sparkling with the golden hue of twinkling lights that bring out the warmth in the room, adorned with handmade ornaments from children who come into the shop. Some are new, most of them old. Another testament to the love that constantly fills Sweet Sullivan’s.
Glass cases full of bright homemade candy sit on every shelf, a string of our signature candy canes draped over the front in traditional red and white that make the greenery of the tree and garlands adorned with deep red velvet bows brighter, more rich. It’s cozy and nostalgic, bringing me back to my childhood just by stepping into the room.
“You truly outdid yourself this year, Rosie girl. I’m so proud of you,” Gramps says from beside me, the corner of his lips pulled into a pleased smile.
I roll my lips together, nodding. “It feels… just right this year. Like everything just fell into place. Maybe this year is going to be something unforgettable, Gramps.”
The bell over the front door dings loudly, pulling our attention to it. The moment I see Howard, our deliveryman, step through the door, I duck behind the counter and pull offmy apron, then grab my purse and trench coat from the hook. I reach into the pocket and pull out my warm wool gloves.
“Anddddd that’s my cue,” I mutter more to myself than anything, but Gramps laughs before he greets Howard with a friendly wave.
“Howard, how are you, fella? Sure is getting chilly out there already, isn’t it?”
I offer him a small smile before slipping quickly past him toward the front door.
I wish I were joking when I put that in the letter to Santa with Kennedy the other night. Both of my grandparents have taken to attempting to matchmake me with every single man in town, including the mailman, for years now.
The mailman who’s pushing forty, balding, and smells suspiciously like vienna sausages.
Gag.
A shiver travels down the length of my spine, a flurry of goose bumps erupting on my skin even beneath the warmth of my coat.
Sure, Howard is a nice guy. There are lots of nice guys, but honestly, I couldn’t imagine anyone further from my vision of a “dream man,” even if I tried.
Speaking of…
I turn to look at the bright red mailbox that sits just outside the striped awning in front of the shop, my mind once again flitting back to that silly, stupid letter I wrote with Kennedy.
It’s December first, so I probably need to go ahead and check it. I’m sure there are probably already a few letters inside from the kids.
Small snow flurries coat my cheeks as I step out onto the icy, slick sidewalk, pulling my coat tighter around me as I reach the box and open it, shoving my gloved hand inside…
… and coming up empty.
Not a single letter.
My brows pull tightly together in confusion as I move my finger around, feeling around the metal box. Still, there’s nothing. Which makes absolutely zero sense because if anything, there should atleastbe Kennedy’s and my letters inside. We placed them in there that night. And no one checks the box but me.
Bending, I try to peer down into the slot to check one more time, but I’m not losing my mind because there’s not a single letter inside the mailbox.
Okay, what in the hell is happening?
