The Christmas Cookie Crush (Arcadian Falls Christmas #4)

Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

Nora

I’m so tired. This day is the longest. Sandra, who was scheduled this morning, called out sick, and it was so last minute that there wasn’t time to even try to see if anyone else could cover. I’m in charge of scheduling this year, so that meant it was up to me to cover.

I was on the schedule to work the evening shift today which means I’ve been here for eight hours already, and I still have two more to go. And I haven’t had a day off in over a week because I keep covering for the callouts.

After finishing up with a late elementary school aged brother-sister pair—who are blissfully easy after the rash of recalcitrant preschoolers and crying babies who preceded them—I hold up a finger to my dad to indicate I’m stepping away from the camera for just a moment. I need a second to wiggle my ankles, shake out my feet, and grab a drink of water before I take on the next batch of kids. It might put us a tiny bit behind on the appointment schedule, but no more than a minute or two. And by this time of day, the fact we’re not already behind schedule is pretty amazing.

We make a good team this year. The non-family elves are doing a great job of getting people on deck so that there’s basically no down time between kids. Which is exhausting, to be honest, but it keeps the parents happier, which makes our job easier in the long run. Happy parents also tend to buy more expensive packages, and if we go over our target for the season, all the elves get a bonus. And since I’m Lead Elf, I get a slightly bigger bonus. I think that added incentive, which is new this year, is helping. We’re slightly ahead of the usual sales amount for this point in the season. If we can keep it up through Christmas Eve, we’ll be well over the target.

I duck behind the section of wall where we can take a quick thirty second break out of the public eye and pick up my water bottle. Closing my eyes, I let out a breath, relishing the brief moment where I’m not on. After a couple swigs and shaking out my hands and feet, I paste my smile back on and head back behind the camera. Dad already has a toddler in a red dress in his lap, her hair in pigtails held by red bows that match her dress. What a cutie.

I pick up my favorite penguin stuffed animal and shake it to get her attention. She looks at me, her finger in her mouth, and when I pop out from behind the camera to play peek-a-boo, she gives me a huge grin, showing off her teeth. With the camera trigger in my hand, I snap a couple of shots, and the bright flash of the lights makes her blink, her face going from happy to upset just like that.

Dad jiggles her a little. “Ho ho ho! My mischievous elf likes to flash lights at me sometimes. I’m sorry if she startled you.”

The baby looks at him, meeting his gaze, and I snap another shot, which has her turning in my direction again. Her brows pull together, and she points at me. “Bad. No.”

Grinning, I take another picture as I make the penguin do a goofy little dance. Last year, Lydia—who’s now dating my brother Dylan—did a fantastic job of getting smiles out of the youngest customers, and I picked up a few tricks from her. She did skits with the stuffed animals, and I’ve been doing it this year too.

“Hey, Mr. Penguin,” I say to the toy in my hand, “do you think you can show this little one how to smile?”

He shakes his head.

“What? Why not?”

He shakes his head again.

“Come on, Mr. Penguin. What are you here for if you’re not going to help me get kids to smile for their pictures?”

I make muffled sounds while making the toy bob his head like he’s trying to talk.

“What’s that, Mr. Penguin?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the girl watching intently. I hold the penguin up to my ear, like he’s whispering to me.

Meeting the little girl’s eyes, I gasp. “Do you know why he won’t smile?” I ask her.

She stares at me.

I crouch down, inching forward, being careful to stay out of the shot. “He says he doesn’t have any teeth!” I loud whisper, and she giggles. Perfect. I snap the last shot. “Do you want to give Mr. Penguin a high five?” I ask her.

She nods, so I hold up the penguin’s flipper, and she hits it. Returning to the camera, I watch Dad give her one of the stickers we offer the under threes instead of candy canes.

While Dad finishes up, I walk to the computer to show the mom the shots I captured. She smiles at me, then sets a small white paper bag on the counter. “This is for you,” she says, her smile growing wider.

Confused, I hold up a hand and shake my head. “Oh, no. I can’t accept gifts.” I mean, it’s not technically a rule, but it’s convenient to say when random strangers are trying to give me things.

She chuckles. “Oh, it’s not from me. It’s from the guy at Give and Cake.”

The air coalesces in my lungs. “I’m sorry, what?” I wheeze.

Her grin dims. “The guy at Give and Cake. I’m sorry, he said it was an inside joke …”

She trails off as I snatch the bag off the counter and open it. Reaching inside, I pull out one of the individually wrapped, brightly colored balls, Warheads printed on the clear plastic wrapper. That motherfucker . I want to scream it. But I’m at work, and there’s a long line of children only a few feet away.

Instead, I force a laugh. “Oh. Ha. Yeah. Inside joke.”

The mom still looks uncertain. “I’m sorry. I bought a scone for us to snack on while we waited, and he said …”

I wave off her apology. “No, no. It’s fine. You didn’t do anything wrong. Thanks. It just surprised me is all.”

And made me want to shove the Warheads down Austin Stanton’s throat, wrappers, bag, and all. But that’s not this nice lady’s fault.

Setting aside my murderous thoughts—for now—I turn my attention to the computer to show her the shots of her adorable toddler and print out the ones she selects, going through the usual spiel about where to download the digital copies and order more prints if she wants to.

I’m seething, but I can’t do anything about it right now. I have to keep my happy smile in place and continue with the rest of my shift. Kids aren’t going to smile for a grumpy elf. Well, unless I’m being extra grumpy for pretend in a bid to coax a smile out of them. That’s definitely not the same, though.

When the last person finally takes their prints and their child and leaves, I wave to get Mom’s attention. “I’ll be right back. I need to take care of something real quick before it’s too late.”

I’m not sure if Mom protests or just acknowledges my statement because I grab the bag of Warheads and take off before I hear her answer, practically sprinting across the event space to get to Give and Cake’s kiosk before Austin leaves for the day.

I’ve had the last two hours to figure out how to respond to this clear declaration of war—I mean, he even sent War heads, for chrissakes—but the only plan I can come up with is to chuck them at his head.

But he’s not behind the cash register when I get there, though it doesn’t look like it’s closed. I slam the bag on the counter, boosting myself up on my toes so I can look behind the cases.

Austin stands slowly from his crouch behind the pastry case, eyes wide, eyebrows raised. “Hey,” he says cautiously.

Dropping down to my feet, I fling the bag in his direction. It hits his black-apron covered chest and bounces back to the counter. When he meets my eyes again, he’s grinning.

My scowl deepens. “Seriously?” I demand. “ Warheads?”

He holds up his hands in what would be a comical gesture under any other circumstances. “What? I thought it was funny. Didn’t you?”

“No,” I hiss. “I certainly didn’t.” Huffing out a sigh, I cross my arms. “What is your problem? Like, I can kind of get you harassing me when we were kids and you were hanging out with my brother. But you’re like twenty-four now. Shouldn’t you have outgrown the need to harass me?”

His hands fall, and he starts laughing like I said the most hilarious thing in the world. “Me?” He even has the audacity to lay a hand on his chest dramatically. “What about you?”

“What about me?” I demand.

“Shouldn’t you have let go of the fact that I picked on you some when we were kids? You just said that you understood that impulse. Older brothers pick on their little sisters. Surely your other siblings did it, too.” When I shake my head, he shrugs that away. “Still. Dylan and I picked on my little brother, too.”

“Oh? You fed him licorice until he puked? And fed him Warheads to see what kind of reaction you could get?”

He shrugs again. “Well, not the first one.” He holds up a hand to forestall my reaction. “That was more about taking advantage of an opportunity with you. My brother didn’t like licorice that much, for one thing.”

“Neither do I— now ,” I mutter, and he grins.

“For another, I never had the chance to feed him so much candy he threw up. We did do the Warheads thing with him, though.” He laughs at the memory. “It was everything we hoped for.” One of his eyebrows arches up. “Unlike you . You acted like it was the most delicious candy you’d ever had. I think you even said, ‘Mmmm,’ when you put it in your mouth.”

I snort. He’s right. I definitely did that a time or two. They tried to get a reaction out of me more than once. Honestly, part of the reason I like sour candies now is because they fed them to me. Not Warheads. Those are way too strong, and I’m not sure why anyone likes them. But Sour Patch Kids and Lemonheads? Those are my go-to candies when I’m cramming for tests or putting in long hours working on papers for school.

I’m not giving him the satisfaction of knowing that, though.

He shrugs. “Anyway. I just thought it was funny. Besides, you were so sure that I was giving you something sour on purpose the other day”—he points a finger at me—“which, by the way, is false. Our cranberry scones are delicious. They’re Grampy’s recipe, and that man’s not going to sell something no one’ll want to eat.”

He’s right, dammit. I’ve had those scones and they are delicious. Again, I’m not telling him that, though.

“But if you’re going to expect me to fuck with you, I figured I might as well.”

“Well—” I pause, really not sure what I’m supposed to say to that. I don’t have a snappy retort, or a good comeback. “Well, don’t,” I finally spit out, then I whirl on my heel, toss my braid back over my shoulder, and storm back to the North Pole.

God, I’m glad this day is over.