“I do. But stupid ideas are all we have at the moment.”

Fair enough. And I was ridiculously happy she’d said “we.”

I sent her the pic. “I know it might be awkward texting Arthur out of the blue like this—”

“Oh, we’re already texting.”

My back went rigid. “What?”

She held her hands palms up. “You gave me his number!”

“Last night!”

“I don’t waste time.” She grinned. “You should see your face right now.” Then she patted my shoulder. “Don’t worry your pretty blonde head. He’s not my type. And besides, you’re the one he likes.”

I full-on gulped at the nervous excitement that evoked. “Did . . . he say something?”

“Nah. I can just tell.” Her thumbs moved over her phone’s keyboard with lightning speed. “There. Sent.”

A trickle of relief went down my spine, despite the likelihood that nothing would come of it. “Thank you.”

“You two better get back to texting directly before I get to school with ya because I am not playing your go-between.”

“I like your confidence.”

“Me too.”

We shared a smile. Then she nodded to the other three folded tables leaning up against the wall. “Your turn to help.”

Twenty-Eight

Mom was right. No amount of snowfall was going to keep the townsfolk of Christmas away from Grandma Jo’s Christmas Eve party.

The lobby was filled with people by four thirty, which, considering the event wasn’t officially supposed to begin until five, was a big tell that tonight was going to be very, very long indeed.

My parents still hadn’t made an appearance and I’d give them another hour before I started sending them “where are you??” texts. See how they liked it.

I’d changed out of my work clothes and into my official Christmas outfit for the evening, which consisted of black wool pants, low-heeled dress boots I seldom wore, and a red sweater. Grandma Jo’s aesthetic leaned toward elegant, which meant she would never ask anyone to wear a gaudy holiday sweater, even for fun.

However, that sentiment was not held by most of the other townsfolk who took pride in wearing some truly obnoxious outfits. There were at least three sweaters with working lightbulbs, a white suit made of fabric with red Santa heads, someone dressed in a Christmas tree costume. And Mitzi in her favorite gingerbread-Swiss-Miss-hybrid outfit that was ill-advised on anyone who didn’t resemble Scarlett Johansson. Which Mitzi did not.

But no one had a green sweater with a reindeer vomiting ornaments.

Mitzi held court by the table holding the collection of her desserts from the Gingerbread Café and I couldn’t help noticing Dr. Raymond was nearby, sharing secret glances.