Let It Snow: Three Holiday Romances Myracle, John (the lemonade war series txt) 📖

not that many years ago”—he arched his brows to make sure I understood his emphasis—“I was such a Tribble.”

I slumped next to a rack of dog treats. “You were not a Tribble, Nathan.”

“And like a specially trained Klingon warrior—”

“Please don’t call me that. You know I really hate being called that.”

“—you obliterated me.” He noticed the location of my elbow, and his nostrils flared. “Hey,” he said, snapping his fingers repeatedly at the offending body part. “Don’t touch the Doggy de Lites.”

I jerked upright. “Sorry, I’m sorry,” I said. “Just as I am very sorry I hurt your feelings four years ago. But. And this is important. Are you listening?”

“In galactic terms, four years is but a nanosecond.”

I made a sound of exasperation. “I didn’t get the note! I swear to God, I never saw it!”

“Sure, sure. Only, know what I think? I think you read it, tossed it, and promptly forgot it, because if it has to do with anyone else’s woes, it doesn’t matter, right?”

“That’s not true. Listen, can we just—”

“Shall I recite the note’s contents?”

“Please don’t.”

He gazed into the distance. “And I quote: ‘Dear Addie, will you go steady with me? Call me with your answer.’”

“I didn’t get the note, Nathan.”

“Even if you didn’t want to go steady, you should have called.”

“I would have! But I didn’t get the note!”

“The heart of a seventh-grade boy is a fragile thing,” he said tragically.

My hand itched toward the tidy rows of Doggy de Lites. I wanted to peg a pack at him.

“Okay, Nathan?” I said. “Even if I did get the note—which I didn’t—can’t you let it go? People move on. People grow. People change.”

“Oh, please,” he said coldly. The way he regarded me, as if I were lower than a straw wrapper, reminded me that he and Jeb were friends. “People like you don’t change.”

My throat closed. It was too much, that he would come down on me in the same way that everyone else on the planet had.

“But . . . ” It came out wavery. I tried again, and in a voice that wobbled despite my best intentions, I said, “Can’t anyone see I’m trying?”

After a long moment, he was the one who finally dropped his eyes.

“I’m here to pick up Tegan’s pig,” I said. “Can I just have him, please?”

Nathan’s brow furrowed. “What pig?”

“The pig that was dropped off last night.” I tried to read his expression. “Teeny-tiny? With a note that said, Do not sell to anyone but Tegan Shepherd?”

“We don’t ‘sell’ animals,” he informed me. “We adopt them out. And there was no note, just an invoice.”

“But there was a pig?”

“Well, yes.”

“And it was really, really small?”

“Maybe.”

“Well, there should have been a note attached to the pet carrier, but it doesn’t matter. Can you just get him for me?”

Nathan hesitated.

“Nathan, oh my God.” I envisioned Gabriel alone through the cold night. “Please tell me he didn’t die.”

“What?! No.”

“Then where is he?”

Nathan didn’t reply.

“Nathan, come on,” I said. “This isn’t about me. It’s about Tegan. Do you honestly want to punish her because you’re pissed at me?”

“Someone adopted him,” he muttered.

“I’m sorry. What’s that?”

“Some lady, she adopted the pig. She came in about half an hour ago and forked over two hundred dollars. How was I supposed to know he wasn’t for sale—I mean, adoption?”

“Because of the note, you idiot!”

“I didn’t get the note!”

We realized the irony of his protest at the same time. We stared at each other.

“I’m not lying,” he said.

There was no point pushing the issue. This was bad, bad, bad, and I had to figure out how to fix it, not get all over Nathan for something that was too late to change.

“Okay, um, do you still have the invoice?” I said. “Show me the invoice.” I held out my hand and wiggled my fingers.

Nathan jabbed the cash register, and the bottom drawer sprung open. He drew out a wrinkled piece of pale pink paper.

I grabbed it. “‘One teacup piglet, certified and licensed,’” I read aloud. “‘Two hundred dollars.’” I flipped it over, zeroing in on the neatly penned message at the bottom. “‘Paid in full. To be picked up by Tegan Shepherd.’”

“Damn,” Nathan said.

I flipped it over again, looking for the name of who rebought Tegan’s pig.

“Bob gets in new animals all the time,” Nathan said defensively. “They show up and I, you know, adopt them out. Because it’s a pet store.”

“Nathan, I need you to tell me who you sold him to,” I told him.

“I can’t. That’s private information.”

“Yes, but it’s Tegan’s pig.”

“Um, we’ll give her a refund, I guess.”

Technically, it was Dorrie and I who should get the refund, but I didn’t mention that. I didn’t care about the refund.

“Just tell me who you sold him to, and I’ll go explain the situation.”

He shifted, looking incredibly uncomfortable.

“You do have the person’s name, right? Who bought him?”

“No,” he said. His eyes darted to the open drawer of the cash register, where I saw the tail end of a white credit-card slip.

“Even if I did know, there’s nothing I could do,” he continued. “I can’t reveal the details of customer transactions. But I don’t know the lady’s name anyway, so, um . . . yeah.”

“It’s okay. I understand. And . . . I do believe you about not seeing the note.”

“You do?” he said. His expression was bewildered.

“I do,” I said truthfully. I turned to leave, and as I did, I hooked the toe of my boot under the Doggie de Lite display rack and tugged. The rack toppled, and cellophane bags tumbled to the floor, bursting open and spilling dog treats everywhere.

“Oh, no!” I cried.

“Aw, crap,” Nathan said. He came around from behind the counter, knelt, and started piling up the bags that were still intact.

“I am so sorry,” I said. As he fished for a stray dog cookie, I leaned over the counter and plucked the white receipt. I shoved it into my pocket. “You must hate me even more now, huh?”

He paused, straightening up and propping one hand on his knee. He did a weird