Mister Perfect: A Romantic Holiday Story, Page 2

I’m stacking the last of the Styrofoam headstones by the plastic witch’s cauldrons in the corner display when he comes back in a few nights later, Thursday, again just before close.

  It’s a little later this time, “Monster Mash” playing overhead, and he smiles with a little wave before heading straight to the seasonal aisle. I chuckle, glad that a new case of autumn placemats came in, twice as many green ones as last week – plenty still left for “Mr. Perfect” to find a match for the three he’s already bought.

  I hear a little cluck of satisfaction, peeking as he grabs it with obvious glee. I chuckle and attend to my leaning stack of black spray painted headstones and hear the clinking of mugs as he struggles to gather up all four colors – they match the placemats, don’t you know – and clinking the whole way back to the sales counter.

  “That was quick,” I huff, wiping tombstone glitter from my hands onto the side of my black jeans and following him to the register.

  He blushes a little. He’s in khakis and a brown T-shirt with “Peterson’s Property Management” in white stencil across his broad chest. He’s kind of hunky without the schlubby hoodie, and the clingy T-shirt shows off broad shoulders and a lean, narrow waist.

  He smells good, something spicy and a little musky. “I just came in for these,” he said, sliding all four of our seasonal mug collection onto the counter. They’re pretty nice by Dollar Jungle standards: one each in maroon, orange, tan and green, to match the placemats he bought the other night. They all have the same fall leaves stenciled on them. “And this,” he adds, sliding the green placemat on top with a soft, bashful smile.

  “Now your set’s complete,” I tell him, ringing them up and taking another six bucks off him before handing him the change and wrapping each mug in a sheet of newsprint from the stack beneath the register.

  “Well,” he says, placing each of them in a yellow Dollar Jungle bag as I finish wrapping it. “I still need the matching potholders, and the dish towels and…” He pauses, seeing an open store flyer on the counter. “And this whole page, pretty much,” he says, tapping the seasonal spread in the middle centerfold.

  I chuckle. “Man, you should work here. At least that way you’d get a discount.”

  “Well,” he chuckled. “Everything’s already a dollar, so…”

  I smile, handing him his last wrapped mug in one hand, his receipt in the other. “Good point.”

  “Thank you,” he says, picking the yellow bag up and nodding. “For wrapping those. Not every… not everybody does that these days.”

  I put my hands on my hips and give him my best customer service smile. “Nothing but the best for our Dollar Jungle customers!”

  He nods, smile fixed, but not really reaching his eyes. There’s an awkward pause where one of us, or maybe both, should be saying something and yet we don’t. He seems sad, despite the smile. Maybe it’s in his eyes, or his posture, or the way he was so grateful about me wrapping his stupid mugs.

  Then it’s over, he blinks and inches away, “Well, thanks again,” he mumbles, his brown running shoes soft on the green and yellow carpet.

  “I’ll save some potholders for you,” I call out and he pauses, just inside the doorway, with another bashful little smile.

  “See you in a few days,” he says, the chime above his head dinging as he opens and shuts the door behind him.

  He’s true to his word. He comes in just before closing on Saturday for a quick few minutes to grab the potholder and dishtowel combo. It’s busy and I barely notice him until he’s standing in front of me, looking shy and sexy, in his brown T-shirt and cargo pants, khaki hiking boots making his long legs look even sexier.

  “When’d you come in?” I snort, but there’s three people in line behind him so I know tonight will be a “quickie”.

  “You were helping that one kid find the neon green spider webs,” he explains, paying with cash – as usual.

  I nod at his purchase. “You’re almost done with your set,” I say, a little wistfully. “Then what will you do?”

  He winks. “This is just the fall stuff,” he points out, as if he knows the sales flyer better than I do. And, frankly, he probably does. “I haven’t even started on the Halloween aisle yet!”

  I’m still laughing as he walks away, a woman in curlers behind him, trying to return an open box of chocolate chip cookies because they’re “too soft”. By the time I see that she’s eaten half of them, the chime is ringing above his head on the way out.

  I don’t see him for a few days and then, by the following Tuesday, he’s moved onto the matching skull shot glasses and pumpkin shaped coasters. “Hey,” I note, tapping the seasonal page on the flyer by the register. “What about the harvest napkin rings and cheese spreaders?”

  He chuckles. “I picked them up yesterday on my lunch break,” he confesses. I feel almost disappointed, and vaguely proprietary. Like, how dare anyone other than me sell Mr. Perfect his holiday treats? “You only work nights?”

  I nod, starting to ring him up. “My manager prefers days, so… guess who gets to work nights?”

  “Low woman on the totem pole?” he asks with a world wise smirk that says he knows the feeling.

  “For now,” I sigh. “Pretty high turnover here at Jungle Dollar, though. Who knows? I might be district manager by Christmas.”

  “Oh no,” he says, handing me a few bills for his Halloween treats. “Then who will sell me my mistletoe placemats?”

  He seems happier tonight, and I hope it’s not just because he’s finally completed his autumn décor set! “Getting ready for Halloween, huh?”

  He nods, sliding his wallet in the back of his faded jeans. I try to ignore the way they hug his narrow hips or taper down his long, athletic legs. “Playing catch up,” he says, avoiding my eyes. “First year I’ve ever had a party, so…”

  His voice trails off and for a moment, the awkward hitch in his throat, the way he won’t look at me, the blush rising to his cheeks, I think: He’s going to ask me to come! The little stinker is finally going to get up the nerve to hit on me!

  When he doesn’t, and the air grows still between us, I chirp merrily to hide the disappointment, “Better hurry up. You’ve only got a few days left.”

  He nods. “I get paid on Friday, so… I’ll be able to come back and get the rest of your Halloween collection then.”

  “I dunno,” I tease him, biting my lower lip playfully. “This stuff’s going like hot cakes, man. I hope we still have everything by then.”

  But he looks worried, like I might be serious, even opening his wallet to reveal the crumpled bills inside. When he peers back at me, slack-jawed and pale-faced, I instinctively clutch his forearm before saying, “Relax, I was just… I’ll make sure we’ve got a complete set saved out for you, just in case.”

  Forget exhales. He almost gasps with relief, shaking his head. “You must think I’m a major kook, with all this stuff?”

  I shake my head. “Why do you think Dollar Jungle makes this stuff in sets? Our target audience is kooks like you!”

  He’s still laughing when the door chimes overhead on his way out for the night.