A/N: Hey all, thank you so much for all of the reviews on this one so far. I know I haven't been great (okay...I've been awful) at replying to those of you with log-ins, but just know that I read your comments and they bring a smile to my face. They're fuel for the creativity fire.

All that being said, I wanted to give a shoutout to Amy, who always comments without a login but has left detailed reviews on several of my stories. I really appreciate you, lady! It's always great to know what exactly resonates with readers. And though you said you're not so into the Hallmark shtick, I hope this one keeps you smiling.

I'm on the Merry Writing 500+/words a day challenge for December, so chapters should keep dropping on the regular.

Several weeks later, Sharon corrals her committee into an all-hands meeting. With end-of-year paperwork and deadlines piling up, she'd had to call them in on a Saturday morning. The request brings most everyone together in street clothes, with the exception of two uniformed patrol officers and a besuited Sergeant Flynn. The latter sheds his jacket and plops a tall styrofoam cup onto the table as Sharon moves from chitchat into the meat of the discussion.

"As many of you know, I like to split our group into subcommittees when we get into the actual work of planning the party. It makes life easier for everyone when finding times to meet." Across the table, Flynn sinks lower into his seat, his gaze fixed on the overhead lights. As she narrows her eyes at him, Sharon continues, "But first, we need to decide on a theme."

Ally Nevasky, a narcotics detective far too crusty for her age, raises her hand. "Yeah, so, I was thinking the North Pole."

"Ally, that's a great idea," Sharon gives herself a moment before adding, "but it's also almost exactly what we did last year."

"Right. Meaning we could use the exact same decorations, set up in the exact same way, and save ourselves a bunch of time and headache." She holds out her hands as if displaying her inarguable logic. "Besides, I'm pretty sure there's been more than one Nutcracker party."

"Correct," Sharon clips out, "four years apart." Still, she notes Ally's suggestion. "Any other ideas?"

The group meets her question with silence and averted eyes. She lets it stretch for a moment before prodding. "Anyone?" The lack of answer leaves her flattening a frown.

Every year.

Every year she's run the party, Sharon has ended up naming the theme. Last year, it was Santa's Workshop. Before that, The Nutcracker, part deux. The Polar Express. Gingerbread village. Christmas at the beach. Ski chalet. And, yes, The Nutcracker, original version.

Her avoidance of Ally's suggestion isn't about control. It's about caring, avoiding the easy, lazy choice. Sharon wants the party to be fun and novel for the attendees. It's one of the R and R's biggest fundraisers, after all, and the hundreds of tickets the team sells every year keep the group's coffers full for months.

She draws a deep breath as the room remains quiet. "Well, if there's no—"

At the same time, Flynn says, "What if we—" But he cuts off his suggestion at Sharon's words.

Flynn, with an idea? Her eyes widen at the prospect. But she says, "Please," and casts her palm in his direction, even as she braces herself. "Go ahead."

"I was thinking the Grinch."

If it's possible for a soul to sigh, this is what flows from Sharon's mouth. The exhale seems to stem from her toes. "The Grinch."

Of course. If anyone's going to be Grinchy…

"Yeah," he levers himself into an upright position. "Or, like, the town where those muppet things from The Grinch live."

"The Whos," Nevasky supplies.

Flynn's brow furrows. "Huh?"

"'The Whos down in Whoville,'" Sharon quotes. "You're thinking of a Whoville theme."

"Sure. Right." He shrugs. "Anyway. It's kind of a classic. And it definitely has a look to it."

"Yes it does." Sharon taps her pen against her legal pad. It's an intriguing idea. Unique, allows for plenty of creativity. It's flexible, non-denominational. Checks all the boxes. "Any objections to Whoville?"

Nevasky rolls her eyes, but with no other obvious signs of disagreement, Sharon circles the theme in her notes. "Okay, Whoville it is." She digs into the next step with the flip of a page. "We'll have six subcommittees: venue, ticket sales, refreshments, music, rentals, and decorations."

After pausing to let the options sink in, she starts down the list. "The venue subcommittee is straightforward, and it's a one-person job: Make sure the FOP hall is booked for the second Saturday in December, arrange to pay the deposit and fee, and run through the preparation checklist on the morning of the party."

Sharon scans the room, trying not to let her eyes stick on Flynn. He'd be perfect for the job. She's half-tempted to volun-tell him. No group interactions, no assembly or crafting required. Just a few errands, really. It'd be an easy way for him to contribute.

Instead, in the trailing quiet, Bob Rambert raises his hand. Sharon takes her time in surveying the opposite side of the room before swinging her gaze to him.

She forces lightness into her voice. "Oh, Bob, great. I'll get you noted here." When she looks up from noting his task, he's still holding his hand in the air. "Yes?"

"Um, what day is the party, again?"

Stretching on a smile, Sharon says, "It's the second Saturday in December, every year. This time it's the 12th."

Bob's brow creases. "Right, right."

Despite the unease kicked off by his question and response, Sharon continues down the page. "For ticket sales, Dawn needs two helpers to advertise the event and arrange to sell—"

Sharon breaks off when a pair of young women raise their hands in the back corner. They're first-timers. "Okay, your names?"

"Melissa Hobart."

"Rebecca Taylor."

"Perfect, thank you." Looking up from her clipboard, Sharon says, "Next up is the refreshments subcommittee, which Alex Kippering will be leading."

As Alex directs a halfhearted wave to the rest of the group, Flynn leans in his direction. "Hey, Kipper, can you try to keep meat out of at least one of the main dishes this year?" When half the room turns to look at him, he adds, "What? Vegetarians exist."

Again, Sharon has to admit, "That's a good suggestion."

Alex shrugs. "Sure. No problem."

"Okay," Sharon returns her attention to the larger group. "We need two people to help with refreshments and tableware."

Two hands appear. Again, neither of them are Flynn's.

"Perfect," Sharon says, jotting down the names. "Next, Julie needs someone to assist in arranging a band and setting up equipment at the—"

Rod Varro, Julie's significant other, raises his hand whip-quick. As she notes the now-completed music subcommittee, Sharon moves onto the next with a new urgency. "Adam will arrange the rentals for our tables and chairs. His team will cover set-up on the Friday before the party and tear-down on Sunday morning." As a few unassigned helpers trade wary looks, she specifies, "Everyone who isn't one of the two people helping Adam will default to my decorating group."

Sobricki and Lisson raise their palms. They're Christmas party veterans, 'helpers' she's not disappointed to see opt out of helping with decorations.

Still, that leaves Sharon with a ragtag team for making Whoville a reality. After sending the subcommittees to group up and waving Rambert on his way, she considers the list. Pete Nakayama is a LAPRRA party luminary — he could easily work in set design if he didn't have such a knack for forensic accounting. Eric Edel, from the lab, should be good for at least a few meetings before his attention wanders. Nevasky can be a hard worker, though her critical eye has a tendency to stray from the task at hand. A young patrol officer — Sharon shuffles contact forms until she finds the only unfamiliar name, Caroline Shaughnessy — is a fresh addition.

And as for Flynn?

Well… as Brad said, he's just a bonus.

At the sight of her assembled team, Sharon is mostly relieved. "Ally, Pete, Eric, I'm so glad to have your help again this year." She nods to the other two. "And we're lucky to be joined by Andy Flynn and Caroline Shaughnessy."

Flynn angles toward the young officer. "Good Irish name."

Sharon rolls her eyes at his comment, no doubt meant to be a come-on. "As long as there aren't any major changes to anyone's schedules from the LAPRRA volunteer forms you filled out a few weeks ago, I'll use these to schedule our next meeting."

"Sounds good," Eric says, speaking for the consensus.

"I think," Pete starts, rubbing at his chin, "I have an old recording of How the Grinch Stole Christmas at home, in our tape case. I could watch it, take some notes?"

"That would be a huge help, Pete." Sharon flips to the October calendar at the back of her clipboard, weighing the weeks between now and mid-December. "We can meet again near the end of the month, discuss what you find, and nail down our ideas?" Faced with a round of nods, she grins. "Great, thanks everyone. I'll be in touch."

As the group filters toward the door, Flynn pauses, craning his neck to drain the last of his drink. When he steps past her to drop the cup into a trash can, Sharon decides to give him one final escape chute. "You're okay with being on the decorating team, Sergeant?"

His brow creases. "Why wouldn't I be?" In a perfect deadpan, he adds, "I gotta make sure this thing meets my creative vision, after all."

"Ah, yes." Even as the thought of him in design critic mode twists her lips, she asks, "So will you be contributing as a Who, or as the Grinch?"

"Ha-ha." His sarcastic faux laugh pairs with a grudging grin. "I happen to have opinions on this party, as someone who forks out for a ticket every year."

"Really?"

"Sure. My squad always goes together." Flynn shrugs. "It's nice, setting aside all the murder shi—stuff for a while." With that, his eyes flick toward the wall clock. "Ah, speaking of… I should probably get going before my captain starts paging me."

Sharon wonders what sort of tragedy he's investigating. Struck by a sudden sense of triviality, she curls her clipboard to her chest. "Well, thank you for taking a break to come down."

"No problem, LT." He slides his jacket back over his shoulders. "Catch you next time."

She watches him go with a shake of her head. Who would have thought? And, more pressing: what to make of an earnest Andy Flynn?