The Holiday Switch(10)

    “I mean. The thing won’t open.” Teddy frowns and presses random buttons.

“Whoa-kay,” I say. “Hold up.”

Teddy and I switch spots. I palm a button on the side of the register, and the drawer pops open with a satisfying ring. I scoop up forty-nine cents and drop it into the customer’s hand.

The man levels Teddy with an exasperated expression. “Really?”

“It’s tricky,” I say with a shrug, even though it’s not. “Thank you for your patience, and I hope you come back soon.”

The customer leaves with a huff.

“Geez,” Teddy mumbles.

Our introduction yesterday was casual and brief. Closer now, and less than a foot away, I get a better look at Teddy—at the one curl of hair that swoops just above his right eye, at the mole that’s perched on his right cheekbone. At how the Bookworm Inn polo shows the outline of his muscled shoulders.

Muscles.

But instead of attraction, or even empathy at his current predicament, annoyance courses through me. If I had simply been given these hours instead of Teddy, the gift shop would not be this chaotic.

Since there’s no time to teach Teddy how to work the register, because the next customer is waiting for their turn, I say, “Listen. Why don’t you head out to the floor and clean things up or answer questions while I do this?”

“But I want to learn what you’re doing here.”

Annoyance escalates to irritation. “This is not the time for it, frankly.” As if to prove my point, the bobblehead display of Max, the stray corgi in the film and the real hero who leads present-day Estelle to Leo for their second meet-cute, crashes to the ground. The resulting gasp from customers and the sound of a toddler crying cause me to inhale deeply. “Now will you go?”

    “Fine.” He leaves my side.

My focus shifts and I motion for the next customer. The line consumes me as I cashier and bag and greet, and I manage to all but forget about Teddy.

After the rush is over, a mere half hour later (though it felt like two hours at least), I clean up behind the counter and then return loose items back to their correct locations in the store. Yet, upon quick inspection of the floor, the bobblehead display isn’t stacked where it’s supposed to be. The throw blanket display is empty, and the earrings are nestled in the tea and coffee section.

Gritting my teeth, I round the corner and come upon Teddy. He’s chatting with a customer in the free library, a couple of books under his arm, like time is as plentiful as snowflakes.

How long has he been standing here?

And in my area?

Okay, so the free library isn’t my area, technically—I’m not paying rent—but I am in charge of it. And the unstated rule is that I’m the one who reshelves and stocks the books.

An unknown force draws me to Teddy and this customer, though neither look up at my approach. On the way, I pick up discarded items on the floor and almost trip on a stuffed animal of Dot, Estelle Mendoza’s cat and the film’s prankster.

By the time I reach their side, the heat of my impatience has shown itself through beads of sweat at the nape of my neck.

“Teddy.” My voice is sharp, and I glance quickly at the customer, trying to keep my professional face in place. “Hello there.”

    “What’s up?” Teddy’s voice is all relaxation and ease.

“Can I speak to you for a moment?”

“Uh, okay. It’s great to meet you.” He nods at the woman, who has brown hair and skin, with a bandana tied like a headband around her head. She doesn’t look familiar to me, but my delight at a new library visitor is dampened by my frustration at Teddy’s inability to follow directions.

“Great to meet you. Can’t wait to see what you send.”

Send what? I frown. “Do you see what I have in my arms?” I ask him once the woman walks away.

“Yes. Looks like a bunch of touristy junk.”

I level him with a glare. “Not junk—product. You were supposed to be keeping the floor maintained. Part of the job is picking up and putting things where they belong.” I push the items into his arms.

“I was talking to a customer,” he says belligerently.

“Library customers aren’t paying customers. Gift shop customers are. And gift shop customers appreciate pretty displays.” I gesture to the sad pile of corgi bobbleheads, which Teddy moved into a different corner.

“Those were in a precarious place anyway. If I build it back up, someone else is bound to run into it.”

I open my mouth to rebut, then shut it again. He’s right—I actually said the same thing to Ms. Velasco when the shipment came in last week. But that isn’t the point. “Just please, set it up like it was before.”

He shrugs. “Fine.”

“Great,” I grumble, and move past him to the books in the library that are clearly out of place from the day’s rush of customers. I smile at this auspicious sign—people have been in my library! So I reshuffle them into their proper spots, wiping away the last bit of dust on the shelves.

    A bright purple cover catches my attention as I straighten the books on the freestanding table, a catchall for discarded books or new donations. I fish it out—it’s unfamiliar, titled The Book of Holiday Surprises. The cover shows a girl holding books close to her chest, surrounded by a weird glow, with lockers behind her that are decorated with wrapping paper.