Page 21 of Moody's Grumpy Holiday

Vicki pursed her red lips, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Oh, honey, he’s a bear. Add a cold, and he becomes a grizzly. Under all the huffing and puffing he’s a softy, though. Don’t let him scare you.”

I found Moody arguing with Bud near the register.

“ ‘Little Drummer Boy’ is off this year’s playlist. Don’t bother asking for it, Bud. It’s a no,” Moody said, blowing his nose.

“Now, c’mon, Moody,” the older man teased. “It’s one of my favorites. Who doesn’t love a good pa-rum-pum-pum-pum?”

“Me, that’s who. I strongly dislike it, actually. In what world would a brand-new mother want to hear some punk kid banging on the drums after giving birth?” He blinked his watery eyes and dabbed at his lashes with his knuckle. “That’s a personal viewpoint that will never be tested. Nonetheless, I’m right.”

Bud hooted merrily. “You make me smile every damn year, Moody. Don’t go changin’.”

“Grr.”

I nudged Moody’s elbow, fixing him with a faux-stern look. “I thought I put you in the corner and?—”

“Threatened me with a good time,” he finished sardonically. “You did and it was fun, but you took too long and if I’m going home, I’m going now.”

“Good-bye, Moody. Feel better!” someone called from the register.

“Later, Moody!”

“Hope you feel like yourself tomorrow.”

“Get some rest, Moody.”

He frowned at the chorus of well-wishers, his brow knit so tight that his glasses slipped as he pushed them to the bridge of his nose and reached for his coat. “Hmph.”

I headed after him, brushing past the carolers at the corner singing “Happy Holidays.”

Moody fumbled with his zipper, muttering something that sounded like, “Happy Honking Holidays.”

I caught up to him and draped an arm around his shoulders. “Hey, sunshine, my truck is this way.”

“Yeah, well, so is my house. Whoopty-doo. Is that my soup?” he asked, pointing at the bag in my hand.

“Yes, sir. It’ll be yours as soon as I make sure you’re safely home.”

Moody scoffed. “There’s no crime in this town, unless you count the time Bailey Zedrich pilfered a lottery ticket from the market. He was fourteen, and we collectively decided he deserved a second chance.”

“Great. I’m still walking with you.”

“I could have you arrested.”

“On what charges? Carrying soup?”

He grumbled some more and trudged on to Frosty Lane, his head bent, stopping in front of a sunny yellow one-story cottage with a white picket fence, a graceful weeping willow, wide picture windows, and a generous porch. Very nice.

But unlike his neighbors, there was no wreath on Moody’s door and no lights lined his roof. However, a creepy-looking gnome with gray hair and black suspenders stood next to the door and from what I’d witnessed firsthand today, I’d say the gnome fit.

“Well, home sweet home.” He held his hand out for the bag of soup.

I ignored him. “Great place. Even the gnome is kind of cute.”

“His name is Hector.”

“Hector,” I repeated. “Odd, but cool.”

Moody narrowed his eyes. “You’re determined to snoop, aren’t you?”