Arthur Chakrabarti Watercress stared at me with dark brown eyes that radiated fury and indignation far beyond what one would imagine possible from a boy who stood five foot nine and weighed less than a year-old Great Dane. That’s a guess, by the way; I hadn’t actually weighed either Arthur or a Great Dane, but you get the point. And his ever-precise British accent coupled with a tiny speck of spittle in the lower left corner of his mouth further undermined whatever intimidation factor he was going for. He was lucky I didn’t laugh in his flushed face.

Or maybe because a part of me was still reeling from the surreal fact that he was here. In Oklahoma. In my hometown. And specifically, in the courtyard of my Grandma Jo’s inn, where, I now knew, he and his aunt were staying over the holidays.

Awesome. Just freakin’ awesome.

And here’s another thing—Arthur wasn’t wrong. I did owe him. Not necessarily a “Christmas,” whatever that meant, but I owed him at least an apology, and not about snubbing him post–bee incident. Which I would have gotten to, eventually, if he hadn’t gone off like a rage rooster.

“Arthur—” I tried.

That was as far as I made it.

“No!” He held up a single finger. The index one. Arthur would never stoop so low as to flip anyone the bird. That was for imbeciles and sports fans, I’d overheard him say once back when we were at school, and I was pretty sure he considered the two synonymous.

“My aunt and I would not be trapped in this godforsaken town for the next week for what should have been a perfect American Christmas were it not for your pack of lies that led us here.”

Yeah, okay. He had another point. I hated it when he was actually right, as opposed to when he felt he was right, which was always. Still, “pack of lies” was a little overdramatic, even for him.

I tapped the now-empty plastic cup against my leg. It’d been full of birdseed, which I’d just finished pouring into the birdfeeder when I was accosted by Arthur, who had waited until after brunch before cornering me.

I tried again. “I really am sor—”

“Apologies aren’t going to cut it, Finley Brown.”

Full name. The universal sign for being in trouble. Delightful. It would appear whatever goodwill we may have created ten days ago in our mutual efforts to save the bee had evaporated.

“What do you want me to do?” I asked, helpless and increasingly annoyed.

“I want a proper American Christmas and I want you to show it to me. You owe me that. You owe me and my auntie a proper American Christmas. Like on that sham of a website you showed everyone.”

“It’s not a sham—”