“You fired someone right before Christmas?” I was furious. “Where’s your Christmas spirit?”
“I have no holiday spirit. I hate Christmas,” he said, perfect mouth twisting into a scowl. “They should cancel this whole holiday.”
“What a Scrooge McDuck.”
“What did you call me?”
I forced myself not to back away as he advanced on me, filling the shop. I tipped my head to glare up at him. I had moved to the small town of Harrogate with its picturesque Christmas market, town-wide holiday decorations, and small-town charm to escape Manhattan and especially to escape the men like the one in front of me. Now my worst nightmare seemed to have materialized in a fit of bad magic.
“You’re not even an Ebenezer Scrooge; I’ve demoted you to the duck version.”
I ate one of the cookies, just to prove to the ice prince that he didn’t intimidate me. Not one bit.
“I’m evicting you,” he said.
“What?” I screeched, cookie crumbs flying out of my mouth. “You can’t just evict someone without notice!”
He flicked a speck of frosting off his suit.
“According to the lease you signed, I can if you’re late on rent,” he replied, taking a tri-folded contract out of his suit breast pocket.
“But since it’s Christmas,” he continued in a mocking tone. “I’ll be charitable. You have thirty days to either pay your rent plus fifteen percent interest, or remove yourself, your ornaments, and all your cookies off my property.”
“You can’t! That’s Christmas Eve!” I ran after him, but he had disappeared out into the snowy night.
“Fuck. This is not the small-town Christmas I wanted.”
2
Matt
“Ihad a number of better offers on that shop,” I fumed.
Eli threw an arm around my shoulders
“You can’t sweat the small stuff, Matt. We’re billionaires now!”
“Yes, and I didn’t get that way by giving away free rent at expensive real estate,” I argued.
Eli opened his mouth.
“And don’t say I told you so,” I snapped. “I know I never should have hired one of Hensley’s friends.”
“You need a drink,” my friend and business partner said, dragging me down Main Street.
I blew out a breath; it hung in a white cloud in front of my face.
I hated Christmas. In Manhattan, it would have been bearable. But here in idyllic Harrogate, where the townsfolk put the Whos in Whoville to shame? I wouldn’t survive it.
“Your strongest drink for my friend,” Eli said, rapping his knuckles on the wood counter of a stall that dripped with Christmas paraphernalia.
The stall looked like an elf murder scene. I was getting a headache, and all the pine boughs were making my eyes water.
Ida, one of the local senior citizens, was running the stall. She looked at me critically.
“We have another thirty days until Christmas, boyo. Buck your jingle balls up.”
She slid two red and gold tankards across the bar top.
