Total pages in book: 31
Estimated words: 29000 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 145(@200wpm)___ 116(@250wpm)___ 97(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29000 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 145(@200wpm)___ 116(@250wpm)___ 97(@300wpm)
He looks thoroughly bewildered.
“It’s Holly,” I say. “Holly Hadley.”
More blankness, followed by a sniff as his frown intensifies.
“We used to play together when we were kids?” I pluck the red reindeer nose off my face. “There. Does that help?”
He grunts. “You must have me confused with someone else.”
My throat tightens with embarrassment, but I force another smile. “Um, no, I don’t think so, but that’s okay. We all remember different things, don’t we? I, for example, remember you always made a few extra snowballs for me, so I had a fighting chance against the big kids. And you probably remember the time you and Elliot won the snowman decorating competition.” I laugh. “I’ll never forget how mad the maid was when she realized you’d taken your mother’s Rockette costume out of storage without permission.”
“My mother wasn’t a Rockette,” he says flatly. “She was a Vegas showgirl.”
“Oh wow! Does she still live in Vegas? I’ve never been, but—”
“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen her since I was a boy.”
My brow furrows. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know that. I only knew that you and Elliot were the most creative snowman dressers I’d ever met and how hard my mom laughed when she saw that feathered headdress. It’s still one of my favorite holiday memories.”
He clears his throat. “Yes, well, thank you Miss…”
“Hadley,” I say, my eyes narrowing on his face. “You really don’t remember me?” I motion toward the front of the building. “We used to go sledding down the hill outside. And one time, when I was maybe five or six, we accidentally veered off into the graveyard. I was so scared, but you—”
“As enjoyable as this has been, I have to go,” he says, cutting me off as he turns, plucking the peg leg off the floor. “My driver is waiting in the square.”
I cross my arms over my chest, keeping my flashlight trained on the far wall as he lifts the glass top and returns the artifact to its display stand. “Is that right? Your get-away driver, I assume? Is he going to be upset when he sees the heist has failed and you’ve left here empty-handed? Or are you taking that with you?” I gesture to the hunk of wood and hum softly beneath my breath. “Never took you for a thief, but I guess time changes everyone.”
He turns slowly to face me, paler than he was before. “You can’t prove anything.”
“No, but Greg can.”
He scowls. “Greg?”
“The parrot, Greggory Hamish Blackwater the third. There’s a camera hidden in his beak. The town voted to install security after Gina Jorgensen found out her teen son was breaking in to cook pot brownies in the basement and make out with his girlfriend.” I jab a thumb over my shoulder. “There’s a kitchenette in the basement. That’s why I’m here. My oven is on the fritz and I needed to whip up some more dog treats before the Pets on Santa’s Lap event I’m photographing tomorrow. And I got permission from the mayor to use the oven as long as I locked up after.” I tap my finger to my chin as I sway closer to my prey. “But you… You broke in to steal a priceless antique and beloved piece of Jingle Bell Junction history and do God only knows what with it. That’s a serious offense, Luke Lawrence Ratcliffe. One I’m afraid you’ll have to pay for.”
“How much do you want?” he asks, his voice a low, ominous rumble. “I don’t have my cell phone with me, but—”
“It wouldn’t work if you did,” I say pleasantly. “The entire town is still a dead zone. Always has been, probably always will be.”
He sniffs and glares some more. “As, I said, I don’t have my phone, but I can send you the money as soon as I get home.”
I cluck my tongue. “Oh please, I don’t want your money.”
“You don’t?”
“No, I want something far more valuable,” I say, bobbing my brows ominously up and down.
His eyes widen and for the first time, he doesn’t look bored or grumpy.
He looks intrigued…meaning I have him right where I want him.
I lean in, tipping my chin back to maintain eye contact with his much taller self as I add, “You. Me. Five batches of dog treats before midnight. If you’re a good little helper, I’ll delete the footage of your attempted peg leg theft, and no one will know how close you came to being a felon. Cross me, and I’ll be first up on the stand to testify.”
“You want me to help you cook?” he asks, clearly suspicious.
“I do. I’m an absolute disaster in the kitchen. Can’t stay organized, can’t follow a recipe, make a terrible mess that takes hours to clean.” I sigh. “Without your help, I could be here until morning. I’m lucky I caught you red-handed and you have no choice but to be my baking minion. It really is a Christmas miracle.”