Page 5 of The Christmas Dash

I kiss her again, lingering to brush my nose back and forth against hers. The twinge of hesitation I felt at Bubba’s about giving up this chance is completely gone, replaced by the vision of what a future with Beth could be. “I’ll text you tomorrow.”

“I’d like that.” She rises up on her tiptoes and presses her lips against my cheek. “Night, Gabe.”

I wait until she’s in her house and I hear the door lock before I pull out my phone.

The first thing I see is a text from my mom.

Mom

I’m in trouble. Can you call me?

My heart flies into my throat as I scramble to dial her number.

Chapter 3

Beth

Five Years Later

“Come to mama, you sparkling, shimmering strand of Christmassy goodness.”

I eye the illusive strand of garland on the top shelf of one of the holiday décor aisles at Craft Corner, the go-to spot for all things Christmas décor in Dasher Valley. It’s the afternoon of Black Friday, which means the shelves are mostly barren, save for that one glorious strand of garland that’s taunting me from up top.

I glance to my right and to my left. There’s no one around. This place was probably packed earlier today, with holiday shoppers out looking for the best deal before the sun was up. I should know; my own store, Dash Away Books, was open at five o’clock this morning. I offered a buy one, get one free sale—anything to keep up with the mega online retailer trying to run my small business, well, out of business.

But I digress.

I’m here now. Dash Away Books closed at two, giving me plenty of time to hit up the sales around town.

I rise up on my tiptoes and reach my arm over my head, but it’s no use. At five feet, three inches tall, my fingertips don’t even touch the lip of the top shelf. I rock back on my heels and look around again. No one has passed this aisle in the three minutes I’ve been standing here eyeing that coveted strand of garland.

I make a split-second decision, shove my glasses up my nose, and step toward the shelving. I put one foot on the bottom shelf and tentatively lift my other foot off the ground. The metal shelf holds my weight, no problem. I grab onto the middle shelf with my left hand and hoist myself higher, reaching for the decoration. I’m biting my tongue between my teeth, concentrating with my full attention, but in my eagerness, I accidentally shove the strand of garland farther back.

“Cussing candy canes.” I step down to the floor to regroup. Hands on my hips, I stare down the shelving in front of me. And then, because I’m high on Christmas spirit—or at least on the mixture of cinnamon, gingerbread, sugar cookie, and apple cider scents from the dozens of candles that are piled up on the shelves one aisle over—I try again.

This time, I step boldly onto the bottom shelf, and using my hands like a rock climber, I grip above my head and hoist myself onto the second shelf.

Look at me go. I’m like Rudolph, scaling the rooftops on Christmas Eve.

With my newfound leverage, I can easily reach out and grab the garland. The frosted tips of the greenery glisten in the fluorescent lights of the craft store, and there are shimmery strands of crinkled material dripping off the faux evergreen foliage, giving the impression of icicles. Deep cranberry-colored berries are woven into the greenery, and tiny silver jingle bells complete the vintage look. The second I saw this particular strand of garland in the ad Craft Corner emailed out, I knew it would be the perfect trimming for the front desk and checkout counter at Dash Away Books. I came here for the sole purpose of snagging a strand at seventy percent off.

“Mission accomplished.” I wrap my fingers tightly around the garland, not daring to let it out of my grasp after I worked so hard for it.

I take a quick second to let my fingers trace the lifelike greenery and revel in my success before—

“Beth?”

I whip my head around at the sound of a deep, low voice—one I’d recognize anywhere.

“Gabe?”

In my shocked state, my foot slips off the lip of the second shelf, and I don’t manage to catch myself, because of course. Instead, in slow motion, I teeter and tumble down. I’m bracing for impact with the linoleum floor below, but instead I crash into a warm-blooded man. My momentum takes us both out, and I sprawl on top of him, garland still clutched in one hand. Priorities.

My glasses fly off my face, and Gabe grunts as he takes the brunt of the fall and my body weight.

I scramble off of him. “What are you trying to do?”

“Me?” Gabe rubs his head. “What are you trying to do? You could’ve hurt yourself.”