Page 73 of Mistletoe All the Way

Nope. I’m not doing it. I’m not getting into a lunge so I can race over to the stand they’ve assigned me here at the Christmas market.

I refuse.

Even though Stephen’s holding a lunge, like the mayor’s about to fire a starting gun for a one-hundred-meter dash. Sebastian is bouncing up and down as if he’s a boxer ready to land punches in the ring. J.J.’s the picture of cool and steady as he waits for Mayor Bumblefritz’s next order. Henry’s leaning casually against the carved wooden archway that reads CHRISTMAS MARKET.

I stand with my arms crossed, trying to mask the dread rising in me. Sure, Eloise coached me on selling, which mostly consists of smiling, saying Merry Christmas to anyone walking by, then adding, Can I interest you in a pot holder? Want a candle?

Fancy a mug?

It sounds brutal, but I can handle it.

Candles smell nice. Mugs are useful. Pot holders serve a purpose. All I have to do is laser in on the practical, and I can sell. For a day. Just for a day.

I glance over at Eloise, who’s waiting on the sidelines. She’ll be my helper for this event, since we’re each allowed one sales assistant.

I’m pretty sure it’s a good thing she’ll be mine, but it’ll also be distracting being near her in a booth all day with that citrusy scent, her captivating eyes, and her utter determination that breaks down my resistance.

And fuuuuuck.

I need to be thinking about selling—not her. I look around at the crowds. The entrance to the market is packed. Throngs of people are here, chanting “Mr. Holiday, Mr. Holiday.” They’re ready to shop.

The mayor lifts that godforsaken candy cane megaphone once more. “And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for.”

Holding a big red sack, Lucy trudges toward the mayor. She’s followed by the woman in glasses and braids, who’s staring at the Santa bag as if it contains nuclear codes. Lucy offers it to the mayor with a quick snap of the wrist, clearly ready to be done with it.

The mayor gives an approving nod, then hands the megaphone to Lucy, whose wince says, Are we really doing this again? But the answer is yes as the mayor smiles like she’s bestowed all the riches in the world on her niece.

Lucy squares her shoulders. “Once again, we’d like to thank Evergreen Falls accountant Rima Khalid of Khalid and Co. for meticulously preparing the envelopes today.”

The woman in glasses nods, then with the seriousness of a law school professor, she says, “The pleasure is all mine. The envelopes have been under careful watch by me since their preparation to ensure zero tampering.”

Lucy tries to unload the megaphone once again to the mayor, but the mayor simply gives a You can do it nod.

“The mayor will now reach into the gift bag and select one of ten sealed envelopes,” Lucy says, reading the instructions flatly from her phone. “Five of the ten envelopes will be in use. Inside each envelope is a card declaring the item to be sold. We’ll call each contestant’s name, and the mayor will select their envelope.”

Please let it be chocolate oranges. Or Christmas cards. I can talk up either of those for sure. My chest tightens, and tension flares in me as Lucy calls out my cousin’s name, while the mayor dips a hand into the sack of doom.

With a pleased grin, the mayor booms: “Stephen Lennox, you’ll be selling wreaths.”

A pump of the fist, and he’s off, dashing down to the stand, Santa hat bopping in the breeze.

Sebastian’s next. The mayor picks an envelope, opens it, then declares: “Sebastian, let’s see what you can do with Christmas cards.”

Ah, hell. The bookseller will be fantastic at that. With a tip of the hat, he rushes away.

The spectacle continues with another name, another envelope. The mayor takes a beat, smiles, then says: “We can’t wait to see what Henry can do with nuts.”

Henry’s eyes flicker with mischief. “I bet,” he says under his breath.

A woman his age with a stick-straight bob nudges his shoulder, whispering, “Be quiet,” but it doesn’t sound like she means it.

They both head down the main walkway through the stands.

“And for J. J. Washington,” the mayor calls out, “we’ve got nutcrackers.”

Ouch. That sounds rough, peddling a useless thing. Glad I didn’t get that one. But J.J.’s unflappable—he strides to the booth without a care in the world.

With more theatricality than is necessary, the mayor digs into the doom bag one more time. Holds a final envelope. Takes a breath. “And we have one more booth. Noah, get ready to show us what you can do with this Christmas specialty. It comes once a year, and it’s my personal favorite,” the mayor says, swinging her gaze to me.