Christmas on Main Collection

Chapter 1

Chapter One

ALLEGRA

“Do you think this is enough tinsel?”

I glance up from the spreadsheet on my laptop screen to find my sister hanging over the side of the ladder.

With enough tinsel to wrap around the giant fir tree being set up in the town square and still have plenty to spare.

“Is that a rhetorical question?” I ask.

“I’m serious.” Aurora leans even farther over the edge to drape more from the curtain rod. “I want our display window to pop.”

“Oh, it’s going to pop. Hey, careful!” The legs of the ladder wobble and I’m up, knocking my stool over as I race around the counter. Heart in my throat, I steady the ladder. “What have I told you about ladder safety?”

“I’m being perfectly safe.”

“If by perfectly safe you mean completely reckless?—”

“How was I being reckless?”

I take a deep breath slowly through my nose to keep my tone in check. “You weren’t maintaining three points of contact.”

“I totally was.”

“How many times do I have to tell you? Resting your boobs on the top cap does not count for two of your three points of contact.”

She wiggles her eyebrows. “They could when you fill a bra as well as I do.”

Ha. As if I don’t fill out my bra every bit as well as she does. It’s both a blessing and a curse we inherited from our mom’s side of the family. Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure even Aunt Doris was packing a fairly full bust. And our signature extra curvy hips and behind.

Though, I doubt she ever had to have a conversation like this with anyone who worked here. Or sisters for that matter.

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I sigh. “I wish you would take this seriously.”

“And I wish you’d lighten up. Or maybe go out on a date or two.”

“What does my love life have to do with our store?”

“Nothing besides the fact that being wined and dined—and maybe even felt up and kissed a little—would put you in a much better mood. Which in turn would make my life a million times easier.”

I frown, my brow furrowing in a way that will surely leave me in dire need of Botox one day. “Slips, trips, and falls are the leading cause of workplace injuries.”

“Don’t worry. I promise not to file for worker’s comp if I fall.”

“I don’t care about worker’s comp. I care about you breaking your neck.”

“Aww.” She makes her way down the ladder and hops off when she reaches the second rung from the bottom. “It’s nice you care about me more than OSHA reports.”

“Of course, I care,” I mumble, shaking the vision of my sister in a heap at the bottom of the ladder out of my head.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” I take another breath, this time to settle the jitters in my stomach. The ones that suddenly appeared once there was no longer anything to be scared about. “I’m going to take the trash out. I don’t want it sitting in here while we’re closed tomorrow.”

While it’s tempting to work through the holiday, our parents are driving up from L.A. to spend Thanksgiving with us.

“Okay. I’m going to put up some more decorations.”

I arch a brow. “Do we really need more?”

“As you pointed out, the Christmas season officially begins the day after tomorrow.”

“And?”

She rolls her eyes. “It could be one of our biggest sales days of the season.”

“And hanging more tinsel will give us more sales?”

She lifts a shoulder. “It couldn’t hurt.”

While I’m doubtful it’ll make much of a difference, I suppose she’s right. It couldn’t hurt. Besides, we are a year-round Christmas store. We might as well pull out all the stops during the most wonderful—and most profitable—time of the year.

“Fine. Knock yourself out.” I perch my fists on my hips and do my best impersonation of our mom. “Just stay off of the ladder until I’m back.”

She waves me off and turns to the pile of paper snowflakes she’s been cutting for the past month.

Leaving her to decorate, I grab the trash from the storeroom and drag it out the door to the alley. I heft up the overstuffed bag with a grumble. We really need to not let the trashcan get so full. Especially if I’m going to be the one who ends up taking it out to the dumpster most of the time.

Tightening my grip on the bag, I do my best not to let it drag on the ground or rub up against the brick exterior. The last thing I need right now is to have it break on me. We all know who will have to clean it up.

Plus, I’m pretty sure Aurora’s science fair project—also known as her three-week-old Chinese takeout leftovers—is at the top of the pile. I cringe, imagining even one drop of that landing on me. I’d probably have to take at least three showers to get the stench off.

Nevermind what it’ll do to my clothes.

I push the lid on the dumpster open and with all my muscles—and a silent prayer to the maker of our trash bags—I hoist the bag up and in.

Without so much as springing a single leak.

Hallelujah! I pump a fist in the air. It’s a freaking Christmas miracle. “And all the angels sang—what the hell?”

Amid my celebration, I watch—in horror—as a camper pulling an absolutely ginormous flatbed full of Christmas trees pulls into our lot and comes to a complete stop.

“Oh, no.” I plant my fists on my hips. “This is not where you’re going to park for the night, my dude.”

We’re expecting a crowd of customers to arrive Friday morning. The last thing we need is to come into work that morning and find a bunch of stray pinecones and needles all over the damn place.

This driver will just have to pick some other vacant lot for squatting tonight.

I’m already across the lot, ready to give said driver his marching orders when the camper’s door opens. A tall, bearded man with a flannel shirt and a beanie on his head hops out.

“Afternoon.” He gives me a nod and turns, leaving me to stare at his back. His broad, muscular back ripples as he untethers the trees tied down on the flatbed. Showing his strength with every moment.

There’s something familiar about him. The way he carries himself. The sheer swagger paired with palpable masculinity would have a lesser woman’s mouth watering. I rub my suddenly dry lips together. My pulse quickens as I become all too aware of his broad shoulders.

Surely I’d remember meeting a man like him.

My blood sugar must be low. Or maybe I need a caffeine boost. Because I stand staring at his back, appreciating the movement while the scent of pine clings to the air, for a full minute before I fully process what he’s doing.

He’s untying the trees and setting them in the lot. Our shop’s lot.

“Wait.” I shake my head, snapping myself from my stupor. “What are you doing?”

He barely spares me a glance. “Untying the trees.”

“I can see that. But why?”

“So the branches don’t get crushed.”

“But—”

“Customers tend to prefer their trees uncrushed.”

I blink, my unexpected fascination with him vanishing with every second. What is this guy’s deal?

“Excuse me,” I say more loudly, my words more clipped. I wait until he pauses and turns to give me his full—or at least partial—attention. “I’ll repeat my question: What are you doing?” He sighs and opens his mouth. I hold up a hand before he can speak. “And before you say you’re untying the trees again, I’ll clarify. Why are you untying—and unloading—your trees in my lot?”

He gives me an appraising look, his bearded face showing no expression. “You’re one of Doris’s nieces.”

My heart hitches at the intensity of his stare. Do his eyes have to be so piercing? “How did you know that?”

“Everyone in town knows she left her shop to two nieces.” He cocks his head to the side. “Which one are you?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business. Especially when you haven’t told me who you are and why you’re trespassing on my property.”

“I have my answer.” His lips quirk up into a smirk. “You’re Allegra. The older, pushier one.”

I gasp. How dare he. “I’ll give you five minutes to get out of here or I’ll call the police.”

“It won’t do you much good.” His eyes sparkle, and I wish he wasn’t so freaking sexy. It would make being stern with him so much easier.

And I need to be stern with him. Our business—and maybe even our personal safety—is at stake.

I once again register his size. He’s at least eight or nine inches taller than me. His callused, broad hands also look like they have quite a grip.

My eyes grow wide. Oh, God. What if he’s a serial killer? The Christmas trees would be the perfect cover of innocence. Not to mention a perfect place for hiding my body.

“Steady there.” His smirk disappears. His dark brows knit together in concern. “You need to take a breath or you’re going to hyperventilate.”

Somehow, his deep voice and words are oddly soothing. That only makes him more dangerous. Though not in the serial killer sense.

“Why are you here?”

“To set up my Christmas tree stand.”

I shake my head. “You can’t just pick any random lot to sell your trees. You need a permit.”

“I have one.” He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a couple folded sheets of paper. “Here’s my permit from town hall. And this”—he hands me the second sheet—“is my contract with your aunt. I’m Van. Van Fox.”

Jaw slack, I scan over both documents. There it is. His name—and my aunt’s—in print. Van Fox. F-O-X. These papers look legit and completely legal.

Legal.

That word reminds me of where I’ve seen him. He was walking into the lawyer’s office the day Aurora and I learned we’d inherited the shop.

And now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure there was a copy of this agreement in the folder Mr. Griffith gave us. There’s been so much thrown at us in the last thirty days it was inevitable something would slip through the cracks.

“How annoying,” I mumble. Everything about this is annoying. Losing our parking lot to a vendor during our busiest time of year. Having said vendor look like a model that stepped out of an outdoor wear catalog.

The fact that even though he has all the signs of being a jerk, he’s ridiculously hot.

“What a mess.”

Van rolls his eyes. “Has anyone ever told you that you should calm down?”