CHAPTER 1
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Sophie
Bah humbug!Money’s tight, business is down, and Brain Freeze needs an infusion of holiday cheer. So do I. My bells won’t jingle, and merry has left the building. It’s bad enough that I’m spending the holidays alone this year. Again. When I bought out my partner last year, business was booming. Nothing could stop me from taking Brain Freeze to the next level.
I catch a glimpse of people moving about across the square. A woman cups her hands around her eyes and leans into the window of Fudgeballs, Cranberry Corner’s new chocolate bar. Customers can’t wait to get their hands on the fudgy confections the place whips up.
Day after day, a steady stream of customers patiently waits for the place to open. Chocolate lovers flood downtown in droves, ignoring my little corner of the square. The traitorous chocolate fiends were once Brain Freeze super fans. The new kid on the block is ruining my business.
Hmph.
I’m trying not to get my tinsel twisted in knots, but...but...
Fudge balls!
Wrapping a box of chocolates and shoving it under a tree is easy. But I don't have that luxury with ice cream. Eating a double-dipped ice cream cone with all the trimmings is a spur-of-the-moment experience. It’s a divine experience. Better than plain old chocolate.
Brain Freeze is bleeding financially while that cash cow across the street skims off my business. I need an infusion of cash before my lease runs out at the end of the year, or this could be Brain Freeze’s last Christmas.
I kick the dusty box of mismatched ornaments from last year’s winter window decor. It’s beginning to look a lot like...a disaster. My only chance of saving my butt and Brain Freeze’s bottom line this year is winning the lottery or the Festival of Lights contest.
Though, neither are likely. Gillian and Eileen own Treasured Past, the antique store next door. They snag the grand prize every year. They started decorating a week ago. I’m behind and a wee bit intimidated by their decorating skills.
I eye the scrawny spruce I rescued from the throwaway pile at Deck the Halls tree lot earlier. The tree’s as scrawny as they come. If it isn’t a Charlie Brown tree, I don’t know what is. Its spindly branches poke haphazardly from the sparse trunk. I’ll be surprised if it holds the weight of a single Christmas ornament.
There's no time like the present to get started. I rake in a breath and straighten the elf headband that slips over my forehead when I lean over to pick up the tree. The elf costume doesn't improve my mood, either. The skirt's too short, the tights too slinky, and the shirt's too tight.
I drag the tree to the window and set up the rickety stand. The tree's so spindly and pathetic that the stand's screws barely grip the trunk. I top off the reservoir and stand back to eye my progress. It needs something. I pluck a star from the box and settle the coil on the top. The tree lists to the left, and my head follows the movement.
Fudge.Nothing about this will be easy.
I grab a handful of fake snow from the box and crawl inside the window on all fours, maneuvering around the tree. It's cramped, but I squeeze into the space without mooning the sidewalk.
My skirt and tights catch on a branch’s prickly pine needles, threatening to topple the wobbly tree. I wrestle the candy cane tights higher over my hips and straighten the ridiculously short skirt that came with the elf outfit. I dip my head beneath the tree and wedge a stray branch into the stand for stability.
The elf hat headband slips over my forehead, covering my eyes like Cyclops from the X-men. Only my headband isn’t sleek, nor can I pull off the look with as much finesse and sex appeal as the actor who plays the superhero. The hat dangles from the headband, flopping into my chin instead.
I blow a puff of air out the side of my mouth as I grab the white pom-pom ball brushing against my lip. I yank on it, and the band’s plastic teeth catch in my hair, leaving a tangled mess atop my head. A slurry of choice words flows freely from my mouth as I toss the silly costume hat to the floor in frustration.
Fudge buckets. I owe the swear jar more money now, too.
A shadow crosses the window as I glance up, catching my reflection in the glass. Great. I look and sound like a raving lunatic prowling about in the window.
I back off the window ledge on all fours with my butt hiked in the air. My skirt catches on the tree and bunches around my middle. I pick at the pine needles, careful not to knock the tree over, and wiggle my way to the window edge.
The doorbell jingles as my toes touch the floor. On top of everything else, I forgot to lock it when I came in.
“Sorry. We’re closed,” I call out to the visitor.
A gust of wintry air floods the entrance, and an instant shiver scurries across my exposed limbs. My eyes land on men’s shoes, then follow the long legs clad in thigh-hugging denim. My breath catches, and my heart skips a beat as I scan upward, over the zipper to the taut black tee he wears under a plaid flannel shirt.
The man’s a towering mass of sinew and muscle dripping with testosterone. I lick my dry lips, suddenly parched and thirsty.
“We open at ten.” My voice cracks as I gather my wits.
His beaming smile broadens as his eyes filter down my body. His smile shrinks when he jerks his head upward. He averts his gaze to the ceiling, then fixes his stare on a safe spot on the wall over my shoulder.