The Christmas Box (The Box Books #2)

5. December 5

December 5

Lexi

T he Christmas Box is quiet—too quiet—but after another two inches of snow overnight, what do I expect? “I never thought I’d be mad about snow at Christmastime,” I say to Dara, “but this needs to stop.”

We stand side by side behind the long mahogany counter, sprucing up some signs we’ve just made.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “They’ve cleared the roads and it’s still early—business will pick up.” Then she motions to the sheet of white construction paper she’s written on in tidy blue print. “What do you think?”

I take a look.

Instructions:

1. Drop your wish inside our wishing box.

2. Believe in Christmas magic.

I smile. “Yes,” I say. “Perfect.”

My own sign is bigger—with curly lettering on white poster board. The words Wishing Box and an arrow are surrounded by silver foil stars I cut out by hand. Dara also printed out slips of paper, with spots for a name and My wish , to place next to the box.

“Now all we need is the box.” I have no idea when to expect it—I didn’t specify a day, and I haven’t a clue how long it will take, especially since Travis has plenty else to deal with right now. Plus, I still don’t know if he can really be counted on for this. But I’m hoping it will show up soon. Maybe I’ll drop in a wish for it to stop snowing already.

“Um, believe it or not,” Dara says, “I think it’s crossing the street right now.”

Following her gaze, I find Travis Hutchins heading our way, carrying the most beautiful, intricately-carved wooden box I’ve ever seen. I rush from behind the bar to the door, holding it open for him. And the closer the box gets, the more breathtaking it becomes. I gasp at the sight.

“I believe you ordered a magical wishing box,” he says, toting it across the threshold.

I’m truly awestruck and can’t take my eyes off it. It’s a hand-crafted piece of art. I’d think it was antique if I didn’t know he just made it. Despite myself, I can’t hide my reaction. “Travis, it’s amazing! You made this in just the past couple of days? It looks like it belongs in an art gallery.”

“So it’s magical enough for you?”

I’ve cleared a small table for it, which I motion to. “It’s beyond magical! Isn’t it beyond magical, Dara?”

“Oh, completely beyond,” she agrees, but I mainly think she’s making fun of me.

As he lowers the gorgeous box to its new home, I remember my manners and ask, “Have you met my favorite employee, Dara Burch?”

“I’m your only employee,” she reminds me, one brow arched in my direction.

I simply offer up a smile and a shrug.

“I think I’ve paid her for coffee a couple of times,” Travis replies, glancing toward her, “but not officially. Travis Hutchins.” He gives her a nod.

“Nice to meet you. And nice work on the box. It’s putting a much-needed smile back on Lexi’s face.”

He swings his gaze in my direction. “What’s wrong?”

Another shrug from me, probably a discouraged-looking one, and this time without the smile. “Guess I’m just hoping word will get out about our wishing box and then people will flock from far and wide to shop here.”

He casts me a sidelong glance. “Wait a minute. This from the woman who lives on holiday cheer all year long? Don’t tell me the Grinch snuck in and stole your Christmas.”

“It so happens that you’re the only Grinch I know, and you haven’t stolen anything that I’m aware of.” Well, if I don’t count my Christmas laurel dreams. But I keep that to myself this time.

“Hey, I don’t have to stoop to stealing Who hash and stuffing Christmas trees up chimneys to be Grinchy. But what happened to that holly jolly attitude of yours? I figured that was a twenty-four/seven kinda thing with you.”

I consider inventing some sort of fib—still suffering a niggling desire to appear strong and successful in front of him, especially since he initially dissed my shop—but I go with honesty instead. “Listen, if I wake up looking on the bright side of life most days, it’s because I choose to. It’s a mindset that just makes life better. But as for me needing a smile…well, let’s just say business better pick up fast for me to make a real go of it.”

At this, he tilts his handsome head, appearing surprised. “Place seems busy most of the time.”

I sigh. “It is. It just needs to be busier. I’m not on pace to clear what I need to by Christmas. And these last couple of snowy days haven’t helped. It’s keeping people indoors when they’d usually be out.”

He tips his head back in understanding, then assures me, “Maybe things’ll pick up. I can’t imagine we’ll have any more snow for a while.”

That’s when I notice a familiar-looking white dog pressing a wet nose against my plate-glass door. “Aw, look who it is.” Then I take in its expression. “He seems sad.”

Now it’s Travis who suddenly appears grumpy—glancing toward the door to grouse, “Not you again.”

“How’d it go when you let him in the shop the other night?” I ask.

“Well, turns out it’s a her. And she pooped and peed.”

I lower my chin a bit. “And you know it’s a girl how ?”

He lets out a sigh. “I was stupid enough to bring her in again , this time up to the apartment. I noticed she peed in a squatting position instead of cocking a leg like most male dogs, so I checked, and sure enough, she’s a she. I put her back out this morning, but apparently now she thinks she’s mine.”

I study the little dog through the glass. “She’s really cute. And so sad-looking. Why don’t you adopt her?”

He gapes at me like I just suggested he jump off the top of the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree. “Because I don’t especially like dogs any more than I like Christmas. And again, she’s pooped and peed on both levels of the Lucas Building now.”

“Well, put down some padding or paper. Maybe she’s paper-trained,” I suggest.

“Tried that. Didn’t work. Instead, she went directly next to the paper. Like she was taunting me.”

I switch my focus from the dog to him. “Yes, I’m sure her goal is to torment you. And who doesn’t like dogs? Even the Grinch had a dog. She could be your trusty companion. Frankly, you seem like a guy who could use a friend.”

He looks affronted, his eyes going wide. “Don’t worry about me—I have plenty of friends. They just don’t happen to be in Winterberry.”

I find myself wondering just what kind of friends he has, if I’d like them, and if any of them are female and come with benefits. But then I quickly close the door on that line of curiosity and, with a head tilt, I remember out loud, “You were kind of a loner, weren’t you?”

He shrugs. “Not always. Just by high school, I guess. And I had a few buddies then—just not ones I kept in touch with.”

I decide to turn things back to the cute furball outside the door. “Well, you know what they say. A dog is man’s best friend. And this one is ready to fill the role.”

“Or you could adopt her,” he suggests pushily, “if you like her so much.” He arches a challenging brow in my direction.

But I glance back at the dog to find she has eyes only for Travis. “She’s not mooning at me like I’m her long-lost BFF,” I point out.

He shrugs before remarking, “I think anyone who gives her something to eat would rate best friend status.”

“You should call her Marley,” I go on anyway.

He looks suspicious. “Why?”

“Because Marley was besties with Scrooge.”

“Very funny.” It comes with an eye-roll.

I really do like the idea, though. “And Marley was a ghost in A Christmas Carol, and she’s white, so I think it suits her.”

“Well, you can call the mutt whatever you want, but she’s still the town stray. The last thing I need right now is a dog.”

Travis

I’m crossing back over to my side of the street after leaving the Christmas Box, and about the time I reach the door, I hear the blast of a horn and the skid of tires on wet asphalt. I spin to see a big Dodge Ram 3500, jacked up on chunky tires, come sliding to a halt just inches from the scruffy dog, who appears to have frozen in fright directly in the middle of Main Street while it was apparently following me home. My heart clenches.

“Oh God,” I mutter, moving instinctively toward her. “Come here, girl. Come on!”

The silly dog finally gets hold of her senses and bounds toward me as a burly, bearded guy yells out the driver’s side window, “Keep your dog out of the street, idiot!”

“She’s not mine,” I say, but too low for him to hear since it hardly matters.

He screeches off as I stoop down to the dog’s level. She’s shivering, so I pet her and try to calm her down. “You’re okay, girl. You’re all right,” I hear myself cooing to her like I probably haven’t to an animal since I was a kid. We always had some mutt or another around, but they were always doing things to make Dad yell at them—peeing on the floor, for instance. That’s why I never liked them much—they seemed bound for trouble and gave Dad one more reason to be mad.

That’s when I realize I’m just as shaken as Marley. I’m vigorously smoothing the damp fur on her head and neck with both hands, my heartbeat finally starting to slow down. Poor dog is wet and probably cold.

And then it hits me. I’ve started thinking of her as Marley, that fast.

This is all Lexi’s fault.

When a drop of moisture lands on my cheek, I raise my gaze to see that it’s started snowing again. Great, just great.

Then I look back to the dog and roll my eyes. “Guess this means you’re coming in.”

Lexi

I’ve taken it all in through the shop window. One minute I’m standing there admiring my beautiful new wishing box, and the next, I hear the squeal of tires outside. As the big pickup moves on, I let out a sigh of relief, reporting to Dara, “She’s okay. She’s okay. And…oh my God, he’s stooping down, petting her…almost kind of hugging her. Maybe he’s not a dog-hater, after all. Only…” That’s when I notice something else. “Oh no. No, no, no. This can’t be.”

“What? What can’t be?” comes her worried voice from across the store.

“It’s snowing,” I announce. “It’s actually snowing. Again.” I end on a sigh.

Dara walks up beside me, joining me to peer out on the suddenly-snowy doggie drama. Then she tosses me a suspicious sideways glance. “You like him.”

I turn a you-can’t-be-serious look her way. “Because I’m glad the dog didn’t get hit by a monster truck means I like the guy who claims not to want the dog? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“No,” she says. “You like him because…maybe you always did? Even back in high school? And now he’s back and not as bad as you thought?”

She’s fishing. Putting her small-town-detective cap on. But it’s not working. “We have nothing in common,” I point out.

She’s on a roll now, though. “And that’s why you asked him to build you a box, so you’d have a reason to see him again.”

Now I roll my eyes. “I asked him to build me a box because he’s, like, a master carpenter or something.”

“You could have called Talc Brewsaugh,” she points out. The carpenter who did all the work on the inside of the shop for me after I bought it.

“Talc stays busy, and it would have been a very small project for him. Travis was right across the street, and the obvious choice when I decided I needed a wishing box.”

“Or maybe he’s why you decided you needed a wishing box.” She sounds so accusing. “Maybe it was subconscious. Maybe you don’t even know you like him. Yet .”

I release a tired breath and shake my head. “I think I know what I like. And it’s not the guy across the street, no matter how pretty that box turned out. I mean, he’s not an awful person or anything, but…he’s hardly my type. He’s grouchy at least half the time. He has all this baggage with his dying father that he doesn’t seem concerned about dealing with. And he’s barely acknowledged what he did to me in high school. After all, you can’t just say a few words—none of them sorry, by the way—and expect everything to be fine.

“And on top of all that, he hates Christmas. How could I, of all people, ever want to be with a guy who hates Christmas?”