How My Neighbor Stole Christmas

So the people of Kringle all gathered around.

The twinkling lights shimmered; snow fell to the ground.

Bob Krampus in the center with a smile and a list.

A list of all contestants, held tightly in his fist.

What a wonderful time, the start of a very joyful season!

But Cole and Max were there for one specific reason…

“Thank you for joining us,” Bob Krampus bellows from his Santa house at the very top of Ornament Park. It’s a picturesque storybook house, as if it were plucked straight from the minds of Disney animators, with its fake thatched roof, Bavarian-style moldings, stained-glass windows in green and red, and the quintessential limestone that wraps the bottom perimeter of the cottage.

The people around us cheer, their breaths turning into mist as mittens are pressed together, winter hats cover ears, and the town band, which is off to the right, gets ready to start the Christmas season with the Kringletown favorite, “Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town.”

“I should have worn a jacket,” Max mutters next to me. “Fuck, it’s chillier than I expected it to be. I told you we should have stood closer to one of the firepits.”

“And risk the chance of not being able to hear all of the rules because the kids around us are high off s’mores? No, we’re here for a reason, and I will not let anyone distract us from the win.”

“Okay, settle down, Michael Jordan.”

“Huh?”

Max rolls his eyes. “Never mind.”

“I’m happy to announce that all applications for this year’s Christmas Kringle have been reviewed and we are ready to announce the competitors.” Bob Krampus pauses, letting the crowd cheer again.

Not me. I stand there stiffly, mentally ready to take all the notes, not letting one thing distract me from—

A flash of red.

I look in that direction, wondering if it’s Storee Taylor, only to see that it’s someone tossing a red scarf around their neck.

Christ.

As I was saying, I’m not letting one thing distract me from what I have planned, and that’s winning the Christmas Kringle.

“And this year, we have quite the competitors,” Bob Krampus says as he pats his belly, shaking it like it’s a bowl of fucking jelly. “I’m going to call out their names, and I’d like them to join me up on the stage.”

“What?” I hiss. “That wasn’t part of the plan—did you know about that?” I ask Max.

He shudders next to me. “Dude, I can’t feel my nipples right now. I have no idea what’s going on.”

“When do you ever feel your nipples?” I ask.

He pauses for a second. “Good point. How about I can’t feel my toes?”

“Better. Should have led with that.”

“Nipples felt more dramatic.”

I roll my eyes. “Well, you’re coming up there with me, whether you can feel your nipples or not.”

“You wound me, you know that?” he says.

“Jimmy Short, representing the Short family, please come up here.” The crowd cheers as Jimmy Short makes his way to the stage. “Ursula Kronk, representing our first responders and our incumbent Kringle from last year, please join us.” The crowd goes wild. She’s going to be stiff competition. How can you not root for a first responder? “Dr. Beatrice Pedigree, representing our furry animals, please join us.” I swear I hear a dog bark in the distance.

“And…” Bob Krampus pauses for a long moment. I know why…because he sees my name and he’s probably just as shocked as the rest of the town will be since we slipped my application in at the last minute. I have a good idea as to why I was probably selected: Martha and Mae. They, along with the other proprietors, select the applicants, and they’ve always been advocates for me. Gripping the mic tightly, Bob says, “A new entry this year, Cole Black.” The crowd’s enthusiasm dies down, confusion written all over their faces. I could really do without the dramatics. “Representing Santa’s reindeer. Please…please come join us.”

I turn to Max, who turned in the application. “Representing Santa’s reindeer?”

Max smirks. “I thought it was a nice touch.”

I tug on his arm, and as we head up toward the stage—reluctantly—Bob Krampus says, “I promise I won’t show favoritism just because Cole will be representing my reindeer.”

The crowd laughs while I roll my eyes.

When we reach the stage, Max and I stand shoulder to shoulder, and I attempt to look as happy and pleased as can be, because that’s part of the competition, embodying the spirit of Christmas, despite the urge I feel to kick over the plastic candy cane that’s a few feet away.

“And lastly,” Bob Krampus says, just as I see movement off to the left. Cindy Louis, and two women pushing her in a wheelchair across the lawn. From the red hair peeking out from under a winter hat, I spot Storee heading right toward us. “We have Storee Taylor, representing Cindy Louis.” Bob Krampus looks up from his notes. With a jolly grin, he says, “Now, I might be playing favorites when it comes to our beloved Cindy Louis. Storee, please join us up on the stage. Don’t worry, no one is near the river for you to knock them in.”

I nearly snort out loud but keep it together as Storee climbs the steps and stops…unfortunately right next to me.

Immediately I’m hit with her perfume, which smells more like an ocean breeze than the familiar scent of gingerbread and pine that I associate with living here.

Next, I feel her warmth as she sidles up close, her arm brushing against mine, sending a shiver all the way up my spine and then back down to my toes.

“Freezing,” she says. “Isn’t it?”

“I don’t think the contestants are allowed to talk to each other,” I mumble.

“Really?” Max says, leaning forward to look at me. “Where did it say that in the rule book?”

“It didn’t,” Storee says, leaning forward as well. “He just tends to not want to hear my voice whenever we’re around each other.”

“Ah, well, if it makes you feel better, I don’t like hearing his voice when he’s around me,” Max says.

Storee laughs as I scowl at my best friend.

He reaches his hand out and says, “I’m Atlas, but this big lug calls me Max. I’m his best friend and his holly jolly sidekick. Don’t think we ever officially met.”

“Atlas, it’s so nice to meet you.” Storee shakes his hand. “I’m Storee Taylor, and apparently a thorn in the big lug’s side. Not sure how that happened, but it seems over time he developed a strong distaste for little ol’ me.”

“A strong distaste?” Max asks as Bob Krampus drones on about the tradition of the Christmas Kringle, acting as though it dates back to the 1800s for the people who have gathered around, when in reality we haven’t even reached a decade yet. “How could he have developed a strong distaste? I didn’t even know he tasted you, unless… Dude, did you forget to tell me something?”

“I never once tasted her,” I say, the words feeling really stupid as they fly out of my mouth.

“What a loss,” Storee says. “He could have had a real feast.”

“Jesus,” I mutter. “We are in public.”

“And if you were in private, would this conversation be different?” Max asks with a little waggle of his brows.

This was a bad idea. I knew it might backfire on me, having Max by my side, but I didn’t think it would be this quickly.

“Can you please be quiet? I’m trying to listen to Bob Krampus,” I say, gesturing to the town Santa who has built his life around becoming the epitome of a ho-ho-hoing head elf.

“Oh, I forgot,” Max says and then whispers to Storee, though I’m between them and can hear everything. “He was always a Goody Two-shoes in school.”

“Really?” Storee asks. I can feel her eyes scanning me. “A Goody Two-shoes? I don’t buy it.”

“And then we come to this year’s competition,” Bob Krampus says with force in his voice, clearly annoyed with the chattering behind him. It shuts us all up as we stand in a row, directing our attention to the head of the show. “We’ll be testing these brave souls on their Christmas prowess. Can they rival the eggnog of Prancer’s Libations? Can they cut a candy cane as well as Jefferson Chadwick? Are they able to dazzle Tanya over at Warm Your Spirits with their take on fruitcake? Will they blind us with their brilliant light display, or tap right into our hearts with their rendition of a favorite Christmas song?” Bob Krampus gestures to us. “O nly time will tell, but over the course of the next few weeks, leading up to Christmas Eve, these brave souls will be taking part in a series of competitions that will determine if they really have what it takes to be the Christmas Kringle.”

The crowd cheers, and I can already feel my competitive spirit kick up a notch.

Did I ever see myself being so involved in the town that I’d learn how to make fruitcake to earn points toward a Christmas competition? Never.

But now that I’m in it, I’m in it. There is no pulling out.

Looking at the competition up here, I can tell that Ursula will be a challenge. Jimmy is a joke, and Dr. Pedigree will peter out toward the end like she did last year. It’s really between me, Ursula, and Storee, and I’ll be damned if I’ll see her up here on December 25th, receiving the robe, crown, and scepter that are awarded to the Christmas Kringle.

Over my dead fucking body.

“We’ll be keeping track of their progress up on the leaderboard next to my house, and this goes further than just the competitions. It’s up to you, our friends and family, to report back to us if you can feel the Christmas spirit from our contestants. For instance, if one of the Kringle-ees is walking down the street wearing antlers and a festive sweater.” Max elbows me, and I know immediately what he’s thinking. “Or if they wish you a merry Christmas. Or if they somehow sprinkle a little bit of that holiday magic on your day.”

Christ.

This is going to be a full-time job.

“Because this honor is deep-rooted in the tradition of this town.”

Okay, Bob Krampus, bring it down a notch. There are just few out-of-towners here, so remember the audience—we all know how deep-rooted it is. Not.

“So good luck to our contestants and may the best Kringle-ee win!”

The crowd cheers again, and then Bob turns around and levels a serious look at us. “Meet me in my house to go over the rules.”

Okay.

We all head off the stage while Bob finishes up and follow Mrs. Claus, aka Sylvia Krampus, into their storybook house that’s just off to the right of the stage.

Looking like it was plucked right out of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, the house has a thatched roof, Bavarian-style siding, and lights sprinkled on every surface of the outside.

I’ve been in the cottage a few times to help Bob with some chores, like painting the living room and changing out the kitchen sink, so the dwelling is nothing new to me. The house is picturesque on the outside and like a holiday card come to life on the inside, with its green-and-red plaid wallpaper, red carpet, and white doilies on every surface. If anyone lives with the theme of Christmas for their entire life, it’s Bob and Sylvia Krampus.

“Right this way,” Sylvia coos. “Let me get you some hot chocolate—it was quite chilly out there.” Dressed in a red dress with a white frilly apron and bonnet, Sylvia has also committed to the part, allowing us to live in her world where Santa isn’t just magic, but real, in the flesh, with the wife to prove it.

We all file into the living room where Bob’s green recliner is angled toward the age-old TV, a wooden magazine holder next to the chair full of crossword puzzle books that seem like they’re ruffled through on the daily. A pair of spectacles rests on an end table, along with a giant remote control the size of a laptop. What are the spectacles for if the remote is big enough to require two hands?

“Wow, I’ve never been in here before,” Storee says. “It’s so…real.”

“Did you think it was like a movie set?” I ask. “Real on the outside, plywood on the inside? They actually live here.”

She gives me a death look and then says, “I meant that this is what I’d expect Santa’s house to look like.”

“That’s because he is Santa,” I whisper to her.

“You know, you were much nicer when we were younger.”

“Funny how people change,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.

“I guess so. And here I thought we could be friendly and help each other out in this competition.”

“Ha!” I guffaw loud enough for Jimmy, Beatrice, and Ursula to glance in our direction.

Our groups have split up, so it’s the older Kringle-ees—hate that term—and the younger Kringle-ees standing in circles talking to each other.

“Help you? No chance.” I shake my head.

“I think he said earlier that he’s taking you down,” Max says, leaning toward Storee.

“I did not say ‘take her down.’”

“I think you did,” Max argues.

“I don’t think so.”

“Ehh, I think so.”

I open my mouth to disagree once again when Storee steps in. “What’s the hate for? Last I remember, we were pleasant to each other back…oh wait.” Storee rolls her eyes dramatically. “Oh my God, is this because I called you Connor at the Kringle Krampus?”

“She called you Connor?” Max says with such a large smile on his face that it grates on my nerves. “You didn’t tell me that, man.”

“Probably because he was too embarrassed,” Storee says.

“I was not embarrassed,” I say.

“Um, you seemed embarrassed.”

“Oh really?” I ask, folding my arms. “Please tell me what that looks like.”

“Okay,” she says and then shakes out her body. Then, on a deep breath, she puckers her entire face, clasps her hands in front of her—shoulders inward—and then shifts side to side, making a fucking show of it.

It’s ridiculous.

Absurd.

And has Max bending over—actually bending over—in laughter.

Jesus.

Christ.

“That’s not what I looked like,” I scoff.

Storee pauses. “I mean, maybe your face was a little sourer looking, but it’s hard to mimic.”

Max is still laughing, his hands on his knees as he gasps for air. I nudge his shin, reminding him whose holly jolly sidekick he is—because at the moment, it seems like he’s forgetting.

“Oh, that’s amazing.” Max nods. “Yup, I’ve seen that face before.”

“Bullshit,” I shout just as Bob Krampus walks into the house, his overwhelming presence sucking the air right out of the room.

“Now, is that part of the Christmas spirit?” he booms in the small space.

“It’s not,” Storee says, shaking her head. “Very much the opposite.”

“You are correct, Storee.”

Jesus, suck up much?

“This is a gentle reminder that you are now my special elves. Not everyone is picked out of the applicants to be a Kringle-ee. We have room for five contestants, and because of that, you must hold up your end of the bargain, which includes not shouting ‘bullshit’ in Santa’s house.”

I swallow, feeling a hard lump rise in my throat. You never want to be told off by Bob Krampus. The baritone of his voice alone will make your nerves shiver. “Sorry,” I mutter.

He offers me a curt nod. “Now, where is my wife?”

“Getting us hot chocolate,” Max says and then elbows me.

“Yes,” I say. “And I was just about to go help.”

Now look who’s the suck up.

Points at self.

“You’re a good lad,” Bob says as he makes his way toward his chair. He lets out a huff, a gruff, undoes the belt buckle that cinches his waist, and then flops back into his chair, the footrest following with a lift to his legs. “That’s the good stuff,” he says.

Looks like Santa is taking a break, so I head back to the kitchen, where Sylvia is starting to pick up a tray full of mugs.

“Here, let me get that for you,” I say before she breaks one of her brittle bones trying to lift it.

“Why, thank you so much, dear.” She pats my cheek. “You know, I’m rooting for you, Cole. When I saw your name appear in the applications, it truly warmed my heart. After everything you’ve been through with your parents, seeing that Christmas spirit reawaken within you, it just…well, it brings a tear to my eye.”

I smile kindly at Sylvia. “Thank you. That means a lot to me.” And I mean that, even though her compliment makes me feel like shit. Because little does she know the real reason I’m doing all of this.

She presses her hand to my back and together we head back to the living room, where we hand out hot chocolate to everyone, the biggest cup going to Bob.

He sits up in his chair, takes a large sip, and then sighs as the chocolate sticks to the hairs of his mustache. With the back of his beefy hand, he wipes it away and then addresses us.

“Mrs. Claus will hand you all folders. Ursula, Jimmy, and Beatrice, you’re familiar with the folder, but for you newbies, it will have everything you need to know about the contest. The dates of each competition, how the competition will be judged, and who it will be judged by. These will be your bibles moving forward, so don’t lose them, because they won’t be replaced.” He pauses as Sylvia makes the rounds with the sacred folders. “Please open them up to page one.”

Fumbling with our hot chocolate and the folders, we all manage to get them open.

“By turning in your application, you’ve accepted the responsibility of holding this tradition and this town in the best of lights. Meaning you are a representative now of Kringle, of the businesses, the people, and of Mrs. Claus and me. Under no circumstances will we tolerate anything less. This is your code of conduct. Moving forward, we expect you to stand out among all of the holiday tidings. We want people walking around town knowing you’re a Kringle-ee, which is why we’ve decided to make you wear sashes this year.”

Sashes?

What kind of sashes…?

Sylvia opens a trunk in the middle of the room and pulls out handmade, freshly stitched sashes in a vibrant gold that have bold lettering down the length, designating us as the Kringle-ees.

And fringe is at the end of each…with dangling pom-poms.

Yikes.

“If you appear in public, these must be worn. Get used to them, because they’re your new adornment. Consider yourself a tree and this your tree topper. You can’t go anywhere without it. If you are caught not wearing your sash, then points will be marked from your grand total, so keep that in mind. We have increased the number of spies this year as well, who will keep an eye on what you’re doing, what you’re saying, and how you’re acting around town. So always think to yourself: Someone is watching me.”

Perfect, just what I want as the man who likes to hide out in the reindeer barn, away from humans.

What did I get myself into?

“And if you have any questions, feel free to come visit me and Mrs. Claus during off hours. And if you do come to visit, we’re no strangers to cookies as a gift.”

He’s really not. I learned that the hard way.

Bob takes a sip of his drink and then leans back in his chair. “Any questions now?”

If we ask, do we need to bring you cookies later?

Jimmy raises his hand, and Bob calls on him. “Yes?”

“Um, will the Eggnog Wars be alcoholic again this year?”

Bob shakes his head. “No. After nearly poisoning our judges last year, the competition has now switched to nonalcoholic.”

“The judges were almost poisoned last year?” Storee asks.

“Yes, if you lived here, you would know that,” I mutter to her, which grants me a serious side-eye.

“Will Sherry be judging the Upcycle Christmas event again?” Beatrice asks.

“Yes,” Bob says. “And before you say anything, we’ve already talked to her about you being an applicant, and she said she will judge you fairly.”

Max leans into Storee and mutters, “Beatrice is now dating Sherry’s ex-husband.”

Storee nods in understanding and then sips her hot cocoa.

“Will there be a secondary judge to help her stay neutral?” Beatrice continues. “I appreciate her willingness to be fair, but I don’t trust her bias.”

“I’ll bring it up with the council and see what we can do.”

Beatrice nods. “Thank you.

“What about the candy cane making?” Jimmy says, not raising his hand this time, taking a cue from Beatrice. “Will Jefferson be offering classes this year?”

Bob shakes his head. “No. After the debacle from two years ago, he’s told us he refuses to give away his secrets, so if you want firsthand lessons, take them from his competitor an hour away. That information is in the packet.”

“Theodore Garvey took lessons from him and opened up his own candy shop over in Clayton,” Max says to Storee. Not sure why he’s giving her the lowdown.

“That’s messed up. Why would people go to him for lessons?” Storee asks.

“Because Jefferson likes to see just how well his lessons can transfer over, like a game of telephone. If the contestant does well, he takes credit for it. If they don’t, he blames Theodore and his inability to understand sugar.”

“Any other questions?” Bob asks.

“Um, are we going to be judged on past indiscretions?” Storee asks.

The room falls silent as Bob straightens up in his chair, the squeaking of the hinges filling the silence as his eyes land on Storee.

“This is a clean slate, my dear.” He smiles softly at her. “Anything that might have happened in the past involving Mrs. Fiskers or the signature tree…or the hot chocolate stash, they’ve all been expunged from your record. We’re just happy that Cindy has family back in town. She’s been…well, she’s not been herself.”

From the corner of my eye, I catch the frown that tugs on Storee’s lips. It’s brief, but I see it.

“We’re glad we can be here for her,” Storee says demurely.

“Yes, and hopefully this isn’t just a one-time thing, because we love having you and your sister here,” Sylvia says.

Who is we?

Sure as hell isn’t me.

“Thank you,” Storee says.

I can see the twinkle in her eyes.

The appreciation in her gaze.

And this is exactly what I was afraid of.

She’s putting on a show for the people of this town who don’t know the truth.

She’s going to walk around Kringle with her gold fucking sash draped over her shoulder, announcing her bid for the town’s most sought-after Christmas honor, and people are going to be so thrilled, so pleased, so over-fucking-joyed that she’s here to help Cindy that they won’t even see what’s truly going on.

She doesn’t care about them. She made that clear ten years ago. She’s just a con artist.

Yup, I said it.

A con artist.

“Are there any other questions?” Bob asks, looking like he’s one hot chocolate sip away from passing out in his recliner.

When no one answers, he nods, his eyes drifting shut. “Then best of luck to you all. May the cheeriest and most skilled win.”

With that, we all leave our mugs on Sylvia’s tray and head out of the house, to an empty park.

“So,” Max says to Storee, “looks like your family went back home.”

Storee sticks her hands in her coat pockets as she glances around. “Looks like it.”

“Don’t worry.” He clasps my shoulder. “My good friend, Cole, will walk you back to your house since you’re both headed in the same direction.”

“Oh, I wasn’t going back home,” I say, wondering what the hell my soon-to-be-ex-best friend is up to.

“No?” He quirks one brow. “Then what were you planning on doing?”

“Uh…” I drag out, nothing coming to mind.

“That’s what I thought. Now be the gentleman you are, wear your sash with pride, and escort this lovely lady so she doesn’t have to walk alone on a dark, wintry night.”

I really shouldn’t have named him my holly jolly sidekick.

I should have known this is what he was going to do.

When I spoke of him being my sidekick, I meant in the pursuit of the Christmas Kringle title—not a wingman trying to set me up with the girl next door.

“It’s really okay. I can see from the pain on his face that he doesn’t want to walk me home,” Storee says. “I have no problem walking alone.”

“Nonsense,” Max announces in a cheery voice. “He’d be more than happy to.”

I would not, actually.

I would rather army-crawl my way home across broken glass ornaments.

He shoves my shoulder, encouraging me to take the lead.

I let out a heavy sigh. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”

“Wow, you can really feel the Christmas spirit pouring off him,” Storee says.

Max beams with pride as he looks me up and down. “Yes, he’s one of a kind.” He then salutes us and adds, “See you tomorrow, bright and early—we have some planning to do. And don’t forget your sash.” He pats my face. “Love you, pal.” Then he takes off.

A part of me feels that he’s going to get way more joy out of this than I am.

Now alone with Storee, I nod toward Whistler Lane, the street I live on and the street she’s visiting. “Let’s go.”

I take off at a brisk pace, forcing her to catch up to me. “You really don’t have to do this,” she says.

“It’s fine. I’m walking back home anyway.”

And then we fall into silence as we make our way across Ornament Park, where the turf grass is heated from below, keeping it in a constant state of Christmas green. The town took their time deciding if they wanted to put in the heated turf with drains, given the massive expense it would incur, but after some serious debates and consideration, Bob Krampus made the executive decision that it would be great for the town and the events they hold year-round to have the lawn open all the time rather than having it covered in snow. There was pushback, there was celebration, but all in all…I was on the team of I don’t give a crap.

“So,” Storee says. “You know I have a hard time being quiet when I’m next to someone I’m familiar with.”

“Yes, learned that when you drove me away from my sandwich.”

“Drove you away from your sandwich? Uh, I remember it differently. Leaving was your choice,” she says.

“You were insufferable.”

She pauses in her steps, and I can feel her eyes on me. “Insufferable? That’s a pretty strong word for such a small interaction. You know, the word insufferable almost seems like it stems from you harboring some sort of distaste for me.”

I glance in her direction and nod toward the street to keep her moving. Thankfully, she follows.

“Harboring distaste? What makes you think that?” I ask, even though she just called me out.

“Uh, the fact that you’re being so rude.”

“I’m always rude. Ask Max.”

“You weren’t rude when we were younger,” she counters.

“Age will do that to you.”

“I grew older too. You don’t see me flaring my nostrils like a bull ready to charge.”

I grimace as I glance in her direction again. “A bull ready to charge? You’ve got me all wrong.”

“No, I think I’ve pegged you pretty well,” she says as we both walk across the near-empty streets of Kringle, only a few people milling about on the sidewalks, doing some window-shopping before the stores open back up tomorrow.

Since it’s past eight o’clock, there are very few places still open. Prancer’s Libations, a bar, is one of them. And Poinsettia Pizza is always open until the early morning because of the people who funnel out of Prancer’s and right into the pizza shop to score a slice.

“I can practically hear the snorting now,” she adds.

“I think you’re hearing yourself.”

“I do not snort,” she says in defiance.

“Says the person breathing heavily as we casually walk down the street.”

“Hey,” she snaps. “Not all of us are used to this altitude.”

“The Myrrh-cantile has oxygen canisters if you need a shot, although they won’t open until tomorrow.”

“I don’t need a canister shot,” she says, sounding cranky about it.

“No shame in it,” I say.

“I just need a moment to adjust. While you grew cranky as we got older, I adapted to sea level.”

“That’s all you think has changed?” I ask. “Don’t recall you being as insufferable.”

“Oh my God,” she says, her voice carrying through the cool night air. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Nothing’s wrong with me,” I say as our houses come into view.

“Uh, yes, something is wrong with you, because you were never this rude before. And don’t blame it on age. So tell me what’s happening. What did I do that you don’t approve of?”

“Nothing,” I say.

“You’re a liar,” she says as we reach my house and I start to turn down the path that leads to my porch steps. She grabs my shoulder, halting me. “I know we were friendly as kids, and we tried being pen pals that one year and I failed at replying…wait…is that it? You’re mad that I wasn’t a good pen pal?”

“Jesus, no,” I say. “Do you really think I’m that petty?”

“I don’t know—you tell me.”

“I’m not,” I say, folding my arms.

“Okay, then what’s your problem?”

“You really want to know?” I say, since she seems to be so insistent.

“Yeah, I really want to know.”

“Okay, fine. You don’t deserve to be in the Kringle competition,” I say.

Her brow creases, her shock clear at my statement. Not sure why. It’s clear as day—anyone would be able to understand my reasoning.

“I don’t deserve to be in it?” Now her face morphs into humor as she mimics my stance, arms crossed over her chest, her puffy coat nearly swallowing her whole. “And who are you to decide who deserves to be in the Kringle competition?”

“Uh, someone who has lived here their entire life.”

“Eh, barely a qualification.”

“Well, I’m more qualified than you.”

She slowly nods. “Uh-huh. You know, Aunt Cindy was telling me that she was very surprised to see that you were even at the event, let alone that you were called up on stage as a Kringle-ee. One might say it’s very unlike you.”

“It is,” I say, not denying it.

“So this unexpected entrance, does it have anything to do with me?”

“Yup,” I say, spitting out the truth, which seems to surprise her.

“Really?” she asks, standing taller.

“Yes,” I reply. “You don’t deserve to win. You aren’t a part of this town, and with all the buzz you’re getting by taking part in the competition, I decided that I will do everything I can to make sure you lose.”

Her jaw falls open for a moment before she closes it.

“Well, I’m doing this for Aunt Cindy,” she says.

“And I’m doing this for everyone in town who believes in the spirit of Christmas.”

“I believe in the spirit of Christmas,” she says.

“Says the girl who hasn’t been here in years.”

“Uh, it’s called going to college and getting a job.”

“Still could have visited.”

“What I did on my vacation time is none of your business,” she snaps.

“Clearly it wasn’t spending time with your aunt Cindy.”

Her brows form a V on her forehead while her eyes grow angrier by the second. “How dare you.”

“How dare I?” I say, pointing to my chest. “How dare you!”

“Oh, great comeback.” She rolls her eyes.

“It wasn’t a comeback—it was a statement. How dare you.”

“No…how dare you.” She pokes my chest.

Flustered, I poke her shoulder. “How dare you.”

“Stop repeating what I’m saying or else this will go nowhere.”

“Yeah, just like your chances at becoming Christmas Kringle.”

“Oh, and you think you’ll be able to shed the grumpiness and become a holly jolly asshole?”

“Pardon me?” I blink a few times. “If anyone is an asshole, it’s you for not coming around the last ten years.”

The gasp that falls past her lips could wake the entire neighborhood. None too pleased, she takes a step forward so we’re toe to toe, her eyes burning with anger, her fists clenched at her sides. “You know what? You just made this personal…Connor.”

Oh…that…troll.

Nostrils flaring, I stare down at her, meeting her gaze. “You know damn well it’s Cole.”

“Oops,” she says, not even sorry, “my mistake.”

And then we stand there staring at each other, animosity sizzling between us, building into a dark cloud that I’m sure will stay until she decides to part ways with the town she hates so much.

She pulls her sash out of her pocket and drapes it over her head. When it’s fitting her properly, she says, “You, Cole, are about to see an exhibition on what true Christmas spirit is all about.”

Meeting her intensity, because I’m never one to back down from a challenge, I slip my sash over my head as well. “You have no idea the kind of Christmas spirit I possess. I cough up tinsel on the daily.”

Her nose crinkles. “Yeah, well, I drink eggnog like it’s water.”

“I bench Santa’s sleigh…with Bob Krampus ho-ho-hoing in the driver’s seat.”

Her body grows more tense. “I dream of sugar plum fairies every night.”

“I can pull candy canes out of my ears,” I say, realizing this makes zero sense but finding it more important to drive home the point.

“My sweat smells like freshly iced cookies.”

“My hair is as coarse as the straw the reindeers eat.”

“My…my…” She glances around, clearly trying to think of anything that could compete. ”My nipples shine just as bright as the lights on every single house in this town.”

Silence falls between us because…straw hair and twinkling nipples, is that really what this has come down to?

Yes.

Yes, it has.

“Party tricks aren’t going to win you the Christmas Kringle.” I motion to her chest with my finger. “So you might want to cover those neon nips.”

“Yeah, well, feeding the reindeer your hair isn’t going to win it either,” she replies.

“We’ll just have to see then, won’t we?”

“I guess we shall.” She takes a step back. “I would say good luck, but I hope you fall flat on your face.”

“And push someone into the river?” I ask, causing her entire expression to morph into shock.

She points a shaking finger at me. “It is on, Connor. It is so on. Watch your back, because I’m coming for the title.”

“It’s Cole,” I virtually bark. “And if anyone needs to watch their back, it’s you.”

“Oooh, awesome comeback.” She rolls her eyes. “See you around…Connor.”

And then she takes off toward Cindy’s house.Exclusive © content by N(ô)ve/l/Drama.Org.

“I never should have walked you home,” I call out.

“Trust me, it was more unpleasant for me. By the way, you have hot chocolate on your upper lip.”

Then she slips into her house while I quickly wipe at my mouth, most likely falling for her trick.

Well…it’s official; she is enemy number one. This only makes me more determined to do everything in my power to make sure she doesn’t earn the Christmas Kringle crown.