Chapter 23 Oh…No…Poison
Claire
“How much money do you think is in that account at the Sugarplum Park Bank?” I ask as Everett holds the door open and we walk back outside.
He shrugs. “Hopefully enough to get us through our time here,” he says, chuckling. “Did you hear Cami say ‘Give into the magic’?”
“I did.”
“Stella said the same thing.”
“I know…I just have no idea what it means.”
“Me either.” He looks around the street at each of the stores. “Where do you want to start?”
“I don’t think it matters,” I say, looking around. “Maybe the bookstore?”
“Okay,” he agrees.
We begin to cross the street toward The Book Rack.
“You know? I don’t have any idea what drinks he gave me,” he says.
“Me either. You think we should be afraid or excited?” I giggle as we walk.
“I’m not sure. If we were still in New York, what would be in your cup?”
“I’m a sucker for whatever seasonal drink is on the menu, but my usual is a brown sugar latte with oatmilk.”
“Why? Are you lactose intolerant?” he asks.
“No, I just like the way oatmilk tastes. What’s your go-to drink?”
“What do you think it is?”
“A cappuccino,” I guess.
“Try again.”
“Ummm…I don’t know. A latte?”
“I bet you’ll never guess it.” His lips curl into a smirk.
“Then why are you making me play this silly game?” I huff.
“Oh, come on.” His body bumps into mine as we move. “I’ll give you a hint. It’s a lot like me.”
I tap my chin pretending to think.
“Oh, I know! You like it black, just like your heart?”
“Hilarious,” he deadpans. “No. It’s a large whole milk latte, with three pumps of caramel, two pumps of vanilla, no whip, light foam, and caramel drizzle.”
“You’re joking.”
“Dead serious.”
“In what world would I be able to guess that drink?”
“I gave you a hint.”
“A bad one. How is that drink anything like you?”
“Because I’m really sweet.”
“Ha!” I roll my eyes and run my free hand through my hair. “A vanilla latte is sweet. Whatever you just listed only proves that you’re an incredibly high maintenance man.”
“Maybe. Or I just know what I want.” His eyes trail down my body, and he raises his eyebrows. Heat crawls up my neck and covers my face under his stare. I physically attempt to shake the effect he has on me away, but it doesn’t work.
“I thought you said you’d stop flirting with me.”
“Oh you meant forever?”
I clench my jaw, not sure what to say to him because honestly…I like the flirting. I like it more than I should, but I know we need to stay focused or we’ll never get home.
“Should we try our mystery drinks?” he asks.
“Sure.” I study my cup feeling grateful for the shift in our conversation. “You go first.”
“Ha! You would ask me to go first.”
“Who’s gonna get us back if I die,” I tease. “The best idea you’ve come up with is falling in love. We need me to live.”
He cuts his eyes at me, shaking his head and trying not to laugh. Hesitantly, he takes a sip from the cup and immediately grabs his throat.
“Uh…no…poison…ugh…” He sputters dramatically, falling to his knees in the snow and catching the attention of a few strangers walking by.
“Hilarious,” I deadpan, holding back a laugh. “You’re not funny.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” he says, standing and knocking the snow from his knees. “I think he switched them. This one is definitely yours. It’s gross.”
“Is not.” I giggle as we trade cups, each then taking a sip of the drink that should’ve been ours to begin with. “So, if you like sweets so much, which Christmas Extravaganza item do you think you’d like the most?”
“I think Chip’s peppermint bark.”
“Not Lolly’s?” I laugh.
“I don’t know. I get a good vibe from him. I think I’ll probably like his better.”
“You get a vibe from him? You don’t even know him.”
“No, but it’s his aura. He’s like a cool, young grandpa.”
“And that means he makes good peppermint bark?”
“I think so. What about you?”
“The eggnog latte.” I sip my drink, and swallow hard.
“Why?
“My dad makes eggnog French toast every year for Christmas dinner, and it’s one of my favorite things.”
“Breakfast for dinner?”
“It’s tradition.”
“Sounds like a good one.”
“The best.” My voice drifts off, my heart aching for my family. I’d give anything to see them again. To hear about my dad’s latest prank. To be able to hug my mom and sister. But I can’t even call them.
“Maybe I’ll get to try it sometime,” he says.
“You know you have to be a fan of Christmas to try it,” I tease. “It’s a prerequisite for getting invited.”
“Dang.” He chuckles.“Any non-holiday traditions I could try?”
“No, I’m from a family that’s obsessed with every holiday there ever was. I’m talking matching Halloween costumes, those turkey-shaped hats, and Christmas sweaters that make the one you’re wearing look like child’s play.”
“Ugh, sounds like I’d hate it.”
“I don’t know—you keep surprising me. Maybe you’d be surprised to find that you actually love it.”
“Maybe.”
Silence falls between us as our laughter fades, and I try to organize my thoughts as we make it to the door of the book shop.
Everett pulls the door open. Placing his hand on the small of my back, he leads me inside the well-lit space.
To the right, and taking up half the store, is a section for adults full of various genres of books— the largest appearing to be romance.
On the back wall to the left are shelves covered in puzzles and games.
A square wooden table is situated in front with pieces scattered across the top.
In the front left is a children’s section.
The shelves are lined with books and small stuffed animals of all kinds.
Homemade paper garland and stars hang from the ceiling.
“Welcome,” Ginger says, greeting us. She’s dressed in a blue sweater decorated with a family of friendly looking snowmen on the front. On her head sits a headband that resembles colorful Christmas lights. It flashes on and off.
“Hi,” I say.
“Can I help you find something?” she asks.
“We’re not sure,” Everett says. “Thought we’d just look around—”
“Oh my! Would you look at that?” Ginger says, pointing out the window to the sidewalk outside her shop.
Chip and Lolly are stopped. Her hands are on her hips and his are crossed over his chest. She looks like she may be yelling, but it’s hard to tell because we can’t hear them.
“Don’t you think they would make the cutest couple?” Ginger asks.
“Huh?” Everett questions.
“Lolly and Chip,” she clarifies, tipping her chin in the direction of them. “Did she not tell you what happened?”
We both shake our heads.
“Well, according to Ruth, Chip asked Lolly out when she first moved here. She turned him down and then opened that cute little candy shop, and now they pretend like they hate each other, but I know better. I think they secretly like one another and are just playing hard to get.”
“Maybe,” I say.
“Sometimes people just need to take the time to talk to each other to realize they have more in common than they assume.” She looks back and forth between me and Everett.
“I couldn’t agree more,” he says, locking his stare on me. I swallow hard and my stomach swoops.
Ginger begins to laugh. “They’re going to have to spend lots of time together thanks to Stella!”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“The decoration committee, of course.”
“Didn’t they volunteer to do that?”
“Oh, goodness no. They were voluntold and weren’t very happy about it, but they’ll just have to work through it.” She smiles and her eyes gleam. “Anywho, let me know if you need help finding something.”
We both nod and then walk toward the section of the store with books we hope might have clues for us to get home.
“Seems like people with pink hair do like to play matchmaker,” Everett whispers.
I shake my head and roll my eyes.
“You’re so much better than me with all of these strangers. It’s taking all of my energy to smile and pretend like I know them. How do you do it?”
“I don’t know. I’ve had a lot of practice from being in the spotlight the way I’ve been, but that doesn’t mean it’s not weighing on me too. You found me in a pinball bar, trying to escape my inevitable retirement, remember?”
I offer him a half-smile.
“Where do you think we should start?” he asks, running his fingers along the spines of some of the books.
“I don’t know. I just keep thinking about what Stella said, so maybe books on magic or books about the town.”
“Good idea,” he says, beginning to peruse the shelves. We maze up and down each aisle looking for anything remotely resembling a book on Sugarplum Park or magic, but there’s nothing.
“Do you like to read?” he asks, bending down to search a lower shelf.
“I do, but I don’t have a lot of time for it with dance.”
“I get that. Hockey doesn’t leave a lot of extra time for hobbies either.”
He stands, and we continue down the aisle, turning the corner to the next one.
“I have so many books in my apartment, but I think the last time I sat down and enjoyed one must have been at least a year ago.”
“So, why buy books if you don’t read them?”
“Well, I plan on reading them one day,” I explain. “I’m also just a sucker for a pretty cover or special edition, so I own a lot of duplicates of my favorites. Do you read?”
“Not really.”
“Do you have any hobbies?”
“I travel a little during the off season, but when I’m home I don’t do much. Most nights it’s either Fritz’s or a puzzle at home.”
“A puzzle?”
He winces.
“Yeah, I find them relaxing.”
“Wait.” I stop walking and turn to face him. “You. Everett Nuttall. Professional hockey player. Do puzzles in your spare time?”
“Yeah.”
“Huh.” I start moving again, leaving him by a section of cookbooks.
“Are you judging my hobby?” he asks, catching up to me in one long stride.
“No, not at all. I’m just surprised that’s what you like to do.”
He shrugs. “I’m gone a lot, so I buy the ones with thousands of pieces and work on it when I can. If I’m on the road for a while, it’s easy to pick back up once I’m home.”
“I guess I could see how that’s appealing.”