Humbugged

by Pippa Grant

  Which includes making smart choices about who I eventually decide to date.

  And Clint isn’t a smart choice, no matter how lovely he is or how ready he is to rush to my rescue.

  “Did you see anything else out of the ordinary?” he asks. “Since you got back to the bakery?”

  I run a hand through my smoke-scented hair. “The fridge was open when I walked in, but that happened a couple of weeks ago too. I guess I need to get someone out to look at the seal. Or the hinges?”

  His dreamy green eyes—so kind, but intense at the same time—narrow. “And you’re sure you were alone?”

  “I was,” I say, adding with a shaky laugh. “I mean, unless there was a ghost hanging around somewhere, looking to make mischief. You haven’t heard any stories about this place being haunted, have you? Like, back when it was a flower shop?”

  He frowns as if he’s taking me seriously, but before I can assure him I was just kidding—mostly, anyway—one of the firefighters calls from the door, “Looks contained, Ms. Alwyn. Give us a few minutes to make sure it didn’t spread behind the walls. Nice job with that fire extinguisher, Clint.”

  “Noelle did most of the work,” he calls back.

  He pauses.

  Sniffs.

  The firefighter cocks his head and sniffs too.

  “Cookies?” Clint says.

  I nod. “Pudding too, until the stovetop caught on fire. I was going to share after caroling.”

  “The ovens are fine,” the firefighter says. “When do these need to come out? They about done?”

  There’s a hopeful note in his voice that reminds me of a shy little boy at the nativity scene the other night, once he finally worked up the courage to ask if I still had sugar cookies in my apron.

  Even big boys need a treat now and then.

  “Five minutes,” I say, shooting him a smile. “I’ll send a pan to the station with you guys if you promise to bring it back tomorrow.”

  “Done!” the man says, followed by an enthusiastic shout to the rest of the firefighters still inside. “We’re taking cookies with us so give that stove a good wipe down. Let’s leave this bakery spick-and-span.”

  I smile and turn to find Clint watching me with a grin of his own. “What?” I ask, crossing my arms self-consciously over my chest.

  “You’re sweet, Cupcake,” he says.

  I shrug. “Just trying to spread the good stuff around. Like we were talking about before.” I cock my head. “What were you doing over here, by the way? We’re not meeting until seven, right? By the hot chocolate stand?”

  He holds my gaze, unflinching as he says, “I was ready early and wanted to see you again. Guess I was hoping you might want to see me too.”

  “I…” I trail off, knowing I should take a stand, tell him that this isn’t going where I think he thinks it’s going. But standing here, staring into his ridiculously perfect, kind face, I just can’t. “I’m glad you’re here,” I say instead.

  Because it’s true.

  Despite the kitchen fire, despite losing all my old recipes, and despite my increasing certainty that I didn’t put my recipe box on the stove, not even by accident, so something weird is definitely happening, I’m happy to be standing here with Clint O’Dell.

  He leans against the side of the brick building, a smile curving his lips. “Good. Then I’ll walk you to caroling. Don’t want you to get attacked by any more holiday-crazed creatures.” He winks. “If you get taken out by a Christmas gerbil, the entire town will wonder why I didn’t see it coming. Then all those memes they’ve worked so hard on will be meaningless.”

  “A Christmas gerbil?” I arch a wry brow.

  “You’ve never heard the story of the Christmas gerbil?”

  “Stop with the Christmas gerbils,” Ryan yells from inside. “They’re not a thing.”

  “They should be,” Clint shoots back.

  “They should not,” Ryan insists.

  “Don’t listen to him,” Clint whispers loudly to me. “He’s just upset that he didn’t think of it first.”

  “You’re clear to go back in, Noelle,” Ryan says, stepping out into the alley. “Just need to ask you a few questions, and we’ll get out of your hair.”

  I nod.

  I can do a few questions. And then I’m going caroling.

  With a guy who makes me laugh even on a bad day.

  Clint O’Dell is going to be a good friend, I can feel it.

  But just a friend.

  Just friends, just friends, just friends. I repeat the mantra over and over again, keeping my head in the friend zone, even as my gaze keeps drifting back to those broad shoulders that are becoming one of my favorite sights in Happy Cat.

  Six

  Clint

  It’s been six years since I left home for boot camp. I’ve been home for the holidays twice, but missed the annual Happy Cat caroling both times.

  Turns out, it’s even better than I remember.

  Mostly because of the Cupcake sipping hot chocolate beside me.

  “The best, right?” I ask.

  Noelle hums appreciatively around the rim of her cup. “Sooo good. And perfect timing on the caffeine. I was flagging for a minute.”

  “You need more protein in your diet. I’ll whip you up a batch of my special protein cookies. Put some meat on your bones.”

  “And hair on my chest?” she asks, arching a teasing brow.

  I keep my gaze on hers, but just barely. The red sweater she changed into in the bakery bathroom before we left is tight enough to leave very little about her curvier-than-anticipated chest to the imagination. “God, I hope not,” I say, infusing the words with enough horror to make her laugh. “Wouldn’t want you to have to wear a hairnet over your chest while you bake.”

  She giggles again. “Right? I have enough trouble as it is.”

  Trouble…

  She is having more than her fair share of bad luck. An illogically high amount, in fact. And in my six years running missions with the Marines, I’ve learned that if something looks fishy and smells fishy, it’s probably because it’s a fish dressed up in guerrilla fighter clothing.

  Something’s going on at her bakery, but I don’t want to alarm her until I have more than a gut feeling to go on.

  So I smile and ask, “Another cup?”

  She shakes her head. “No, thank you. Between the cookies and cocoa, I’m sugar buzzed and ready to go.”

  I crumple my own cup in one hand and toss it at the trashcan, scoring into the bin. I thrust my arms into the air and “Oo-rah,” making Noelle roll her eyes, but she’s laughing on the inside, I can tell.

  “Clint, quit embarrassing this poor girl.” My mom hustles over, pulling Chewpaca, Hope and Blake’s prize stud alpaca, with her. “Or I’ll have to give you a lesson in how mortifying your family members is done.”

  “Impossible.” I sniff. “I don’t mortify.”

  Mom’s eyes light up with mischief. “Oh, so you want me to pop back to the car and fetch the early Christmas present your father got me today?”

  “Does it light up?”

  She grins. “And spins. And vibrates.”

  I debate if I can one-up her in this conversation, decide I definitely can, but I choose not to, because she’s my mother, and other people can hear us. I’m bowing out for the sake of their innocent ears. “Good for him. Have you tried one of Noelle’s chocolate chip cookie bars yet? Not to meme myself or anything, but I baked them with a single smolder.”

  “Noelle, you’re welcome to walk with us if you want,” Hope says. She tucks her hair behind her ear, pets Chewpaca on her way past, and gives Noelle a quick hug. “Clint’s overkill some days.”

  “Most days,” Blake corrects.

  “What’s with the alpaca?” Noelle asks.

  “That’s how you change the subject.” I hold out a fist. “Nice. Give it up, Cupcake.”

  She laughs lightly and bumps my knuckles with hers. Quick as a wink, I move my fist, add in th
e other, putting one on top and one below hers. “Snowman!”

  She laughs again. “You are so weird. And seriously. What’s up with the alpaca? Does he sing?”

  “He’s been humming a lot since he got his Christmas scarf,” Hope explains. “We’re thinking he can do harmony on the easy songs. And if not, everyone loves to pet him. He’s so soft. See?”

  Noelle stretches out a hesitant hand.

  Chewpaca nuzzles it, and she laughs. “Oh, he is.”

  “Aww, he likes you.” Hope smiles. “He’s the sweetest.”

  “Second sweetest,” Blake says, puffing his chest out.

  Hope winks at him. “No, I think Chewy’s still number one.”

  “Irritating woman,” he fake-grumbles. And then they kiss for an inappropriately long amount of time, until Mom clears her throat and Chewy chortles a gentle reminder that there are children present.

  “Stick with me,” I whisper to Noelle. “I’m with the PDA patrol and I can assure you these two aren’t safe for public consumption.”

  She laughs again, and I give myself a mental fist bump that ends in an octopus wiggle.

  Make a woman laugh, and you’re halfway to getting her hooked.

  Noelle can try to friend zone me, but I don’t intend to make it easy for her. I want her friendship, yes. But I also want a taste of her sweet, frosting-pink lips. And permission to scoop her curvy little body into my arms when she isn’t in imminent danger.

  “Noelle!” Greta bustles over with Ruthie May, the town gossip and CEO of Sunshine Toys. “Noelle, those gingerbread men were delicious. Phoebe even ate Clint’s third leg, though she swore she was going to save it in a picture box to commemorate this Christmas. Can we order six dozen more for tomorrow? With the broken limbs. We have…plans for them.”

  Greta’s face twists, and a delicate poofing noise fills the air.

  “Whoopsie,” she says with a giggle and a blush. “Sorry. Too much Christmas cheer for me, I guess.”

  Frank ambles over. “You talking about getting those—”

  A long, drawn-out thwwwwwarrp from the general direction of the old man’s backside eclipses whatever he was about to say.

  “Jesus, Frank,” Gerald Hutchins grumbles as he meanders by, handing out sheets of paper. “Don’t point that thing this way.”

  Six more booty belches erupt in our general vicinity.

  Greta giggles. Frank snorts. Phoebe and Eunice mutter something about the dangers of coleslaw between themselves while casting concerned looks in the direction of the BBQ truck parked on the other side of the square.

  “Looks like Chewpaca won’t be the only one creating harmony,” I muse softly.

  Noelle covers her smile with a hand, but I still see it.

  “People! Gather ’round!” Maud Hutchins yells into a megaphone at the edge of the park. “We’re passing out the setlist. If you don’t know the words, just mouth watermelon watermelon. Also, if you don’t know the words, where have you been the last fifteen years we’ve been caroling? No matter, no matter. Get your song list and line up. We’re hitting the fire department, then the sheriff’s office, and then trekking out to the nursing home.”

  More cheek squeaks.

  More giggles and the uncomfortable clearing of throats.

  Noelle’s brows knit together as she turns to check out the crowd around us. The only good news is that so far all the fumigating hasn’t caused a noticeable stench.

  But as we head to the fire department, the heinie honking gets worse and worse until there’s no denying it—we’re now part of the Carol of the Farts.

  “What the hell?” Blake mutters as he jostles along beside me.

  I shake my head, fighting a laugh.

  “Must’ve been something I ate,” Eunice says to Greta, who burps softly.

  “Me too.”

  “Did you have lunch at the Day School too?”

  “No, I had a leftover sandwich from Wild Hog.”

  “I had Frank’s homemade chicken salad,” Widow MacIntosh says. “And three gingerbread cookies.”

  More rump roaring.

  More giggles and grumbling from those not afflicted by wind or inclined to find butt percussion as hilarious as the over-seventy set apparently do.

  “Okay, people, here we go!” Maud cries.

  We all launch into “The Christmas Song,” but I notice Noelle getting progressively more distressed every time one of the senior citizens lets one loose.

  “You okay?” I whisper.

  She shakes her head. “I think there was something in my cookies,” she whispers as we close out the first song.

  “Like refried beans?” I whisper back.

  “I don’t know,” she says with a rush of breath. “I’m trying to think what it could be, but the only out of the ordinary thing was that I used fresh ginger. But ginger is supposed to calm your stomach.”

  I squeeze her hand. “Don’t worry. It’s not your fault. Just don’t inhale.”

  She huffs, but her smile doesn’t stick around for long.

  Clearly she’s still concerned.

  We sing to the firefighters, who are out washing their truck in the cool night air. By the time we’re finished with the first two songs, the boom boom busting has become a back and front affair. Loud burps punctuate the spaces between notes and Chewpaca’s humming begins to sound distressed.

  Slowly people move away from the group of air offenders.

  Which means virtually all of the senior citizens.

  Noelle’s face is pinched, and she looks more and more like the woman freaked out by a family of raccoons circling her car than she does the woman who’s determined to have an amazing Christmas.

  “It wasn’t the cookies,” I whisper.

  “Did you eat one?”

  “I don’t do sugar on ab day.” It’s a better story than I don’t like gingerbread cookies. Which seems like the wrong thing to confess right now.

  Give me a chocolate crinkle or a peanut butter blossom any day.

  But after that experience eating my Aunt Marlene’s gingerbread when I was little, I tend to stay clear. My brothers are terrified of Aunt Marlene. She loves me, naturally. Her gingerbread, however, doesn’t.

  Noelle chews on her lip. “I wonder if George has gas.”

  “Hey, guys…” a familiar voice pants behind us. “Wait up.”

  We all turn to see Cassie waddling through the group.

  Her brown hair is tucked back in a sloppy ponytail. Her cheeks are a little fuller. Her glasses reflect the Christmas lights. And her middle section sticks out like she pumped her belly button up with enough helium to fill a blimp.

  Olivia’s walking with her, with baby Clover tucked into a sling. Funny how fast infants grow. It wasn’t that long ago that Jace and Olivia’s daughter was just a lump behind the fabric. Now, she’s facing outward, holding up her head and pumping her chunky legs like she wants to get down and crawl.

  “Cassie! I didn’t think you were coming,” Hope says.

  “I’m walking this baby out if it’s the last thing I do,” she replies. She pants twice, puts her hand to her stomach, and blows out a long, slow breath.

  “Contraction?” Hope asks, a hint of panic in her voice.

  “False labor.”

  Hope’s eyes narrow. “Are you sure?”

  Cassie nods. “It’s been two hours since the last one.”

  “She’s not having the baby tonight,” Olivia says. “He’s not ready. But he’s almost ready to be ready.”

  “He? You’re having a boy?” Noelle asks.

  Cassie shakes her head. “I’m not sure. We’re not finding out.”

  Olivia smiles. “But I know. Oh, goodness. Is Frank okay?”

  “Ate something that didn’t agree with him,” I say as we all watch the older man pat his stomach and belch loud enough to wake the winter animals from their yearly hibernation.

  Eunice breaks wind right in front of us a moment later.

  “They all ate
my cookies,” Noelle whispers, sounding increasingly frantic. “It has to be me. I’m the stink source!”

  All of her determination and cheer is fading, and I don’t know what to do to get the night back on course. If she were one of my brothers, I’d make armpit farts to join in or challenge him to a game of poker and the loser has to eat an entire head of raw cabbage.

  But she’s a woman looking for a happy holiday and hitting roadblocks at every turn.

  “I followed the recipe I always use.” She tugs at a lock of her hair, spinning the silky brown strands around and around. “It’s never caused tummy troubles before. But everyone who ate my cookies—”

  A particularly loud trunk tremor splits the air.

  Noelle stops and drops her face in her hands. “The bright side,” she whispers. “Find the bright side.”

  “Well, farts are funny,” I offer.

  “Not when I’m causing them.”

  “Maybe it’s the ghost,” Olivia says. Of all of us, she’s the most likely to believe in things you can’t see—like auras and crystal powers and, apparently, haunted cupcake bakeries.

  I’m not so sure I believe in ghosts, but who am I to prove they don’t exist? If my sister-in-law believes in them, I don’t see any reason to pick a fight about it.

  But Blake and I trade a glance. It’s one thing to announce you’ve got a ghost in your own house. It’s another to give a ghost to someone else.

  “What ghost?” Blake asks.

  “The flower shop ghost,” she replies like it’s no big deal.

  Hope blinks up at her. “I’ve never heard of the flower shop ghost.”

  “Well, I’m sure he doesn’t step out of the walk-in fridge and announce his presence to everyone.” Olivia sways with Clover, who squeals and kicks her legs in agreement. Her hair’s so fair, she looks bald, but her smile is bright, gummy, drooly, and adorable. “But I bet he’s been lonely. When did the shop close? How long was it empty?”

  “Four, maybe five years.” Jace catches up to the rest of us. He’s wearing a matching sling to Olivia’s, because he’s whipped, and his hedgehogs like to get out as much as Hope and Blake’s alpaca. The two little ladies are snuggled against his chest now, wearing matching pink bows, their tiny noses wiggling in excitement to be out and about.