1
WILLOW
“Iwant an actual Yule log this year.”
“Gran, no. No one wants to burn down the Christmas market.”
“I pay taxes. I should get a bonfire,” she rails as I shoo her out of the Jingle Bites stall. “Let’s see the Grinch burned in effigy.”
“Excuse me!” A woman stomps up to me. “Excuse me! I want a refund on this Christmas crackle candy.” She waves a half-eaten bag of chocolate at me. “It made Brayden sick!” She points at a green-looking five-year-old.
I try to look sympathetic and not annoyed. “Ma’am, I can’t give you a refund. Most of the bag is gone.”
“This is an outrage. I want to speak to your manager!”
“I own the Jingle Bites Café and the associated Christmas market stall,” I tell her. “I am the manager.”
“Then I want to speak to the mayor.”
“I think she’s busy with the tree-lighting ceremony that’s about to happen.” I gesture to the humongous evergreen. Gideon Cross is putting the finishing touches on its lights.
Then I see her. No, not the mayor.
Her.Taylor Grace Nicole Glass, my ex-friend and toxic coworker, is powering through the crowd, sending children screaming and reindeer howling.
Not really, but I want to run and hide, and I would if I didn’t have an irate Karen in my face, trying to get free candy out of me.
“You’ve been sending me to voicemail!” Taylor Grace shrieks.
All the people at the Christmas market—most of whom are drunk on alcohol, Christmas treats, or both—turn and stare as Taylor Grace descends into an angry tirade.
I’m cursing the fact that I inherited such a good stall placement because this close to the mega Christmas tree? I’m the star of the Christmas pageant.
“Um, hey, what’s up, Taylor…?”
She’s flanked by two men: one in tweed with elbow patches and wire frames, the other taller, handsome, broad shouldered. He would be cute if he weren’t wearing a trench coat and a literal fedora.
Freak.
“Uhhhh…” Her eyes bug out as she mocks me. “Uh, what’s up?What’s up?You mean aside from the fact that you cut me out of my own bakery that I helped start?”
“Oh, is it time for our weekly scheduled freak-out?”
“You see—” Taylor turns to Dr. Jonah Merriweather, therapist and elbow-patch wearer. Hack, more likely, if he can’t see through her lies. “This is what I’m saying. She is emotionally abusive.”
“Now, Willow,” Jonah says in a condescending tone, “Taylor just wants to tell you her truth.”
“I really don’t have time to get into a three-hour circular argument with you right now.” I glare at Taylor Grace.
“Taylor Grace set a boundary,” Dr. Merriweather says in an annoying, nasally voice. “And you need to respect that boundaryand listen to what she is trying to say. Reallyhearher. I need you to practiceactive listening, Willow.”
“That’s not how boundaries work…” I roll my eyes.
“Um, ma’am, I am still waiting on my refund,” the customer interjects. “You need to take care of personal business when you’re off the clock.”
“Personal business?” Taylor Grace’s shriek reaches a deafening level.
Townspeople swarm in front of my stall, probably hoping for a fight to break out.
