The Christmas Box (The Box Books #2)

11. December 12

December 12

Lexi

T he next morning Helen comes into the Christmas Box on her day off to shop. And, of course, to chat. We’ve barely seen each other lately—it being such a busy time of year and me now tied to the shop much of the time—but ever since Mom and Grandma died, Helen’s kept in close touch and tried to fill that void.

After a bit of catching up, I ring out her purchases, and she’s walking out the door when I hear her issue a merry greeting. “Well, good morning, Mr. Hutchins.” Unless Travis’s father has somehow gotten himself sprung from Bluegrass Manor, my neighbor across the street is on his way in.

And then there he is, all six handsome feet of him, making my heart beat a little faster at the mere sight.

“I just heard from Helen that you were at the manor yesterday,” I can’t help saying with a knowing smile.

“That’s not exactly a newsflash, Lexi,” he points out. “I’m there most days. And good morning to you, too, by the way.”

I’m still all bubbly about what Helen told me, though. “And I heard the residents had a Christmas canine visitor, and that she was a hit.”

He gives his head a confiding tilt. “Okay, that’s a little more newsworthy, I guess. But it had nothing to do with Christmas, so quit acting like it did. She was a very good girl for them, though. And she’s still using her puppy pads like a pro, by the way.”

“That’s awesome,” I say. But I haven’t quite hit my stride yet. “I also heard you hung Christmas decorations for Helen.”

At this, he shoots me an are-you-done-now? look. “Guilty as charged. Because she asked for help. And I’d have to be a pretty horrible guy to say no.”

But I’m not done yet. “ And I saw the lights. On your Christmas tree last night.”

It’s like the star on top of my Christmas tree of accusations, and at this, he finally looks as if he’s been caught at something. Did he think I wouldn’t notice? Or, well, maybe he assumes I have better things to do than spy on him across the street. And maybe I shouldn’t be so quick to fill him in otherwise.

But he breaks through my self-doubt with a playful grin to claim, “They’re for the dog. The dog likes them.”

I tip my head back and reply just as teasingly, “Ah,” aware that my smug success is still showing.

“I came in for coffee, by the way,” he informs me. “Not to get grilled on my every move and how it may or may not relate to an upcoming holiday I still don’t like.”

I simply smile and reach for his mug. “Whatever you say, Mr. Scrooge.”

It would seem that Operation Wish Upon a Star is moving forward as planned.