Scrooge

3. Haylee

3

HAYLEE

I pull out the third box and scramble through the contents, a little rougher than necessary.

“You are going to break something,” Jillian mumbles from where she stands at the counter, looking over delivery dockets.

“I’m frustrated,” I say on an exhale, throwing a plush turkey across the room. I am honest with my sister because I know she feels it too. This store is all we know. We grew up here. Tucker Toys is our life. I look at the corner of the reading nook where I fell and chipped my tooth. I spot the markings on the wall from where Dad used to measure our height as kids. The smell, the sounds, my entire childhood is here, and I don’t want to lose it.

“I know. Me too,” she says, sighing.

“There has to be something we can do,” I mumble as I unpack another box, not seeing the thing that I want.

“I don’t think so. Dad would have found it already if there was.” She couldn’t hide the melancholy in her voice if she tried.

“But we can’t just give up and roll over and let him do this.” I have no idea who this son is, but there has to be a way to make him see reason.

“We have no choice. We are David. He is Goliath. You know how these things go. Big business always wins.” She shrugs her shoulders, seemingly ready to give up.

“You’re missing a very important detail, though…” I tell her as I look up at her from where I sit on the floor.

“What?” she huffs, like I am annoying her. I’m her little sister and annoying her has been my job since I was born. But this is different.

“David killed Goliath in the end.” Proving my point with a quirked eyebrow, she rolls her eyes at me.

“What are you looking for anyway?” Her attention goes back to the paperwork in front of her.

“Do you remember that light-up pumpkin we had? The one that glowed in that soft butterscotch kind of color,” I ask her, my head now buried in the box of props and decorations we have for the windows. After Dad’s news this afternoon, he and Mom left to go home, while Jillian and I stayed to finish up. With Thanksgiving not too far away, I wanted to get started on the windows before the shop gets too busy and I miss the opportunity to do them the way I’ve been envisioning.

“We took it home, remember? It’s in Kendall’s room.” Jillian purses her lips with remorse, and I give her a smile, thinking of my little niece whom I adore.

“Oh, yeah, I forgot about that. But if my niece wants a pumpkin lamp, then that is okay with me.” Pushing up from the floor, I dust off my clothes.

“We can bring it in tomorrow?” Jillian offers.

“It’s fine, really. I don’t need it; I’ll make do.” I grab the box and lug it to the front, setting up the fake mantelpiece and placing a mix of colored and glittered decor pumpkins around with some of our latest toy selection. I get lost in my creative process. Matching colors, sizes, ensuring I put out toys that we have a lot of stock of, as well as the latest and greatest craze. Anything to draw people in.

“I just need to go out the back to grab the new stock,” my sister yells, already halfway down the end of the shop.

“No worries!” I yell back as I try to take in the placement of things. The window displays and overall merchandising of the store are my domain. It is something that my mother used to manage and now she has passed down her skills to me. While my sister looks after customer service and stock, my dad still handles the finances, and I get to be creative.

We only have one small window at the front of my shop, but we have multiple small rooms inside, each decorated differently depending on the theme of the month. So while I will put together the Thanksgiving window tonight, the other rooms will get the same treatment over the next few days. Making the store look like a fairy-tale land is what makes many people come to visit us. As soon as you step inside Tucker Toys, it is a magical place for kids and their families to enjoy.

Knowing that this could be my last Thanksgiving window display has me wanting to make it even bigger and better than ever. An idea pops into my head to grab a train set and have it run circles around the pumpkins on the ground. Stepping back a little more to get a better view, I still can’t see the full visual, so I’ll need to step outside. Even though it is now nearly dark and the rain is starting.

Jumping over the mess of props and boxes, I dash out the front door quickly. Too quickly, in fact, because I slip on the wet cement and stub my toe on the potted topiary at the entrance, almost face-planting onto the sidewalk.

“Ouch… ow!” I grit out as I hop around on one foot, grabbing my sore toe, my eyes squeezed together, holding my breath for a beat as the initial sting dissipates. This day keeps getting worse and worse.

“Watch where you’re going,” I hear a deep voice grumble, and I scream.

My eyes fly open wide, and my hop turns into what can only be described as a jump-step dance move that would probably look cool on a dance floor back in the eighties, but here, on the sidewalk of a busy New York City street, it doesn’t have the same effect.

“Shit, are you having a seizure or something?” he mumbles dryly as I stumble on my feet, looking up at the man who frowns back at me. His lips are thin, his chiseled jaw clenched, and he’s so tall he looms over me. He is somewhat familiar-looking, although I don’t know him. He is too polished, too perfect, and too suited to be anyone I know. His dark hair is pushed back from his face, small drops of rain misting his glossy strands, his teeth white and perfect. Only, his smile is absent, and my heart is now racing as he watches me.

“No, I am not having a seizure!” I snap at him, getting my bearings as I stand as solidly as I can on my feet, the sting in my toe now subsiding. Wondering if he is friend or foe, I size him up.

“Well, who steps out into a dark street, jumping around like a deranged lunatic?” Like I stress him out, his black leather-gloved hand runs through his hair, wiping it back as he stands at full height. His eyes are dark, but glistening, and while I don’t think patience is one of his qualities, he is looking very much like a fairy-tale prince right now. This man is devastatingly handsome and in full control. Not a hair out of place. Not a mark on him.

I push my own hair back off my face. I straightened it this morning, but I already feel it starting to frizz, my naturally curly hair bouncing back at the first sign of rain. I have dust on my jeans and chipped nails from sitting and riffling through the boxes of props.

“This is New York. There are lunatics everywhere!” is all I can say as I snap out of my moment of insecurity and get back to being pissed. This man has some nerve being so rude. I didn’t even bump into him!

“You came out of nowhere!”

“I came out of here, dickwad. Or are you just walking around the city with your eyes glued to the ground?” I snarl, throwing my hands at the shop, and his eyes thin. He might be good-looking, but his personality leaves a lot to be desired.

“Dickwad?” he huffs. “Classy,” he says pointedly, and my anger rises. Sure, maybe my language skills are learned from the ten-year-old boys who come into the store fighting over the last laser gun, instead of the Oxford Dictionary this guy must read, but I stand firm. He is a dickwad.

“Considering you haven’t apologized and or ensured that I’m uninjured, I am guessing class isn’t one of your best qualities either,” I say with a tilt of my head.

His eyes glide down to my toes and back up again, and I am not sure why, but my body heats under his gaze. My mouth dries a little as my heart thuds harder in my chest.

“I thought this store closed years ago. Don’t know why you bother,” he quips, and I squeeze my fingers together, the urge to punch him in the face coming on strong. I notice the rain drops now pearling on his coat at his shoulders. They run across and drip off him as he leans forward, looking in my half-designed window. As he does, the glow from the shop casts him in a little more light, and my breaths catch in my throat. His eyes dart to mine, and I stand still, frozen in place. I have no idea who he is, but I am pretty sure a front cover of a magazine is calling because he is too damn hot.

“What do you mean, why bother?” I ask, giving him the benefit of the doubt.

“This street will be full of condos soon. Apartments, retail. Can’t you see the progress going on around you?” As he steps back into the darkness, I look around like I am seeing it all for the first time. He’s right. Our shop looks almost comical sitting between two very large high-rise buildings. The florist across the road from us shut down months ago and is already demolished, with apartments taking its place.

“Soon, there will be no heart left in this city,” I murmur as my eyes settle back on him, as he watches me carefully. His jaw ticks, and if that isn’t the sexiest thing I have ever seen in real life, I don’t know what is. When my eyes flick back to meet his again, he’s still watching me, like he is trying to figure me out. I raise an eyebrow in question, making him clear his throat.

“Just watch where you’re going next time.” Pocketing his hands, he scowls at me as he starts to walk past. But I can’t help myself as my mouth speaks for me once more.

“You are the one with the eyesight problem,” I mutter, crossing my hands over my chest. I shiver a little. I hadn’t noticed it before, but the rain is now coming down heavily. My hair sticks to the side of my face, and my shirt is becoming soaked. But I don't move. I grit my teeth and give him my best death stare. I am not going to be pushed around by some asshole in a suit. It’s happened to me before, and I’m not going to let it happen again. The ding of bells from cyclists nearby and the honk of horns all assault my ears, but I hear him when he replies.

“Just one of many, apparently.” He sighs. “Get inside, you’re getting wet.”

I swallow harshly at his demand. Kindness sneaks through, even though he’s already walking away from me. I stand there in the rain, watching his back as he makes his way farther down the street. There are businessmen around here sometimes. Usually at lunch, but never at night. Not walking in the rain like this. They usually have cars and drivers and security. It has me questioning my impression of him.

My eyes stay on him until he gets to the end of the street and turns the corner. But not before he glances back, his face shrouded in shadows, but I know he is looking at me. He tips his head sideways, indicating for me to go inside, and I nod in understanding as I take a step toward the shop.

Maybe he’s not just an asshole in a suit. Maybe he just had a bad day too.