The Christmas Box (The Box Books #2)

7. December 8

December 8

Lexi

I ’m outside clearing the sidewalk of leftover slush, grateful for yesterday’s increase in business, but sad that Travis still hasn’t seen the light. Or the lights— literally. When I think of him turning off the tree lights while his others stayed on for hours afterward—I just happened to notice—I can only draw one conclusion: He really is a Grade A Grinch. Christmas magic is not going to darken his door—he’s firmly committed to that.

I go back inside with an hour to spare before we open, and with time on my hands, I start the coffee since I could use a cup after not sleeping particularly well last night.

Then my eyes fall on the wishing box across the room. Every person who came in yesterday left a wish inside. Some had heard about it through the Winterberry grapevine and others only found out about it upon happening in, but everyone loved making their wishes. And so the thing that felt “missing” from the shop was indeed that little spark of magic, and this beautiful box filled the void.

After the coffee brews, I pour some into a mug circled with reindeer leading Santa’s sleigh, and I take heart that at least some people can embrace the holidays.

When the sleighbells on the door suddenly jangle like they’ve been hit with gale force winds, I flinch, sloshing a little hot coffee on my hand, and look up to see the box maker himself.

Uh oh. I try to ignore the angry look on his face, along with the seething pain on my skin, as I announce cheerfully, “Great news! The wishing box is a hit! People are talking about it all over town!”

“Swell,” he says dryly, sliding onto a stool at the coffee bar. “Give me my free coffee.”

“Hang on a minute,” I say, because the burn stings. I set my cup down, then dash to the sink, running cold water over my hand. “I burned myself when you came barreling in here like a madman.”

“Oh. Sorry.” He actually sounds concerned, like maybe my injury defused his anger a little.

Though I assure him, “It’ll be fine,” as I grab up his usual green-speckled Santa mug and pour his coffee. Maybe I should have milked the burn more, but I’ve decided I might as well get to the matter at hand. Sliding the cup his way, I venture cautiously, “You seem…unhappy.”

He arches a menacing brow in my direction before growling, “I remember when you could leave your door unlocked in this town.”

Nibbling my lower lip nervously, I ask, “Um, what happened? Did you have a break-in? A burglary?” I’m suddenly regretting my impulsive tree delivery. It seemed like such a cheerful idea at the time.

“Worse,” he snarls at me. “Some holiday-crazed, rogue decorator took it upon herself to come into my private space and erect a full-size Christmas tree, complete with blinking lights.” He continues to appear extremely put out with me.

I’m sure I look guilty. “To be fair, it’s actually more of a sparkling effect. But there’s a bulb you can switch out to make it stop.”

He looks at me like I might be crazy. “That’s only one of the many problems with this situation. Another is that you knew I wouldn’t want a Christmas tree.”

“It’s…for Marley,” I claim, however lamely. “In A Christmas Carol, Marley wanted Scrooge to embrace the spirit of the season. Marley understood what it was all about and just wanted his buddy to get it, too.”

He tilts me a look. “Well, the Marley at my place just wants food and shelter and isn’t too picky about anything else.”

Meanwhile, I’m still lip-nibbling. “I cleaned up some dog pee while I was there if that helps at all.”

In response, he holds up his index finger and thumb, close together, as if silently saying: a little. But there’s still not even a hint of a smile on his face as he finally picks up his mug. “I can’t believe you just came into my place. I mean, how would you like it if I just helped myself into your apartment?”

Okay, the truth is, I’m not sure I would mind. Which is a very bad sign and may mean Dara is right about me being attracted to him. Because I should find the very notion outrageous. A realization that makes me understand where he’s coming from. Okay, I overstepped.

“You’re right,” I say. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to invade your privacy. And I promise it was a quick in and out—I just put up the tree, cleaned up the pee, and left. It was an impulsive act, which I can now see wasn’t a good idea. Can you forgive me?”

He looks calmer now, drinking his coffee, perhaps thrown by my earnest apology—but at the same time I can also see the wheels spinning in his head. They’re spinning in mine, too. I’ve just apologized to a guy who’s owed me an apology for a dozen years and still hasn’t given it.

“Yeah,” he says slowly, meeting my gaze. “If… you can forgive me .”

Ah, maybe he does see the light, at least this particular one.

“For?” I’m not just playing dumb this time, though—I’m making sure we’re both thinking about the same transgression.

“High school. That dance. I’m sorry I wasn’t big enough to do the right thing back then.”

I take a deep breath, then let it back out, shocked by how much the words affect me. They’ve been a long time coming. And it’s something I should have completely moved past ages ago. But I guess things that happen to us when we’re young can have a lasting impact. Maybe I’ve needed this apology all this time without really knowing it—and here it finally is.

“Well, you were a punk,” I remind him softly. “I appreciate the apology, and yes, I can forgive you.” Though maybe I already had? I mean, despite what I keep telling myself, do you really go making wishes on stars for guys you haven’t forgiven? Or sneaking trees into their apartments? Or letting it warm your heart when you see them hug a dog?

“Then we’re good?” he asks, downing the last of his coffee.

I offer up a short nod. I could take him to task more; I could confess how much that night wounded my tender teenage heart—yet I understand many people find it hard to apologize and I suspect he’s one of them, so I’ll let him off the hook and put it behind me.

“But just so you know,” he adds, “I still couldn’t care less about having a Christmas tree, so I’m afraid you wasted your time there.”

I just shake my head and inform him, “Kindness—or attempted kindness in this case—is never wasted.”

“Whatever you say,” he tells me, lowering his empty mug to the bar and rising from his stool. “You have a good day, Lexi.”

I lift my hand in a small wave, then watch him go. He’s always telling me to have a good day, or night—but I’d have better ones if he’d drop his guard just a little, just enough to let my wish for him come true.

After a brisk day of business, during which a steady stream of customers put wishes in the wishing box and left with shopping bags filled with gifts and decorations, I head upstairs to take a long, hot bath. Then I slip into a cozy pair of snowflake-laden pajamas, and soon enough find myself on the couch, watching a holiday rom-com—and glancing out at the windows across the street.

His truck is there.And the faint glow of a lamp dimly illuminates the second floor.

So what is it I’m waiting for?

The tree lights. I’m still hoping against hope that I’ll see the Christmas tree lights come on. I keep thinking maybe, just maybe, something will suddenly compel him to plug them in.

I wait all evening to see the happy twinkle of colored lights in his windows.

But it never happens.