Humbugged

by Pippa Grant

  He arches a brow. “So? My brothers have heard worse. And said worse. No choir boys in my family, Cupcake. Which you’ll see up close and personal tomorrow night once the magical snow makes its appearance.”

  “The magical snow? I thought the Snowman part of Snowmen After Dark was hypothetical.”

  “Ah, did somebody forget who she’s talking to? Those memes exist for a reason. I’m gonna make it snow tomorrow, and when I do, we will be seeing who can write their name in pee in it the fastest. It’s not a matter of if, but when.”

  I stretch my arm over my head, easing the tightness creeping into my left side. “That’s fine. Pee in the snow all you want. Dirty talk all you want. Just not about us.” A rogue thought streaks through my head, stopping me in my tracks. “You haven’t told anyone about this, have you? I assumed we were keeping you and me between you and me.”

  Clint exhales heavily and his knees pump up and down even faster. “No, Cupcake. I haven’t told anyone. Why would I?”

  “I don’t know. Guys like to talk about who they’re banging with other guys, don’t they?”

  “Thought you knew me better than that.”

  “I do.” A knot forms in my stomach that has nothing to do with my brief run. “I don’t know why I said that, I just…” I sigh. “I’ve never had a fling before. I guess I don’t know exactly what I’m doing.”

  “We’re having fun, and you’re avoiding getting emotionally invested in a guy who doesn’t check all your Perfect Man boxes,” he says without a trace of irritation or resentment. “And come New Year’s Eve, we’ll part ways as friends and no one else will know we were ever anything but friends. I can keep a secret. Even from my family. Even on Snowmen After Dark night.” His brows lift and a challenging note enters his voice as he adds, “I think you’re the one who’s going to have a hard time. Think you’ll be able to keep your hands off of me for three whole hours in a row?”

  I smile sweetly. “I can handle anything you can handle. Though I am planning to wear my red V-neck sweater tomorrow so…”

  His flushed face pales and his high-knee rhythm falters for a beat. “No. You can’t wear that sweater. That would be torture, woman.”

  “No, that’s fashion, Clint.” I curl my gloved hands into fists as I toss my ponytail over my shoulder. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m trying to run.”

  He chuckles as I jog off at a pace slightly faster than a speed walk, but still plenty slow enough for him to literally run circles around me.

  By the time we make it down to the abandoned clown school, through the subdivision nearby, and back to Second Chance—a distance he assures me is just barely three miles, but which feels like a marathon and a half to my out of shape lungs—he’s easily run twice the distance I have and probably could have run it five times faster if he’d really been trying.

  Still, he claps me on the back and says, “Good work, Private Cupcake. We’ll have you clocking a thirty-minute 5k before spring. No doubt in my mind.”

  Panting heavily, I collapse onto the bakery’s front stoop, my legs so much jelly donut filling. “No. Please no. No more running. We did the running already.”

  His smile is adorably amused and sympathetic at the same time. “That’s not how getting in shape works, sexy.”

  “I don’t want to be in shape.” And I never will be, because I’m never catching my breath again. It’s gone. Poof. Disappeared. Stolen by the Ghost of Christmas Bad Ideas. Which is fine. The ghost can have my breath, so long as he leaves me Clint. “I was hoping the suffering would make time slow down. But I don’t want time to slow down this much.” I brace my elbows on my knees and drop my head between them, sucking wind until I’m finally able to inhale without my lungs feeling like they’re catching fire.

  Finally, I lift my head to find him watching me with an unfamiliar expression on his face.

  “What?” I swipe my cheeks. “Am I bright red?”

  “You’re not bright red.”

  “I feel bright red.”

  “You’re pink. A cute pink,” he says softly. “So why were you wanting time to slow down?”

  I wish I could lie easily, but honesty is another thing my dad drilled into me. Usually self-preservation can convince me a white lie is okay, provided no one else gets hurt, but I can’t do it. I can’t lie to Clint. He deserves the truth. “It feels like our time together is going by awfully fast.”

  “Way too fast.” He crouches down in front of me, bringing his face level with mine, not breathing hard at all. Clint O’Dell doesn’t get winded. The wind gets Clint O’Dell-ed. “But what can we do about it? Rules are rules.”

  I make a non-committal sound low in my throat, and he shakes his head. “No, Cupcake. Stop it.”

  My lips curve. He has a mean game face, but I don’t buy it. “Stop what?”

  “Stop trying to talk me into extending this arrangement to Valentine’s Day. That’s six whole more weeks. Think of the damage we could do to each other with six more weeks to play.”

  I feel my eyes light up and for a second I think he’s fighting a smile, but when he speaks again, his tone is Sunday-morning sober. “No. It’s too much. If I have you in my bed that long, I’m going to learn every secret trick to making you come and you’ll get even better at riding my face than you are already and that doesn’t seem fair to anyone.”

  I prop my elbow on my knee and my chin on my fist. “How’s that?”

  “It’s unfair to all the men you’ll bang after me. The poor bastards will have to work their asses off to live up to the mind-bending pleasure I’ve bestowed upon you.”

  “Bestowed?” Can the man be any more unintentionally attractive? “Good word.”

  “Thank you. And it’s unfair to me because I love it when a woman rides my face and you already do it better than anyone ever has. If you get any better, I don’t know where that leaves me. How do I stare down a future like that, I ask you?”

  I will my lips to turn down at the sides in the face of his so-very-forlorn, so-very-hot somberness. “Well, you’d have to be very brave.”

  “Very brave,” he agrees.

  “You’d probably have to be one of the bravest people in the world. One of the few, the chosen…” I sigh. “I guess you’d have to be a Marine.”

  “Well, shit,” he whispers. “I am a Marine. I guess that changes things, doesn’t it?”

  “I think maybe it does.” I try to match his mock seriousness, but I’m too giddy at the thought of having six more weeks with Clint to stop smiling. So long as I don’t overthink the wisdom—or lack thereof—of growing any closer to this adorable goofball, watching me with a mixture of confidence and hope that is charming in the extreme, I can’t imagine frowning again. “So until Valentine’s Day, then?”

  He nods. “But we still don’t tell anyone. I mean, hanging out for a couple of months isn’t a big deal. Nothing anyone needs to know about.”

  “Agreed.” I fight the urge to throw my arms around his neck. Not being able to make out in public is one major downside to our arrangement, but luckily we’re never too far from one of our houses.

  Or the bakery.

  I tip my head over my shoulder. “Want to go inside and kiss before we head back to my place to shower?”

  He grins. “We should definitely go seal the new deal. Plus, the thought of five minutes in the car without your lips on mine was killing my runner’s high.”

  “And we wouldn’t want that.” I stand on still-trembling legs and pull my keys from my fleece jacket’s pocket. “Though I think I have a runner’s low.”

  “That’s just your body adjusting to your newfound awesome. Give me a month of regular runs and you’ll feel so good you’ll never go back to low-cardio-impact bike riding again.”

  I make a dubious sound and reach for the door, but stop when I see that it’s already ajar. “Oh, no,” I whisper. “I know I closed and locked it behind me.”

  Instantly Clint is in front of me, tucking me behind him. “D
id you arm the alarm?”

  I clutch the back of his running shirt. “I think so. I’m ninety percent sure? Or maybe eighty? I’ve been kind of spacy lately.”

  “It’s okay. Step back and wait on the sidewalk. Don’t come in until I give you the all-clear.”

  “I’m sure it’s fine, Clint,” I say, amending as an afterthought. “Or at least not all that dangerous.”

  No sooner are the words out of my mouth than something heavy drops from above the door to land with a thud on the floor just inside the bakery. An instant later, the air is filled with white powder, billowing out to coat everything it touches—Clint, me, the bakery’s front stoop, and every inch of the tables inside.

  He turns back to me, his angry eyes the only dark spot in the wash of white covering his face. “Looks like someone didn’t get the message to leave you alone.”

  My runner’s low is quickly turning to all-out despair.

  So much is going right in my life. I’ve found a new family here in Happy Cat. I love baking every day. I love feeling like I fit in.

  But I don’t.

  Not really.

  Even Clint—the brightest spot in my life—is temporary. “It’s just a flour bomb,” I say, as much to myself as to him while I swipe the flour dust from my upper lip and fight the urge to cry.

  Not at the mess, but at the fact that someone wants me to falter.

  To fail.

  To feel so unwelcome in Happy Cat that I close up shop and leave town.

  “I’m not giving up,” I shout in a thick voice, on the off chance the person who did this is close enough to hear me. And for my own benefit. I do belong here. I do. “You can keep at this as long as you want, but I’m not giving up or shutting down so you might as well save yourself the trouble.”

  “And when I find out who you are, I’m going to hold you upside down over a pit of burning coals until your sweat and tears put them out,” Clint adds, reaching over to give my fingers a squeeze.

  I cling to his big hand, so grateful that he’s here. And on my side. “Thank you,” I whisper, pressing up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “You’re my favorite person in Happy Cat.”

  He hugs me close. “Ditto. Now go wait on the sidewalk and call the sheriff while I have a quick look around inside.”

  Not a chance. When it comes to my poor floundering business, I’m bad at doing what I’m told. I just want to rush in and protect it, the way I’d protect a friend or family member.

  So instead of being safe on the sidewalk when Clint pushes inside, I’m right there beside him, in time to witness the last letter of a single word being scrawled in the flour dust on the floor.

  Reindeer—it reads.

  If my ghost had written anything else, I probably would have run out of the bakery screaming. But something about that word, combined with the fact that I’m currently with the town’s reindeer whisperer, makes me laugh.

  And laugh and laugh until Clint starts laughing too.

  We’re both still losing it when the sheriff and his deputy show up fifteen minutes later to take our statements.

  But we sober quickly as the sheriff runs through the normal questions, takes pictures, and looks for prints that might’ve been left behind. Then he shakes his head and says they still don’t have much to go on, and my mood goes full-on morose.

  By the time he departs, I’m feeling lower than I have in weeks and facing down one hell of a mess.

  A mess someone made to remind me that I don’t fit in around here as well as I’d like to…

  “You ever eat glue?” Clint asks as we study the flour coating the bakery.

  “What?” The question is so out of left field, I start laughing again.

  “Flour goes in glue, right? We could take this flour bomb and make glue out of it. And then glue Ryan, Jace, and Blake’s gloved fingers together so they can’t beat our snowman tomorrow night." He wiggles his eyebrows, but I can tell it’s forced. “What do you say, Cupcake?”

  This man.

  Without him here, I’d probably be headed home to eat raw cookie dough and binge-watch NCIS, just to yell at the TV during all the parts where the military uniforms and protocol are wrong.

  But here he is, doing his best to keep a positive outlook for both of us. Like he can overcome the frustration and anger through sheer strength of will. For my sake.

  Doing what’s hard instead of what’s easy. By choice.

  And if he’s willing to fake it till he makes it, then I can do the same. No matter how long it takes.

  But as we set to work tidying up, I make a mental note to let him know, when the time feels right, that he doesn’t have to be so strong all the time. Sometimes it’s okay to be sad or need a shoulder to lean on.

  I’d really like to be that shoulder. And maybe I can be. Maybe Clint and I will stay good friends after our benefits are tucked back on the shelf.

  But even as the thought drifts through my head, my heart twists fitfully in my chest, insisting it doesn’t want to be friends with this man.

  It wants to be all in—no faking it required.

  Eighteen

  Clint

  I had plans for Noelle tonight that didn’t involve fighting a losing battle against flour dust, but she needs fun. And so after shooting a quick text to Jace to ask him to pass on the latest ghost news to Olivia, who wants to be kept in the loop, I reach deep inside me to find the cheer and positivity people expect from me.

  I’d rather be throttling this prankster with my bare hands. Or with a rope I’ve fashioned out of old flour bags. Whichever will hurt more.

  And I will. Soon.

  But first, I have a Cupcake to cheer up.

  I blow out a slow breath while her back is turned, surveying the endless amounts of flour on the floor.

  And the chairs.

  And the tables.

  And underneath the counter.

  And in between every fucking key on Noelle’s ancient cash register.

  But not on the floor where it spells out Reindeer.

  I’m still not sure I believe in ghosts—Noelle swears she saw the last ‘r’ in reindeer being traced through the dust as we stepped inside, but I was too busy looking for snipers in the kitchen to notice—but I believe in payback.

  Boy, do I believe in payback.

  “Making glue sounds like fun, but I can think of other things I’d rather do with you as soon as we’re done here.” Noelle pulls a broom and a mop from a small utility closet in the kitchen. “Choose your weapon, sir.”

  “Mop.” Let her use the broom—it’ll be easier for her.

  “Clint O’Dell can’t simply stare a mess into submission?” she teases.

  I glare at the flour.

  It doesn’t move.

  But Noelle laughs, and that makes it worth the strength it’s taking to keep on a happy face.

  “Hey.” Instead of handing me the mop, she slides close, wrapping her arms around my waist. “It’s okay to be angry, you know. Or frustrated. Or whatever you’re feeling.”

  I go stiff. People don’t usually see through me. My game face must be slipping. I force a brighter smile. “Nah, I’m good. No worries, Cupcake.”

  “I’m not worried,” she says, holding my gaze. “I just want you to know you don’t have to pretend with me. You said you liked the truth, right? Well, I do too. I like it, and I can handle it. Even when it’s not pretty.”

  I take a deeper breath, holding it as I consider her words. Finally, I let the forced cheer fade from my expression. “I just hate that this guy is hurting you, upsetting you, making you feel unwelcome here.” I shrug. “But I can’t fix it. I’m not actually Chuck Norris good.”

  Her lips curve. “You’re Clint O’Dell good. That’s better.”

  My heart swells before settling into a deeper rhythm that tells me I’m definitely in trouble. “Not right now.”

  She nods. “Yes. Right now. There’s no one I’d rather clean up with. Especially if we can brainstorm all the horrible
things we’d like to do to the jerk who made this mess in the process.”

  I perk up. I’m down for this game. “Tie him up and make him eat mustard and maple syrup smoothies until he pukes.”

  “Blindfold him and stick his hand in a bowl of actual worms. Not cold pasta that we’re pretending is worms. Real worms.”

  “Not dark enough, Cupcake. A bowl of snakes.”

  She shivers. “No. I can’t do that. Not even to a bad guy.”

  “Baby snakes?”

  “Nope.”

  “Even if you knew they weren’t poisonous?”

  She shakes her head. “Not even then. Snakes are just too creepy. But I’d lock him in a room with Nutquacker and let him teach the guy a lesson. Some people think the goose got his name because he was born on Christmas, but Hope told me the real story.”

  She pulls back, and I instantly feel the loss of her touch. “Alright, Mr. Meme. Let’s get to work so we can salvage the rest of this night.”

  Now that’s a plan I can get behind. “Bet I can clear more square footage than you can.”

  “Bet I can sing Christmas carols louder while I’m sweeping.”

  “Oh, you want to put some stakes on that? Because you’re going down, Cupcake.”

  “Hmm… going down.” Her eyes glitter. “Maybe that should be the stakes.”

  “You’re on.”

  We race to opposite corners of the bakery and get to work. But flour is a mighty foe. Just when you think you’ve got it, you find another layer of dust.

  By the time it’s clean enough for normal mortal standards—the Marine in me is still twitching—it’s so late that downtown is deserted, we’ve both lost the battle to pretend we’re having fun, and I can admit that I’m wiped.

  Mostly because Noelle made it clear that it’s okay for me to show my mortal side. It’s not something I do very often, but with her…it feels good.

  Right.

  “Stick a fork in me,” I say, leaning my wrung-out mop against the wall. “I’m done.”