Chapter 3 Peppermint Stick
PEPPERMINT STICK
FIVE MINUTES BEFORE.
I feel like Goldilocks, drifting from room to room to find the perfect place to lay my head.
I keep pinching myself so I don’t wake up.
The Oakleys’ Christmas décor makes the whole house feel unreal.
There’s even a twelve-foot tree in the living room with presents piled under it.
I’m guessing they’ll open gifts when they get home.
Passing the kitchen, I find the downstairs guestroom.
I’d planned to camp upstairs and have a full Home Alone experience, but this is even better.
It’s the smallest room in the house, sure, but it’s still way bigger than my apartment.
There’s a little bar, a walk-in closet, its own bathroom, and a door to the outside.
Morning cocoa on that little patio would be perfect.
Ms. Greta said two rooms were off-limits. They’re locked, so I didn’t try them. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if the Oakleys had a sex dungeon. Rich people and weird hobbies, what else is new? Then again, I don’t actually know many rich people.
My phone buzzes: the delivery is five minutes away. I ordered groceries, a burger and fries from the diner, and, because I am extra, some Christmas PJs and a cute little gown. Essentials. If this storm Dayana texted about actually shows up, I’m ready.
The doorbell rings.
I sprint out of the room and nearly face-plant over a giant candy cane propped against the wall.
“Was that always there?” I mutter, grabbing it.
The thing is huge, easily twenty pounds. Who even makes candy canes this big?
Another knock echoes through the house. My stomach drops. I grip the candy cane like it’s a bat and head for the foyer, only to freeze when the door rattles.
Wait. Did someone just jiggle the handle?
Is someone trying to break in?
Because, of course. Of course it would be my luck to get robbed while house-sitting.
Heart racing, I duck into the hallway closet near the door, holding my breath as the knob turns. The front door creaks open, and footsteps echo against the hardwood.
Great. Just great. I’m getting robbed in someone else’s house. Can’t even eat my dinner while waiting for the police.
Police.
My hand flies to my pocket. No phone. Damn it. It’s still in the guest room.
Okay, Sutton. Think. If they come in here, do you a) hide and hope for the best or b) find a weapon?
I glance down at the oversized candy cane in my hand.
Option B it is.
I tighten my grip, inch closer to the door, and wait. The footsteps move past the closet. Now or never.
I burst out, raise the candy cane, and yell, “How did you get in here?”
The person spins around. I close my eyes and swing like I’m in the damn World Series.
Thud.
Then silence.
Peeking through one eye, I see the figure crumpled on the floor.
“Wow,” I whisper, staring at the candy cane in my hand. “Can’t believe that actually worked.”
My chest heaves. I step closer, pressing a shaky hand over my heart. They’re still breathing, thank God. Using the candy cane like a stick, I nudge the hood back.
And freeze.
I expected a sketchy dude or a plain-Jane burglar. Instead, I’m staring at a woman, an angel, actually.
Her curls frame her face in soft, glossy waves, short like a pixie cut that belongs on a magazine cover. Her skin is warm cocoa, smooth and glowing even in the dim foyer light. Long lashes sweep across her cheeks, and her lips, full, soft, entirely unfair, part just slightly as she breathes.
She doesn’t look like someone who’d rob a house.
Okay… maybe I’m being judgmental.
But she looks more like someone who belongs on a Christmas card, not a wanted poster.
Snapping out of my thoughts, I realize I still need to grab my phone. I can’t risk losing this job, not two days before Christmas. I need this money.
Still clutching the candy cane in my hand, I head back to the guestroom. My phone’s sitting on the bed, black screen staring back at me.
“One percent battery?” I groan. “Dang it. I forgot to plug it in after ordering all that food.”
Speaking of food… my ice cream’s probably soup by now.
Heading back toward the hallway, I pause.
“What the…” I whisper, glancing around. The hallway’s empty. The air feels heavier somehow.
Where did she go?
I take one step, then another.
Click.
The sound’s faint, but it freezes me in place.
Before I can turn around, something cold presses against the back of my head.
“What are you doing here?”
The voice, low, calm, and deep, sends shivers down my spine. Basically heavenly.
“I should be the one asking questions,” I manage to say, swallowing the lump in my throat.
“Oh, you’ve got jokes. Since when do burglars talk back?”
“Wait.” I swallow hard. “I am not robbing the place. You are?”
“Girl, playing dumb won’t stop me from calling the cops,” she says flatly. “Now, why shouldn’t I give them a call?”
“Because,” I say quickly, “you don’t want to go to jail for shooting a woman who thought you were the burglar, but she is just house-sitting.”
Silence.
Then, dryly, “Drop the candy cane.”
“Drop the gun first.”
“Not how this works.”
“I’m not dying in Christmas pajamas holding a peppermint stick.”
She exhales, exasperated. “Fine. We count to three.”
“Okay.”
“One.”
“Two.”
“Three.”
We both drop.
The candy cane hits the hardwood with a loud thud. Whatever she’s holding lands with a quiet plop.
I turn around slowly and instantly forget how to breathe.
She’s stunning.
Her brown eyes meet mine, sharp but soft around the edges, and her lips are full and glossy, parted slightly as she sizes me up.
Then I look down.
The “gun” in her hand is bright blue. Plastic.
A freaking water gun.
I blink. “You were threatening me with that?”
Her mouth curves into a smug grin. “Scared you enough, didn’t I?”
I burst out laughing. “What were you gonna do, splash me into submission?”
She crosses her arms. “Worked, didn’t it?”
“Barely.” I smirk. “You got lucky. I was two seconds away from swinging again.”
“Oh please,” she says. “That candy cane wouldn’t survive round two.”
I grin and hold out my hand. “Sutton.”
“Heaven.” Her grip is firm, confident, annoyingly so.
“Heaven?” I echo, raising a brow. “That’s… ironic.” The last word slips out under my breath.
Her eyes flick to the candy cane still lying on the floor, then back to me. “So. Explain before I actually call the cops.”
“I told you,” I say, still catching my breath. “I’m house-sitting. For the Oakleys. Ms. Greta hired me, background check and everything. I’ve got the paperwork somewhere if you wanna see it.”
“House-sitting?” She scans me from head to toe, unimpressed, then laughs. “Of course my brother would hire someone to turn on his Christmas lights.”
“Wait, your brother? Christmas lights?”
“Ezra Oakley,” she says, rolling her eyes. “He’s the biggest sore loser you’ll ever meet. Couldn’t leave for vacation without trying to win the neighborhood Christmas light show.”
I blink. Hold up. Her brother paid me five grand to flip a light switch? “How often does this holiday showdown happen?”
Her gaze sharpens. “You sure you’re supposed to be here?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I lift both hands. “Look, my phone’s dead, my ice cream’s melting, and honestly, this has been the longest day of my life. I’m not a criminal, I swear. So, back to the lights, what exactly does he need me to do?”
Her mouth twitches; for the first time, something soft crosses her face. “Where’s the folder Greta gave you?”
“In the kitchen.” I start walking that way.
She grabs the grocery bags from the floor and follows. Setting them on the counter, she leans back with one eyebrow raised. “So… do house-sitters usually attack family members, or am I just lucky?”
I laugh, still a little breathless, and slide the folder across the counter. “Just lucky. Pretty sure this is my first felony in someone else’s house.”
Her lips twitch, almost a smile. She flips through the papers until she finds what she wants, pulls one out, and slides it toward me. “Here. All the info you need for the Christmas lights.”
I pick it up and read aloud:
“Rule 1: Turn on the lights at 6:32 pm exactly. Not a minute early, not a minute late.
Rule 2: If the power goes out, start the backup generator.
Rule 3: If possible, cut Joan Evergreen’s power line.”
I blink. “Who is Joan Evergreen?”
Heaven pulls out my now-melted ice cream from one of the bags, gives me a look, and says, “The old lady next door, my brother’s sworn enemy. One-sided beef.”
“One-sided?” I ask, grinning. “Please tell me more.”
She smirks while I start unpacking another bag. “Oh, it’s very one-sided. But harmless. Just a neighborhood competition. They try to one-up each other every year.” She eyes the carton in her hand. “Do you mind if I throw this ice cream out? It’s basically soup. I can buy us some more.”
“Us?” I blink. “As in… you’re staying?”
I wasn’t planning on company. I wanted a stress-free mini-vacay, not to be shacked up with Jill the Beanstalk. When she was on the ground earlier, I hadn’t realized how tall she was. Great. Now I’m sharing a house with a supermodel who could probably bench-press me.
“Yep,” she says.
Still, one question nags at me, why is she even here? And why didn’t Greta mention it? That little piece of information could’ve saved me from committing assault.
What if she’s injured and doesn’t even know it yet?
“Hey, uh… is your head okay?” I ask softly.
She finishes putting the last item in the cabinet and glances at me. “Yeah. It’s not throbbing as much,” she says casually, like I didn’t nearly knock her into next week.
“Sorry about that,” I mumble. “I didn’t know what to do—”
“It’s fine.” She waves it off. “I should’ve figured my brother would hire someone. How much did he pay you, anyway? I can’t imagine you giving up time with your family for twenty bucks an hour.”
“Five thousand dollars for two nights,” I say, a little too quickly. “He already paid me two grand upfront.”
Her brows lift. “Not bad. Honestly, I thought it was a crazy number.”