Page 15 of Grump Hard
I arrive at six p.m. sharp—a coerced agreement is still an agreement, and I am a punctual professional—only to be assaulted by merriment on a scale that’s obnoxious.
And potentially illegal…
There are village sound ordinances, after all. Surely, those are still in effect at the most “magical time of the year.”
Magical…
My lip curls.
I’m not sure what’s “magical” about what the decorating committee has done, but…to each their own.
The town square has been transformed into a snow globe of almost maniacal holiday abundance. Every surface is strangled in warm white lights and thick pine garlands dotted with red bows. The central gazebo looks like it’s being eaten alive by festive greenery, and the tree is so overburdened by ornaments, there’s a serious chance it might not remain upright for the entire season.
That would be a shame…
If it all just came…crashing down.
With that wistful fantasy front-of-mind, I set off through the crowd in search of my jailer.
I weave my way through the teeming mass of humanity, an obstacle course of shrieking children, drunk skiers laughing too loudly over their beers, and locals enthusiastically complaining about the tourists.
A queue snakes from Santa’s red velvet throne inside the gazebo, all the way to the snow-covered playground fifty feet away, carnival game booths line the square’s perimeter, and food trucks rumble on the cordoned-off street in front of the theater. The air is thick with the cloying scent of sugar and smoked meat, a festive smog I can feel coating the back of my throat.
I scan the area near “Santa’s village” again, searching for a small woman with an outsized capacity for coercion.
Finally, I spot Holly on the other side of the gazebo, near a three-sided shelter similar to the one protecting the chainsaw artist’s manger scene from the elements. A portable heater glows on one side of the space, a Candy Cane Village backdrop hangs on the back wall, and a folding table overflows with various pet costumes and props.
But the most compelling part of the tableau is the woman in a red-and-white striped sweater, long, brown braids, and a red hat with a pom-pom on top, chatting with a beefy man in a green flannel. Her cheeks are pink, her blue eyes sparkle, and her fleece leggings hug her curves in a way that leaves much less to the imagination than the reindeer costume from last night.
The realization that Holly’s even more attractive when clothed like a reasonably sane person is an unhelpful data point my brain supplies without my permission.
I file it away under ‘irrelevant.’
Just as irrelevant as the jealousy teasing at the base of my brain as I watch her laugh at something the lumberjack has just said. He snickers along, his lips peeling away from his teeth like a donkey, hungry for a treat.
I decide I hate him. Intensely.
A decision that feels even more justified as he has the gall to pat Holly’s head before waving goodbye and disappearing into the crowd.
What is she? A small dog?
A baby goat from the petting zoo behind the manger?
I glare at him as I start toward the pet portrait shelter, barely managing to compose my expression into something slightly less than feral before Holly spots me and thrusts an arm into the air. “Luke! Over here!”
I nod, clenching my jaw as her boisterous greeting catches the attention of several locals on their way to the caramel corn booth. They shoot curious glances our way, eyebrows bobbing in the universal sign for “wonder what’s up between those two?”
Wonderful.
Now there will be gossip of a romantic nature.
Or perhaps not. Not if Holly already has a donkey-faced, head-patting lumberjack to keep her warm at night…
“There you are!” She opens her arms wide, greeting me with what looks like an offer of a hug that I’m not sure how to engage with.
Or that I want to engage with at all.
I avoid the pressure by making a show of lifting the toolbox I was told to bring between us. “Where should I put this?”
