A Krampus Country Christmas: Day 7

 

Chapter 7: Cookies and Consultation

Holly Winters had just closed up the farm stand when she heard the knock.

Three polite raps—crisp, deliberate, like someone had taken a class called Professional Knocking for Results.

She sighed. “We’re closed!”

“Ah,” came the voice from outside, rich and precise. “Then this is technically an after-hours consultation.”

She opened the door to find Nick Kramp standing there, snow glittering in his hair, a clipboard under one arm. He looked like a man who’d walked out of a corporate training video titled Synergizing the Yuletide Experience.

“Mr. Kramp,” she said, rubbing her forehead. “Did I forget to sign something?”

“No, no.” He smiled. At least, she thought it was a smile. “I’ve completed a preliminary analysis of your business model.”

“My… what?”

“Tree sales. Confectionery. Festive spirit distribution. You’re under-performing in two out of three categories.”

“Wow,” she said flatly. “I can’t imagine why when the economy is so robust."

He held out the clipboard. “I’ve prepared recommendations. You need more signage, better lighting, and more varieties of cocoa on the menu. I recommend more Schnapp's-centric offerings.”

“Are you serious?” Holly hadn't the time nor patience for this impromptu Christmas consultation. If it weren't for the mysterious vibe lingering under Nick Kramp's corporate suit demeanor, she would've shooed him out already.

“I’m always serious,” he said. “Especially about cookies.”

Holly folded her arms. “You’re something else, you know that?”

He brightened. “Thank you. It’s nice to be recognized. Studies how that people who receive regular recognition are more engaged in their work."

Yeah, she should have sent him packing. But there was something about his earnestness—so completely sincere it looped back around to charming. He stood there with a goofy half-grin that provoked her to drop at least some of her defenses.

“Fine,” she said, stepping aside. “Come in before you freeze solid, Mr. Consultant.”

He ducked under the doorway, brushing snow from his coat. His eyes scanned the shelves lined with tins and ribbons, the enticing scent of snickerdoodles lingering in the air. “Excellent aroma profile,” he said. “I'm picking up cinnamon and sugar. Subtle undertone of fatigue.”

“That last part’s me,” she said, pulling a tray from the oven. “Snickerdoodles. Fresh batch.”

Nick leaned in, inhaled deeply, and actually shivered. "Intoxicating. That smell could calm anyone's frayed holiday nerves."

“They’re cookies, not incense.”

He reached for one, hesitated. “Full disclosure,” he said. “I've not had any dinner yet so I'm famished."

She blinked. “You’re kidding.”

“I’ve been so busy today,” he said carefully.

“Busy doing what?”

“Enforcing guidelines,” he said quickly. “Seasonal accountability measures.”

“Right,” she said slowly. “Sounds like you're making a list and checking it twice.”

He bit into the cookie. For a heartbeat, he froze. Then his pupils dilated. The clipboard clattered to the floor.

“Oh,” he whispered, voice suddenly hoarse. “Oh, sweet mother of mercy.”

“You okay?”

He looked genuinely stunned. “It’s… warm. Sweet. Delicate yet hearty in flavor. It defies entropy.”

“It’s butter and sugar and cinnamon,” she said. “Calm down.”

He stared at the half-eaten cookie in reverence. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? This could revolutionize morale initiatives.”

She laughed. “Are you saying my snickerdoodles would increase employee engagement?”

“I must test another,” he said, grabbing two more. “For consultative purpose, of course.”

By the fourth, his pupils had gone slightly glassy. He sat down heavily at one of the small tables in the shop, cookie crumbs glittering on his black coat.

“This,” he declared, “is the pinnacle of mortal achievement.”

Holly shook her head. “You’re really committed to whatever bit this is, huh?”

“It’s not a bit,” he said solemnly. “It’s purpose.”

She poured him cocoa before he could collapse from sugar shock. “You’re a strange man, Nick Kramp.”

“I’ve been called worse,” he said, sipping cautiously. “Demon. Soulless ghoul. Dirty pooderhead.”

"Dirty pooderhead?" Holly repeated with a giggle.

"That one cut particularly deep."

Outside, the wind picked up. Inside, warmth settled between them—awkward, quiet, and a little dangerous.

“So,” he said finally, setting down his cup. “What drives you, Miss Winters? Profit? Legacy? Desire for universal redemption?”

“Mostly keeping the lights on,” she said.

He nodded gravely. “A noble quest. And you're a mother, correct? Another noble quest."

She smiled despite herself. “Thank you. Max is a force of nature to be reckoned with but he is my heart and soul."

“Children can be challenging," Nick said. "Does Max ever present any challenges?"

“He's an eight-year-old boy with the energy of a coked-up puppy. So, yeah, there are challenges."

"Brilliant, though. From what I can tell."

"Oh, he's smart alright. He'll either grow up to win the Nobel Prize for Theoretical Physics or achieve global dominance."

"With hard work, he could achieve both." Nick smiled then. A real one this time, small but genuine. “I've enjoyed our chat. Thank you for the cocoa and the glorious cookies. I'll be in touch.”

When he left, she found his clipboard still on the counter. The top page was titled ‘Proposal for Operational Cheer Enhancement: Phase I’, and underneath, in neat block letters, a single note:

“Winters—Potential. Recommend continued observation.”

She stared at it for a moment, then walked to the door of the shop. Nick Kramp had disappeared into the cold December night. 

"Who the hell is that guy?" she muttered to herself.

Outside, snow drifted under the porch light as Nick Kramp paused at the edge of the lot, the taste of cinnamon, sugar, sweet cocoa still lingering on his tongue. He looked up at the night sky, muttered, “Deliverables exceeded,” and vanished into the swirling dark.

 

My new comedic sci-fi novel, Someone Else's Book Club, is available on my website or through Amazon!