She was wrong, of course, and he was right. But the challenge still thrilled him, even if he didn’t dare let it show on his face. He didn’t want anyone thinking they had any kind of power over him.

The most striking thing about her, perhaps, was her ability to embody everything he despised about Miller’s Point. That dichotomy of wasteful and beautiful dwelled within her. She had much to offer; he saw that even in their brief interaction. Yet, she chose to stay in Miller’s Point, where she could do nothing but waste her life putting up tinsel.

Clark knew he should push all thoughts of her directly from his head. A distraction like her would only get in the way of his plans. His mission was simple, but like a fine watch even the slightest bit of sand carried the potential to destroy everything. In three steps, he could be done with this stupid festival. Step One: Dissolve The Christmas Company. Two: Sell off its assets. Three: Return to civilization and Dallas before New Year’s. He could only do that if all distractions were kept to a minimum and all pieces of sand stayed far out of his way.

And he could only accomplish his three-step plan if people actually went to work instead of spending their Tuesdays watching Hallmark movies or whatever it is they did when they “celebrated” Christmas. Clark’s mind boggled at the way this town shut down on this useless holiday. The McDonald’s, where he first attempted breakfast, had locked its doors.

“But—! But—!”

Clark’s head popped up from the blurred words of his newspapers at the loud shouting of a stranger. He whipped his head around just in time to see a flash of a red-scarfed woman dash out of the door and a desperate man sitting at the diner counter. Clark was aware of small-town manners. A good citizen would have invited the freshly liberated man to join him for breakfast, but Clark wasn’t a good citizen, and even if he was, he didn’t think anyone in Miller’s Point would particularly want to share a meal with him.

“Can you believe her?”

It took at least fifteen seconds for Clark to realize the other man was talking to him. He focused on an article about a high school track meet. Apparently, this small town dominated at the recent district meet, held at Christopher Woodward Stadium. He wondered if they’d keep the name now that his uncle was dead, or if they’d turn it into the Christopher Woodward Memorial Stadium to acknowledge his legacy or whatever.

“I wasn’t listening. Sorry.”

Apparently, to the man at the counter, this was all the invitation he needed to join Clark for breakfast.

“This seat taken?”