The Mistletoe Motive(38)

Sighing, Jonathan rubs his temple. “This is hell.”

“It’s not that bad,” I tell him. At least, it won’t be until we have to do clean-up after closing tonight.

“It is. And it will be even worse when your damned live carolers come.”

Happiness swallows up my melancholy. It feels good to slip back into our old bickering routine. “It’s a jazz trio.”

There it is, that familiar disapproving arch of his eyebrow. “Who’ll be singing Christmas carols.”

“And lots of other wintertime tunes.” I poke him in the ribs. “Don’t be such a grinch. It’s just a little festive fun.”

“Festive fun?” He spins and stares me down, sending me stumbling back. But before my body hits the hard wood column behind me, Jonathan’s hand slips around my waist, stopping me, wrenching me against him. For just a moment, we stare at each other and everything else…melts away.

Very deliberately, Jonathan releases my waist. But he doesn’t step back. And neither do I. “Glitter, Gabriella,” he finally says. “Hot glue. Confetti. Gingerbread. Sugar cookies. Icing… None of that goes with books.”

I smile brightly. “Indirectly they do. They draw customers, ingratiate them to the store, and compel them to buy our books.”

Grumbling to himself, Jonathan turns away and stomps toward the back room. “I’m drugging myself. I have a headache already.”

“It’s good for business!” I call after him.

“I know!” he calls back. “And I still reserve the right to despise it!”

Laughing, I turn back and examine the main floor, then make some last-minute adjustments. Another pack of baby wipes on the pastry table—hopefully people will take the hint and clean their hands before touching books. The craft table closer to the front, so window-shopping passersby can see the holiday gift-making fun in action, along with the musicians, who’ll be stationed in front of the other window.

The jazz trio arrives right on time, settles in, and has just finished warming up with the Vince Guaraldi Charlie Brown Christmas theme when I turn the sign to say Open. Not a minute later, a kid with dark hair bursts into the store, a woman with the same dark hair just past her shoulders chasing after him. “Jack!”

He freezes, hand hovering over the pastry table, specifically a massive chocolate cookie loaded with candy cane pieces. “What?”

“Slow down.” Clutching him to her front, she offers me a weary smile. There’s something faintly familiar about them both—their bone structure, their dark wavy hair. I can’t place why I might know them, though. “Sorry for the explosive entrance,” the woman says. “I’m Liz. And this is Jack.” She peers down at him and arches her eyebrow, and that’s familiar, too. “Who has something to say.”

Jack peers up at me, looking sheepish. “Sorry I tried to grab a cookie.”

“That’s all right,” I tell him as I crouch so that we’re eye level. He seems like he’s in elementary school, but tall for his age. Smiling, I offer him my hand. He smiles back, then gives my hand a firm shake. “I’m Gabby.”

“Jack,” he says. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise, Jack.”

He tips his head. “You like the holidays, huh?”

I wiggle my jingle-bell earrings and adjust my reindeer-antler headband. Jack eyes up the reversible white sequin snowflakes on my red sweater dress. “What clued you in?”

He laughs. “You’re funny.”

“Aw, thanks.” I tip my head toward the pastry table. “If Liz is all right with it, you’re welcome to have that cookie you wanted.”

He glances up at her and earns her smile. “Mommy? Can I have it?”

“Yes, you may.”

With his mother’s approval, I pass Jack a small recycled-paper plate that I hand-stamped with snowflakes. Jonathan definitely almost burst an organ not teasing me for working on them every spare minute I had when a customer wasn’t around, and the weirdest part is I missed his heckling.

Using the tongs expertly, Jack slides the cookie onto his plate. “Mint chocolate’s my favorite,” I tell him.

He grins up at me, mouth already full of cookie. “Mine, too.”

His eyes wander the store as he chews his bite, and then they widen as he spots a book in the children’s section that I keep on lower shelves so kids can access them. Gasping, he drops the cookie plate on the pastry table and runs toward it.

“Jack, wait!” his mom calls. “Use a…” He’s already tugged the book off the shelf and dropped to the floor, flipping through the pages. “Baby wipe,” she says helplessly. “We’ll buy that, I promise.”

“I wasn’t worried in the least. Would you like coffee?” I ask her, pointing to the carafes I set up. “Or tea? We also have hot cocoa and spiced cider.”

Before Liz can answer me, Jonathan’s voice cuts in, chilly as a blizzard. “This isn’t a library, kid. You browse it, you buy it.”

I whip around, scowling at him from across the store. “Jonathan Frost! Don’t be such a Scrooge.”

He arches an eyebrow at Jack, who’s glaring up at him and says, “Bah humbug.”

Rage pulses through me. I storm toward Jonathan, prepared to give him a piece of my mind. But suddenly Jack’s face breaks into a grin, and he leaps from the floor, launching himself at Jonathan.