“It’s a code violation,” Matt barked. “There’s not even a shower.” The corner of his mouth turned down. “Are you even bathing?”
“Of course I bathe,” I said hotly.
“Eh,” Olivia said.
Matt glanced at her.
“I bathe!” I protested. “Sponge baths are bathing. Heck, people in the olden times were basically sewn in their clothes in the winter and didn’t take them off ‘til spring.”
“This is absurd.” Matt pinched the bridge of his nose. “If something happens to you, I could get sued. I’ll lose my insurance. You need to move out.”
“But I don’t have anywhere to go,” I said in a small voice.
Matt raised his chin and gazed down at me imperiously.
“I don’t care.”
17
Matt
“Honestly,” I told the dog, who padded beside me through the Christmas market. “Sleeping in her shop. Where is she even sleeping? It’s tiny; there’s no room. Is she sleeping on the floor in a nest like a mouse?”
The dog hadn’t wanted to continue in the direction of the art trail, and I would rather he got the exercise than try to drag a 200-pound stubborn animal down the street.
A man with a guitar sang out slightly off-key as Kringle and I maneuvered through the Christmas market. The big dog’s nose twitched happily as he took in all the new smells of the market—and of the food.
“Oof.”
Kringle sat down in the middle of the street across from a stall selling Christmas potatoes.
“You can’t be serious.”
The dog whined then wagged his tail and hauled himself upright when I approached the stall.
“What makes them Christmas potatoes?” I asked the woman selling them, wondering whether I even really wanted to know.
“They’re red and white,” she said, then giggled. “But I wouldn’t expect a man who plates a cheesecake upside down to know what Christmas potatoes are.” She handed me a steaming plate with a small wooden fork. The fried potato wedges were covered with melted cheese. I scraped it back while Kringle drooled on my foot. The potatoes were indeed red.
BwAAAAAAAHHHP!
“Train!” people yelled, “Train! Train!”
The woman behind me started yelling “Train!” at the top of her lungs while I winced.
The crowd on Main Street jumped back away from the tracks that ran down the center of the avenue. Several spectators took out their cell phones to film as the large train, decorated to the nines for Christmas, rolled down the middle of the street. On the side of the box cars was the Svensson PharmaTech logo. People cheered as the train went past.
“One day we will have a train with our logo on it carrying our produce all around the world!”
I jumped, and Eli cursed when the potatoes jostled in my hand.
Kringle, seeing his chance, opened his big maw and chomped down, consuming all the cheesy potatoes along with the paper plate and the little fork.
“I’m not sure if you’re supposed to feed a dog a paper plate,” Eli said uncertainly.
“Too late.”
Kringle spit the fork back out in the snow at my feet.
