Chapter 3
Wren
He's touching my grandmother's music boxes.
"That one's not for sale." The words come out sharper than intended, like I'm protecting a child from a stranger with candy. Except the candy is my emotional support music box, and the stranger is unreasonably attractive for someone who apparently hates joy.
Holden doesn't startle, just turns those storm-cloud eyes toward me with what I'm recognizing as his version of interest. In most people, it would be indifference. On him, it's practically a marriage proposal.
"I wasn't planning on buying it."
"Then why—"
"It's beautiful." He says it simply, like he's commenting on the weather, but his fingers still hover near the delicate inlay like he's afraid it might disappear if he looks away. "The craftsmanship. Someone spent months on this."
"Longer. André Beaumont spent three years perfecting that mechanism. He made it for his daughter's wedding in 1894." The words tumble out before I can stop them. Nobody ever asks about the history. They usually just ask if I have anything from this century that beeps or requires batteries.
"You know its history?"
"Every piece here has a history. That's kind of the point. Well, that and slowly going bankrupt with style."
He nods slowly, his attention shifting to the rest of Grandma’s collection displayed along the counter. Each piece is positioned exactly as she left them, a shrine to beauty that I dust religiously while questioning my life choices.
"Your grandmother's?"
I don't remember telling him that, but then again, the whole town knows my entire life story, including that embarrassing incident in third grade with the glue stick. Small-town information networks work faster than the internet and with twice the judgment.
"She collected them her whole life. Said they were proof that beautiful things could survive anything if they were loved enough. Also, she said tequila was proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy, so her wisdom was hit or miss."
Something flickers in his expression—maybe recognition, maybe sadness, maybe just the realization that he's standing in a failing toy shop at 9 AM.
"Interesting business model," he says.
"Not everything is about business models."
"Everything is about business models. Whether or not people admit it."
"What's the business model for standing in my shop fondling music boxes?"
"Research."
"Into what? How to look brooding and mysterious while also being weirdly into antiques?"
That almost-smile appears, the one that transforms his face for exactly 0.3 seconds before he remembers smiling isn't part of his brand.
"Something like that."
The shop door chimes, saving us from whatever weird tension is building. Mrs. Connor shuffles in with her knitting bag, which definitely contains more gossip than yarn.
"Wren, dear! I need more of those vintage cookie cutters. My grandchildren are coming for the holidays and—oh." She stops, noticing Holden like she's discovered the Holy Grail. "I don't believe we've met."
"Holden Clark," I supply when he doesn't immediately respond, probably because he's allergic to human interaction. "He's new in town. Working at Finn's garage."
Mrs. Connor's face lights up like Christmas came early and brought a single man under sixty. "How wonderful! Are you married, Mr. Clark?"
I want to sink through the floor. Through the basement. Through the earth's crust into the molten core, where embarrassment can't follow.
"No."
"Girlfriend?"
"No."
"Boyfriend?"
His lips twitch slightly. "No."
"Perfect!" She claps her hands together like she's just won the lottery. "Wren is single too. And she makes the most wonderful hot chocolate. You should ask her about it. It's terrible, actually, but she tries very hard."
"Mrs. Connor, the cookie cutters are in aisle three," I interrupt, my face achieving temperatures that could melt steel. "The Christmas ones are on the second shelf."
She toddles off, but not before giving me a wink visible from space.
"So," Holden leans against the counter, suddenly closer than necessary. "Tell me about this terrible hot chocolate."
"It's not terrible. It's just... mediocre."
"That's quite a claim."
"I burn it. Every time. It's like a talent. I could burn water if given the opportunity."
"Water doesn't burn."
"You haven't seen me try."
He actually laughs—a short, surprised sound, like he wasn't expecting it. Like laughter is something that happens to other people. "How do you burn hot chocolate?"
"With determination and a fundamental misunderstanding of how heat works."
"You should put that on the menu. 'Wren's Burnt Hot Chocolate: A Triumph of Hope Over Experience.'" He teases.
"With a disclaimer about potential tongue scarring."
"That's just part of the experience. Builds character. And scar tissue."
"Very resilient, scar tissue." I smirk.
"Exactly. It's basically a medical service."
Mrs. Connor returns with an armload of cookie cutters, clearly having ransacked my entire inventory. "You two are laughing! How delightful! You know, Mr. Clark, Wren hasn't laughed with a man since that incident with the traveling salesman."
"There was no incident—"
"He sold her a set of encyclopedias. In 2023. Physical books! Can you imagine?"
"I collect vintage things!" I defend myself. "I thought they were being ironic!"
"Twenty-six volumes of irony," Mrs. Connor says, shaking her head. "Poor dear even read some of them."
"I was trying to understand cryptocurrency. Volume C was very unhelpful."
Holden's definitely fighting a smile now. "Did you try Volume K?"
"For cryptocurrency?"
"For 'Krypto.' It's hiding." He teases.
"That's the worst joke I've ever heard." I tell him.
Mrs. Connor beams at us like she's watching a rom-com in real time. "You two are perfect for each other. Both are terrible at jokes."
She leaves with her purchases and what I'm sure will be hot gossip for the next committee meeting. I can already hear it: "Wren was flirting with that mysterious new man. They were talking about cryptocurrency. It was very romantic."
"I should get to work," Holden says, already moving toward the door.
"Wait—" I don't know why I stop him. Maybe because he's the first person in months who hasn't looked at my shop with pity. "The Christmas committee is always looking for volunteers. You know, if you want to meet people. Get involved. Make enemies. The usual."
"I don't do committees."
"Nobody does committees. We all just pretend until someone brings cookies."
"There are cookies?"
"Delia makes these bourbon balls that are technically illegal in three states."
He pauses at the door. "When?"
"Saturday morning. Eight o'clock. We're decorating the town square. Bring your own ladder. The committee ladder has trust issues."
"Trust issues?"
"It betrayed Mr. Peterson last year. We don't talk about it. There was a lawsuit. Well, almost a lawsuit. Mr. Peterson’s also the town lawyer, so he would have been suing himself. It got complicated. Don’t ask."
He's gone before I can explain further, leaving the shop feeling oddly empty. Like all the interesting air went with him.
I stare at the music box he was touching, and I swear I can still see the ghost of his fingerprints on the wood. Which is ridiculous. Fingerprints aren't visible. That's why crime shows need that powder stuff.
The morning crawls by with only two more customers: someone looking for directions to somewhere that isn't here, and Tommy Martinez with his mom.
Tommy immediately attaches himself to the train display while Maria gives me the universal mom look of "please entertain my child while I have five seconds of peace. "
"Miss Wren, can I run the train?"
"Sure, but be gentle. It's older than both of us combined."
"It's older than you? But you're like, really old."
"I'm twenty-eight."
"That's what I said. Really old."
This kid's going places. Not college necessarily, but definitely places.
"Tommy! That's not polite!" Maria mortifies.
"It's fine. To a seven-year-old, I'm basically ancient. I probably seem like I remember when dinosaurs roamed the earth."
"Do you?" Tommy asks seriously.
"Oh yes. I used to ride a triceratops to school. Uphill. Both ways."
He considers this. "That's silly. Triceratops were herbivores. They wouldn't be good for riding."
"What would you recommend?"
"Velociraptors. But you'd need a saddle."
"And probably health insurance." I mutter.
"What's health insurance?"
"Something velociraptors definitely don't accept."
Maria manages to extract Tommy after he's run the train approximately forty-seven times, each with sound effects that suggest the train is going through some sort of existential crisis. At one point, I'm pretty sure he made it scream.
I'm reconciling the register—a depressing activity that's like checking your bank account after a weekend in Vegas—when my phone rings. Miranda Fletcher from the bank. My stomach relocates somewhere near my ankles.
"Wren, I'm calling as a courtesy."
Courtesy. That's what people say before they ruin your life politely.
"The loan committee met this morning."
"And?" My voice comes out squeaky, like I've been inhaling helium. Or panic. Mostly panic.
"They're not optimistic about an extension. Unless something significant changes..."
"Define ‘significant’."
"Proof of increased revenue. A co-signer with substantial assets. Or..." she pauses, and I can hear her choosing her words carefully, "evidence of personal stability that might affect your business prospects."
"Personal stability. You mean a husband."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to. Your pause was very loud."
"Wren, I'm trying to help. The committee is very traditional. They see a single woman struggling to maintain a business, and they make assumptions. Fair or not, those assumptions affect their decisions."
"So, if I showed up with a boyfriend—"
"It might help. Especially if he's established. Employed. Stable. Not a traveling encyclopedia salesman."
"That was ONE TIME."
After she hangs up, I stare at Grandma’s music boxes. The dancing couple in the Swiss box spins endlessly, frozen in their eternal waltz. They make it look so easy, that connection. Just hold on and keep dancing, and somehow you won't die alone surrounded by vintage toys and broken dreams.
An absolutely terrible idea starts forming. The kind of idea that only makes sense when you're desperate, haven't slept properly in weeks, and have been inhaling too much furniture polish.
Holden Clark. New in town. No connections. No expectations. Employed at a respectable local business. Single. Shows up when I need him. Helps without being asked. Has arms that could definitely carry heavy things, which I’m sure the committee would find very important in a man.
Also grumpy, mysterious, and probably has more baggage than an airport.
But he looked at Grandma’s music boxes like he understood them. Like he understood some things are worth preserving even if they don't make financial sense. Plus, he has that whole brooding thing that committees seem to find respectable.
This is insane. I'm seriously considering asking a stranger to fake date me to save my business.
Grandma would be either appalled or impressed.
She always said desperate times called for desperate measures.
She also said you should never trust a man who doesn't like dogs, but Holden hasn't been tested on that yet.
"What do you think?" I ask the Swiss music box couple. "Should I ask the grumpy man who hates joy to pretend to love me?"
They continue their waltz, offering no advice. Typical. Even inanimate objects won't give me relationship advice.
By closing time—which is whenever I give up on the idea that customers exist—I've talked myself into and out of the fake dating idea approximately thirty-seven times.
Pro: it might save my shop. Con: it's insane, and he'll probably say no, and then I'll have to move to another state to avoid the embarrassment.
Actually, thirty-eight times now. Thirty-nine. The counting isn't helping.
I'm locking up when I spot him through the garage windows across the square. He's under a car, only his legs visible, and Finn's laughing at something.
Before I can lose my nerve—and what little dignity I have left—I'm walking across the square with the determination of someone about to make either the best or worst decision of their life.
I'm about to ask a man who treats emotions like a food allergy to be my fake boyfriend. Grandma would be so proud. Or horrified. Definitely one of those.
The December air bites at my face, and I can already hear Finn's voice getting clearer. This is happening. I'm really doing this.
God help us all.