Humbugged

by Pippa Grant

  Ryan: That reminds me. Shane’s girlfriend is pregnant, too. Saw it on his InstaChat page.

  Clint: No shit. How do his brothers feel about that? The baby of the family getting a head start on the rest of those slackers?

  Ryan: Not sure. Everyone’s being pretty closed-lipped about it, but I get the feeling Uncle Steve isn’t too thrilled about the two of them waiting until after the baby’s born to get married. He likes things in the traditional order. Remember that time he almost had a heart attack because Mom let us open a couple of presents on Christmas Eve instead of waiting until Christmas morning?

  Clint: Christmas… It’s the season of forgiveness. *holly berry emoji*

  Ryan: Um, yeah. It is.

  Clint: I have to go. I have sandwich hands.

  Ryan: What’s that supposed to mean?

  Clint: It means I have to wash them, asshole. So they don’t smell like a sandwich. I don’t want to beg for forgiveness with pickle stink on my fingers. *pickle emoji*

  Ryan: You’ve never begged for anything in your life. Do you even know how?

  Clint: I’ll figure it out as I go along. I’m a Marine. *superman emoji* I know how to improvise when I’m in a sticky situation. Speaking of, I should probably wipe my phone down… Texting with pickle fingers isn’t pretty, either.

  Ryan: Love you, weirdo. And good luck. Now that she’s getting to know her better, Cassie really likes Noelle. I’m sure she’ll be willing to give you a second chance. Let me know how it goes tomorrow, okay? I’m going to bed.

  Clint: It’s eight o’clock.

  Ryan: I know, but I’m beat. Cassie isn’t sleeping well, so I’m not sleeping well, and Mom keeps texting me updates on the raccoons at six in the morning every day.

  Clint: *laughing emoji* Dude. Just tell her to not text you before noon. Works for me.

  Ryan: Yeah, but you’re her favorite. Also, aren’t you up at like three AM every morning?

  Clint: That’s classified. And don’t lie. You know you love it when she texts you about George’s kits. *raccoon emoji* *playground emoji*

  Ryan: Yeah…I do. Did you see her video of Pickle and his new trick with the rope swing in their yard?

  Clint: Seven times. ’Night, bro. Thanks for checking in. Tell Cassie thanks, too.

  Ryan: Will do. Good night. And good luck.

  Eleven

  Noelle

  I told the ghost I would give him private time tonight, but after Cassie drops me off—thankfully without pressing too hard about what happened with Clint—I’m restless.

  And when I’m restless, I need to bake…or edit pictures.

  But I can’t edit pictures, because I don’t have a computer that can handle image files that large anymore, which is fine because I’m fine with taking a break from photography.

  So it was a big part of my life for a long time. Big deal. People change and grow.

  I’m not shutting out life; I’m growing up and moving on—so take that, Clint O’Dell!

  No, I’m not going to think about Clint O’Dell. He lost the privilege to be in my brain space tonight.

  Instead, I’m going to bake my cares away.

  But I can’t bake at home. The house I’m renting has the world’s worst oven—blazing hot on the sides and freezing cold in the middle, with a tendency to emit strange puffs of black smoke from the back at random intervals, making me think there might be a dangerous hole in there somewhere.

  And I don’t need any more danger in my life right now.

  So I hop on my bike and ride the five blocks to the bakery in the crisp winter air. It’s cooler here than it was in Atlanta in the winter, but not too bad.

  Still, by the time I reach the bakery, my nose is frozen and my fingers are aching for a mug of something warm and sweet.

  Hot chocolate and butter cake dough straight from the bowl while the cupcakes are baking sound like the cure for what’s ailing me.

  I flick on the light by the back door, mentally ticking through the steps to the recipe—one that I thankfully have committed to memory. Then I see the open pantry doors and several large Tupperware containers of flour out on the prep station. One of them is open and tipped over on its side, spilling flour onto the table and the floor, making a mess someone has already stepped in.

  Stepped in and tracked across the kitchen, through the swinging gate into the front of the shop, and all the way to the front door.

  The front door that is unlocked and cracked an inch, even though I know I locked it behind me when I went out to meet Cassie at the curb earlier tonight…

  A shiver crawling up my spine on prickly spider feet, I set my keys and bag on the small table beside the bathroom and step cautiously into the space. It doesn’t seem like anyone’s here now, but I still make a careful walk through my kitchen, avoiding disturbing the prints.

  Half of me says I should call Clint—I mean, the sheriff, who’s actually the law, and not just the Law According to Memes—but there’s something fueling my veins that hasn’t been there before.

  Anger.

  It’s taken me months to start to belong here in Happy Cat. Cassie and Hope keep telling me people here are so welcoming, but this?

  This isn’t welcoming.

  And I’ve had enough.

  I grab a makeshift weapon and stalk down the hall to wrench open the bathroom door. It’s empty. Which is good, because I don’t think this wooden spoon will protect me against much, except I’m really freaking pissed, and I shouldn’t be underestimated right now.

  Check off one hiding spot.

  I give the walk-in fridge the same treatment, but there’s nothing but butter, cream, and the usual suspects hanging out in there.

  And also a super creepy sensation that says I’m not alone.

  “Who’s there?” I demand, turning in a slow circle. “I know you’re not a ghost. So come out. Show yourself. And let’s have some Christmas cookies and eggnog and talk about the spirit of the holiday before I call and turn your ass in to the sheriff.”

  No one moves.

  No one, that is, except for a light breeze stirring the flour from the table into an amorphous, ghostly apparition.

  It doesn’t have a face. Or a shape, really. It’s an amoeba ghost, but it’s there. Plain as day, and I swear I see brown hair and a blue shirt in it too. My skin crawls. My knees knock together. And my lungs are suddenly ice cold, frosting over and squeezing around my heart, which can’t pump fast enough.

  Brave moment over.

  Time to get the hell out of dodge.

  I sprint to the door and explode out of it, still clutching my wooden spoon in fingers that are frozen stiff with fear. But instead of wide open air leading to my bike, I once again hit—you guessed it—the solid brick wall of Clint O’Dell’s chest.

  “What are you doing here?” I gasp as I register the scent of pickles and—bread? A sandwich?

  “What’s wrong? What happened?”

  “Gho—no. Wait. What are you doing here?” My body alternates hot and cold, glad he’s here, and also in no mood to see him right now. “Are you stalking me?”

  I lift the wooden spoon, because I’m freaking the hell out, and I don’t want to be mad at him, but I am. And I don’t want to think about how he’s here every time there’s a problem, but now I am, and nothing makes sense.

  He lifts his hands in supplication, his eyes worried in the dim alley light. “I came to apologize. Stopped by your house, you weren’t there, so I— Did you say you saw a ghost?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know.” I try to run a hand through my hair in frustration, forget I’m holding the spoon, and bonk myself in the noggin with the flat wood. I also take two healthy steps back, which sets my skin to prickling again at being this close to the open door and the swirly flour ghost. “Someone trashed my flour.”

  There’s not much point in saying more. I don’t even get through trashed before Clint’s taking off for the bakery, shouting, “Call the sheriff,” over his shoulder. />
  I try to not roll my eyes, because ghost plus flour footprints plus actual crime evidence equals of course I was going to call the sheriff. As soon as I got a healthy distance from the ghost, that is.

  I don’t want to be here, with Clint playing hero again while I’m mad at him for tricking me into a kiss that hypnotized me into believing drowning was a good idea.

  But I need to make the phone call.

  So I do, while Clint does all those Marine things that have made him meme-worthy and I wait in the crisp, cold evening, with stars twinkling overhead like life hasn’t thrown one more grinch into the cupcake batter of the holiday season.

  Two hours later, I finish chatting with the sheriff and his deputy. They’ve covered everything from whether anyone from the neighboring stores—the accounting firm and Gigi’s bookstore—were in their shops when I got here, to what my favorite flavor of Tootsie Pop is.

  Or so it feels.

  But suddenly, Sheriff Briggs is done, flipping his notebook shut and heading toward his car. “We’ll run all the prints and see if we can get a match on the fingerprints or the shoes tomorrow. Let you know when we have an update. Probably best to lock up and head home.”

  I stare at his retreating form. Go home? Leave?

  While whoever did this to my bakery is still out there?

  Or…whatever is in the bakery is still in there?

  Clint shoves off the wall. He’s been quiet, letting the sheriff do his job, but I’ve known he was here the whole time.

  And I’ve also known that I feel better for him being here, because he’s truly an unbreakable superhero who scares off the baddies with a single glance.

  “Go home, Cupcake. I’ll stand watch.”

  I shake my head. “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  He doesn’t yes, I do me. He doesn’t have to.

  He’s meme-ing me with that cocked brow over his crossed arms. I swear he is.

  Clint O’Dell doesn’t need sleep. Sleep needs Clint O’Dell. Also, Clint O’Dell isn’t afraid of ghosts…

  You get the idea.

  I huff. “Fine.”

  “Thank you.”

  I think that’s supposed to be my line, but today has been a disaster, and I can’t think straight, and I haven’t had my butter cake batter or hot chocolate, and I’m trying.

  I’m trying really hard to hang on to my optimism and my cheer, but it’s hard tonight.

  I sigh and rub my eyes. “Thank you for—”

  “No thanks necessary,” he interrupts gruffly. “Go home. Get some rest. I got this.”

  Leaving him feels wrong. Like I should bake him a cookie or something before I go. I start mentally inventorying what I have in the fridge to offer him when he puts his hand on my shoulder, then just as quickly pulls it back.

  “Seriously, Noelle. It’ll all be better in the morning. Go on.”

  He doesn’t mention what happened in the barn, so I don’t either.

  I just nod, grab my bike, and head for home.

  And I’d like to say I fall into my bed and immediately pass out cold for eight solid hours, but it doesn’t work that way.

  Once I’m home, I’m able to remember that ghosts aren’t real. It was the wind and the flour and stress playing tricks on my eyes. And the sheriff said that whoever’s breaking into my bakery doesn’t seem intent on doing much more than causing mischief, or else they wouldn’t have taken off when I interrupted them.

  Which means my biggest remaining issue is that kiss in the barn.

  And every time I close my eyes, my subconscious plays it back.

  And it gets hotter. And naughtier.

  With me running my hands over Clint’s sculpted body. And licking every inch of his skin. He tastes like peppermint hot chocolate in my dreams, and when I reach into his waistband, his heavy, thick cock is everything I want.

  The only thing I want.

  It’s been so long, Clint, take me. Please take me.

  And he does. He takes me hot and hard on the prep table in my bakery, which becomes a fairytale bed in a winter cottage, and then from behind in the stall in the barn while Nutquacker and Don Juan watch, proving my sleeping brain is weird because my waking brain isn’t even a little bit interested in being watched by farm animals.

  It’s only interested in Clint O’Dell.

  I wake in a cold sweat.

  A cold, unsatisfied, frisky sweat.

  Why can’t I have sex dreams about someone else? A man who’s less likely to rip my heart to shreds if I let him in?

  I don’t know, but I know I need to do something to thank Clint for being a good friend.

  Right. A friend. How much longer are you going to keep lying to yourself about that one, Cupcake?

  The inner voice sounds like Clint O’Dell this morning. I’ve got the man on the brain and creeping into a corner of my heart. It’s dangerous, and even scarier than break-ins or ghosts.

  But my father didn’t raise a coward, and it’s time to face my fear. Head on.

  Twelve

  From the texts of Noelle Alwyn and Cassie O’Dell

  Cassie: Are you okay? I just heard the news about the break-in! *hug emoji*

  Noelle: I’m fine. Really. Thanks for checking in.

  Cassie: Of course! If you want someone to stay with you at the bakery today, let me know. Ryan’s busy this morning, and I’m a cheap coworker. I visit for cupcakes. *winking emoji*

  Noelle: LOL. I happen to have a big supply of those.

  Cassie: Ryan said Clint stood guard all night. The firefighters took him fruitcake to keep his strength up. He loves that stuff.

  Noelle: That’s so nice of them. And Clint. He didn’t have to stay, but I slept better knowing he was there. Mostly, anyway.

  Cassie: He’s so good in a crisis. I’m always amazed by the way he keeps his cool, even when things are getting really dangerous. Like when Hope’s alpaca was kidnapped and then the boat it was on caught fire and people almost drowned. Clint handled all of it—saving Chewy and getting everyone else to safety—with a smile. I swear, Hope says he was literally grinning the entire time.

  Noelle: That’s crazy. I mean, I heard about the alpaca-napping, but I didn’t realize it was such a big deal.

  Cassie: Yeah, it almost sounds funny, in retrospect. But it was a scary day.

  Thankfully, it all worked out in the end. I’m sure things will work out for you, too. The Happy Cat sheriff works a little slow sometimes, but now that he has actual evidence, I’m sure he’ll make it top priority. Did they find fingerprints?

  Noelle: With so many people coming in and out of the bakery in a day, half the town probably left prints on the front door. But they said there might be something by the pantry or in the kitchen that they can use. And they were nice enough to get someone in to dust for prints last night, so I’m clear to clean up the crime scene and get back to work this morning.

  Cassie: Crime scene. Ugh. I don’t like those two words together.

  Noelle: Me, either. But I also feel a little silly making a big deal out of this. Nothing was stolen and no one was hurt. Well, unless you count the senior citizens who suffered through a gas attack the other night thanks to the black bean flour someone added to my all-purpose bin.

  Cassie: What? No way! That’s weirdly diabolical. And just…weird.

  Noelle: I know, right? I can’t be one-hundred percent sure that’s what happened, but the sheriff found a bag of black bean flour stashed under the prep table last night. We don’t know if it’s left over from the first break-in, or if he or she or the ghost—haha—came back to do it again.

  Cassie: Wow. *shocked emoji* At least he—or she—didn’t stay to confront you. Have you thought about getting a taser or something? Just until this is sorted out?

  Noelle: No, but maybe I should? I just don’t get it. I don’t have that many friends in Happy Cat, but I don’t think I’ve made any enemies either. Why woul
d someone want to sabotage my business?

  Cassie: It happens. *frowny face emoji* On one of my first video game design projects, my team had a project hacked just a few weeks before release. The jerks put a bug in our code that delayed our launch. Meanwhile, they tweaked our project just enough to avoid a lawsuit and published it themselves.

  Noelle: Assholes! What did you do?

  Cassie: There wasn’t much we could do except publish our version, hope for the best, and increase security. The other company was based out of Russia and known for stealing intellectual property, but it’s nearly impossible to prosecute internationally for stuff like that.

  Noelle: That’s such bullshit. I’m so sorry that happened to you.

  Cassie: I’m sorry this is happening to you! Especially in our sweet little town. But even sweet towns have bad apples in the barrel sometimes, you know? Anywhere else, I’d wonder if it was someone out to take down the competition.