The Nine Lives of Christmas by Sheila Roberts

“Which one of these do I want?”
    She surprised him by reaching for a long, thin, cardboard box. “This is the best. Just flip the lid and you’re good to go.”
    She handed it to him and he stared at it. “It’s cardboard.”
    She nodded. “Embedded with catnip. You’ll have to replace it every so often, but believe me it’s well worth the price. Your cat will never scratch the furniture again.”
    “Sold,” Zach decided. And then there didn’t seem to be anything left to say, at least about cats. So he thanked her and left. But as he walked out the door he was accompanied by the nagging thought that he hadn’t come away with everything he needed.
    He was halfway to his car when he saw Blair approaching from the other direction. She was wearing her favorite long, fur-trimmed coat and black boots with heels that made her legs look a million miles long. There was a time when he would have looked at her and thought, sexy. Now he just thought, scary.
    She’d seen him, too. He could tell from the way she was bristling, with every step an angry fashion model stomp that sent the slush underfoot spraying in all directions.
    Shit .
    Well, they were bound to run into each other sooner or later. He’d been hoping for later, though. It was easier to face a three-alarm fire than a pissed ex-girlfriend any day. He stopped and mentally braced himself. When she got closer he said a civilized, “Hello, Blair.”
    She returned his greeting with a scowl. “Still have the cat?”
    “Uh, yeah.” That was his excuse for being here. What was hers? He nodded toward the store. “Did you decide to get a pet?” he joked in an attempt to lighten an awkward moment as heavy as a fire hose.
    “Actually, I’m meeting with my father. Business,” she added, her voice snippy.
    Zach couldn’t think of anything to say to that. He couldn’t think of anything to say, period. He was too busy thanking his lucky stars they were no longer together.
    Blair obviously couldn’t think of anything more to say, either, so she simply marched on into the store like a general riding into battle.
    Zach got in his Land Rover and got out of Dodge.
    *   *   *
    Sometimes getting called to the boss’s office means something good, like a raise, but when Merilee got her summons she knew there was no raise waiting in her future. She’d been manning the checkout stand when the reincarnation of Cruella De Vil whom she’d done battle with on Saturday entered Pet Palace. The woman had shot her a vengeful glare right before flying up the stairs to the second level where Mr. Carlyle’s office was located.
    Kate Hendrix, who was at the stand next to Merilee’s, said, “Uh-oh. The boss’s daughter looks mad. Somebody’s head’s gonna roll.”
    It wasn’t hard to figure out whose. Merilee swallowed hard but it didn’t help push down the panic rising up her throat.
    If there had been any doubt her head was about to roll, walking into the inner sanctum—a huge room that was quickly closing in on her—she could have no doubt now. Mr. Carlyle, a normally pleasant little man was sitting at his desk, frowning. Merilee had always thought he looked a little like Santa with his round belly and his equally round face, his nose like a berry or cherry or whatever it was, and his snowy white hair. Today his stern expression made her think of Scrooge.
    Next to him stood Daughter of Scrooge, wearing a fur-trimmed coat, unbuttoned to reveal a black knit dress that clung to a perfect body. Her hair was perfect, too—perfectly highlighted, perfectly blond. And her makeup, perfect, of course. And underneath all that perfection was a heart rotten to the core.
    It wasn’t nice to hate people. Merilee hated her anyway.
    “It’s come to my attention,” said Mr. Carlyle, “that you have not been putting the customer first, Merilee.”
    Not hard to figure out who told him. “I value all our customers who love their animals,” she said. Could she help it if this