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Lance Tucker stood on the opposite end of the wrapping table like he’d been personally assigned to test your patience and resolve. He already had his sleeves rolled up, pretending to listen as he ran a length of ribbon between his fingers and snapped it taut. It cracked in the cold air.
“So,” the organiser beamed, “folks are going to bring their gifts to you for wrapping. It’s a free service, but we are encouraging donations so if you can try and win them over with your excellent wrapping skills, that would be excellent!”
“We’ll do our best,” you smiled serenely.
As soon as she’d gone, he was goading you. “Alright,” he said, far too pleased with the situation. “Let’s see whose team actually knows how to wrap.”
You stared at him, then at the disaster of tape and crumpled paper already piling up at his end of the booth.
“Touch my scissors,” you warned sweetly, “and I’ll stab you with them.”
His smile widened. “See?” he said. “That’s the holiday spirit.”
You turned to your team, a small gaggle of 11th grade girls who all looked on the peak of boredom.
“This isn’t a competition, girls,” you assured them.
“Sure about that?” Tucker grinned.
You opened your mouth to respond just as the first family approached - a harried looking dad with two kids fighting at his feet and a stuffed toy under his arm.
“Oh!” the dad said brightly. “Is this where we get gifts wrapped?”
You pasted on a smile so sweet it hurt your cheeks. “It sure is! All donations go straight to the children’s hospital fundraiser.”
Lance leaned forward conspiratorially. “And you get premium wrapping if you pick the right side of the table.”
You shot him a warning look.
The dad hesitated. “Uh -”
“Don’t listen to him,” you said. “There isn’t a premium option. Just a little help for those awkward shaped gifts -” you gestured to the fluffy llama under his arm.
“Well at least I,” Lance cut in, already taking the llama, “don’t make my gifts look like they were wrapped by an accountant.”
The kids giggled.
As the line grew longer, the chaos increased.
Your side of the table was immaculate and despite their deep apathy toward the concept of doing a good deed, your girls were a well oiled machine of sharp corners, perfectly matched ribbon, and beautifully tied bows.
His side was… not so well organised.
But somehow people were loving it.
He worked fast, full of misplaced confidence and flair, resulting in gifts that looked like they’d been wrapped by an eight year old.
“You’re rushing,” you hissed under your breath as he slid another wrapped box toward a grinning customer.
“I don’t rush anything,” he shot back.
“That bow is crooked.”
“It’s rustic.”
A woman dropped five dollars into the donation jar and smiled at Lance. “I like yours better. I can pass it off as my own!” She winked.
Lance leaned back, smug. “Hear that?”
“Enjoy it while it lasts, asshole.”
By midday, the donation jar was fuller than anyone expected.
“Wouldya look at that,” he wiggled the jar at your team. “Looks like this is a competition after all.”
One of the girls laughed. “Well then prepare to get your asses kicked -”
“Yeah!” Sneered the other two.
Behind him, Lance’s team scowled.
“You want it to be like that? It’s on.”
And it was. Throughout the afternoon, you bickered over customers, flirted with customers for the better donations, and the score - which Lance had very helpfully started keeping on a scrap of cardboard - was dead even.
He tapped the marker against his teeth, eyeing you. “Tie breaker?”
You crossed your arms, looking around at the now quiet market and the lack of customers. “What did you have in mind?”
His gaze flicked down to the ribbon strands hanging from the side of the booth, then back to you.
“One more customer each,” he said lightly. “Loser gets wrapped.”
You frowned. “Wrapped how?”
He leaned closer, voice dropping just enough for only you to hear.
“However the winners see fit.”
You met his stare head-on. “You’ll regret that.”
Lance’s smile turned wicked. “Careful,” he murmured. “Keep lookin’ at me like that and Santa’s gonna put us both on the naughty list.”
Oh.
So that was how he wanted to play it.
You reached for the roll of paper and held it like a bat.
“You’re on.”
Your last customer was an older woman with a misshapen box and a twinkle in her eye.
“Oh, I don’t need anything too fancy,” she said. “Just nice and neat.”
You didn’t even look at Lance as you reached for the paper. Clean lines and crisp edges, finished with a ribbon tied in a glamorous bow.
Lance, meanwhile, went for charm for his last customer. Heavy flirting and copious amounts of innuendo.
Your customer studied her gift and added five dollars to the tip jar. Lance dutifully recorded it on his scrap of cardboard before his own customer dropped a dime into the jar.
“My kid could have wrapped that better,” she withered.
“Looks like all that flirting really helped,” you offered with a victorious smile.
Lance exhaled through his nose slowly.
“Well,” he said, lifting his hands in surrender. “Guess I’m gettin’ wrapped.”
The kids had long vanished - you’d sent them all off for cocoa and candy canes and none of them had bothered returning. You stepped closer to him, a roll of ribbon in your hand.
“Any last words?” you asked sweetly.
His eyes dropped to the ribbon. Then back to your face. His grin turned sharp. “Just don’t get handsy,” he murmured. “Or do. I’m flexible.”
You looped the ribbon around his wrists - loose enough to be publicly decent but tight enough to make a point.
“Oh, I’m being very restrained,” you said. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Mm,” he hummed. “You say that, but you’re takin’ your time. And speaking of restrained, I’d like to -”
You laughed before he could finish, “oh, I bet you would. Good job I won then, isn’t it?”
The ribbon continued around his body and up to create a gag across his mouth.
“And I finally got to shut you up.” You finished the final knot with a sharp tug.
His voice caught around the ribbon in his mouth, distorting it. “I knew I liked the way you wrap things.”
You stepped back to assess your work. The ribbon creating a neat line from his wrists up to his neck, the bow tied dead centre on his chest. Lance Tucker - smug, loudmouth Lance Tucker - stood obediently still, hands and mouth bound in red satin, watching you.
Through his sweatpants you could see the outline of his visibly growing enjoyment of his predicament.
“You look ridiculous,” you said.
He smiled slowly. “Yeah? Let me take you for a drink and I’ll let you do it again.”
You reached out and adjusted the bow once more on purpose, then let your hand brush across the front of his pants.
“Careful,” you said lightly. “Santa’s watching.”
He leaned in as far as the ribbon allowed. “Let him,” Lance murmured. “I already lost.”