Chapter 6
SIX
The next morning, I place a two-foot-tall gingerbread man on Adam’s front lawn and stand back, admiring my handiwork.
He still has no lights, but we’re making slow progress.
With less than a month until Christmas, I think I will manage to bring him around to the bright side and convince him to light up his house.
Just then, Adam steps out onto his front porch wearing a pair of gray sweats that should be illegal (I’m sure Hallie would have something to say about the noticeable bulge in his front) and a matching gray hoodie.
For a split second, he almost looks like someone from one of those trashy tabloids Nat reads, but I lose my grip on who his doppelganger might be before quickly shaking my head to clear my thoughts.
His eyes scan his yard, already trained to look for some new addition, and when he spots it, his head turns to where I am as if he already knew I was there.
“More decorations?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, fighting to keep my face neutral and innocent.
“You’re playing with fire, Birdie.”
A wave of warmth washes over me at the nickname, the same way it did when he said it last night, but I push it aside, putting my hands on my hips and tipping my head in challenge.
“Is that supposed to scare me off?” He shrugs as if the answer is yes.
“I have two older brothers. Threats of retaliation were a Sunday morning tradition in my house.” He gives me a small smile then, one he’s clearly trying to hide but does so ineffectively.
It sends that increasingly familiar hit of warmth through me, like a glass of warm, spiked cider on an empty stomach.
It even gives me the same lightheaded feeling.
“I don’t think anything could scare you off if you set your mind to it.”
“I can be very persistent when there’s something I want,” I say. “And I am going to make you decorate your house by the end of the season, Adam Porter.”
“Is that so?” he asks, raising a thick eyebrow in my direction.
“I’m not going down without a fight, at the very least.
“Then I guess this is war, isn’t it?”
He’s been kind of an ass, but I’m finding I very much like this version of Adam. The fun, playful one. It’s much better than the grumpy one who sits in his boring, undecorated house by himself.
“I guess it is,” I say. Unfortunately, as much as I’d like to continue this back and forth, I do have to get to work, so I step toward my car and give him a little wave. “See you later, Adam.”
When I park in my driveway after work, I note with glee that Adam still hasn’t taken any of my decorations down.
I’m enjoying this game between my neighbor and me, and I spent a good chunk of my day plotting up schemes for how to take it to the next level.
I step out of my car, grab my things from the trunk, and trudge up the walkway toward my front door.
As I approach my house, I notice something is off.
But since the multiple bags and boxes in my hands are threatening to fall, I don’t stop to pinpoint what it is.
When I step outside to get my mail ten minutes later, though, I realize what it is: my nutcracker is missing. I look left and right, trying to see if I moved it and forgot, then look around my porch to see if maybe he fell over, but there’s nothing.
The centerpiece for my Land of Sweets display this year was a stunning online find.
He was a bit battered and bruised when I got him, but with some sandpaper and a fresh coat of pastel-colored paint to better fit my vision, he was even better than expected.
He’s huge, nearly five feet tall, and heavy since he’s mostly made of wood, and he was standing guard on my porch this morning when I left for work.
And now he’s gone.
I’m coming to terms with either having to make do without or buying a new one when I feel eyes on me. I look to my right and see it for a flash: a pair of broad shoulders, a brooding gaze with an entertained smirk, and eyes that meet my shocked ones right before a curtain is pulled closed.
Somehow, I know.
I know Adam Porter has something to do with my nutcracker going missing.
I guess this is war, isn’t it? he said this morning.
With a slight growl, I turn on my heel and make my way down my front pathway.
My day was absolute garbage. I had one student bite another, and the parent of the biter tried to blame it on the other kid’s parents.
Somehow, I agreed to bake all of the items for a bake sale fundraiser that will take place on Sunday at the holiday shop the school runs for the kids, and on top of that, when my mom called during my lunch, she asked if I could manage to make a quilt for her friend’s granddaughter before Christmas.
As seems to be my way, I stupidly agreed, even though it throws any plans of going to bed at a reasonable hour in the next week completely out the window.
And then, to top things off, as I was leaving work, Jan Klein made a snide remark about how the decorations on Main Street looked a bit lackluster compared to last year and said she hoped I had plans to finish them up.
I bit my tongue and thanked her for her input instead of telling her we put up the same decorations as last year, and if she wanted to add more, she was more than welcome to do so on her own time, like I secretly wanted to do.
It’s not that I don’t want to help everyone.
I love being the person in town everyone can count on, really.
But with my new role as head of the decorating committee, I’m finding it challenging to balance my own goal of making my grandmother proud, my desire to make it the most festive year to date, and my need to help everyone who needs it.
The truth is, despite just how much I have to do right now, I would really like to nap for about a week, and the weight of all of these responsibilities is getting to me.
However, the exhaustion I felt in my bones just minutes ago seems to have evaporated as I move down my pathway, across the sidewalk, then up Adam’s walkway.
In fact, there’s almost a pep in my step as I stomp over there.
And even though I’m annoyed as can be, I’m also a bit eager for whatever confrontation we’re about to have.
I only have to knock twice before the front door opens, Adam shifting to lean into the door frame with his arms crossed on his chest. He’s in a long-sleeve shirt that clings to broad shoulders and thick muscles, but I force myself to keep my eyes on his face.
Don’t fall for the hot arms, Wren. You’re here because he stole your nutcracker. You’re supposed to be stern, not swooning.
He smirks down at me before he speaks, not helping my urge to swoon in the least. “Can I help you?”
“Where is my nutcracker?” I ask, setting my hands on my hips and giving him the best glare I can muster.
It’s the kind I give my students when they’re doing something they shouldn’t, and I have to stop being the cool young teacher and instead be the disciplinarian.
His smile goes wider, and my god, the man should do it more.
I can’t say he isn’t good-looking when he’s all brooding eyes, irritated glares, and annoyed jaw clenches, but this teasing look is absolutely panty-melting material.
His eyes shift to the side, looking expectantly at the window beside his door, and I follow his gaze, then gasp when I see my nutcracker in his window.
“What have you done to him?” I exclaim, noting a T-shirt for the band Atlas Oaks pulled over his head and a black sock on the top of his staff, hanging limply like a sad flag.
“Oh, calm down, it’s a sock and a shirt. I didn’t take a chainsaw to him.”
“This is sacrilege. He’s a symbol of Christmas spirit! Not…whatever that is.” I wave a frantic hand toward the window.
“I think sacrilege is a bit dramatic. But he’s my hostage now; I can do what I want with him.”
I glare at him, my irritation brewing as we bicker on his front step. I have so many things to do, and none of them involve arguing with my neighbor.
The irritation directed at him is new for me. I always have a firm hold on my emotions, especially the negative ones, and can usually tamp them down and greet people with friendliness, no matter how I’m really feeling. Unfortunately, it seems my neighbor knows precisely which buttons to push.
“Come on, Adam. Give me my nutcracker back. He’s the entire centerpiece for my decor!” It sounds like a whine even to my ears.
“Oh no, how will your eighteen million lights and decorations survive without your five-foot nutcracker?” he says, deadpan.
I roll my eyes. I find myself doing that a lot with him.
“Eighteen million is an exaggeration.”
“Is it, though?” he asks as if he doesn’t believe me.
“I can’t give you a total because I’ve never felt the need to count them, but it’s definitely not eighteen million.” I shake my head, realizing I’m focusing on the wrong thing. “But we’re getting off track: are you going to give him back to me?”
“You have to give in to my demands before you get him back.”
Clearly, I’m losing my mind, something that must be caused by a mix of Hallie telling me nonstop about how hot my new neighbor is—“Serial killer or not, Wren, the man is hot. I might be able to look past the potential murderer aspect if I got his head between my thighs,” was what she said when we spotted him at the bar the other night—and the fact that I haven’t gotten laid in well over a year because suddenly, I’m picturing an entirely inappropriate set of demands from Adam Porter.
Or maybe I just really need sleep, because I almost convince myself that his eyes flare with my question, almost as if his mind is going in the same direction as mine.
But there’s no way.
The man can’t stand me.
“Take back your decorations. And don’t put any new ones up,” he says, pulling me back from that dangerous track.
“No,” I state, crossing my arms on my chest.