Page 12 of The Night Before Grumpmas
I snort, settling back against the wall. “So what? No one in Boston bakes cookies?”
“They bake ‘em. They just don’t go around leaving them at stranger’s doors.” He pauses, like he’s thinking it over. “At least not in the part of Boston I’m from.”
I grin at the wall. “Well, aren’t you just a ray of sunshine.”
“More like a raincloud,” he mutters, then sighs. “What’s it like? Growing up in a town where everyone knows everyone?”
I pause, biting my lip, thinking about it. “It’s comforting . . . but also suffocating sometimes. You can’t sneeze without your neighbor calling your mom to ask if you need soup or if the allergy meds aren’t working.”
“Sounds like hell,” he deadpans.
I laugh, the sound bouncing off the walls of my tiny apartment. “Sometimes it was,” I admit. “But there’s something nice about knowing everyone’s got your back. Someone’s always around to help you out. Even if it means they also know everything about you.”
“Right,” Jacob mutters. “So, basically the opposite of living in a city.”
“Pretty much,” I agree. “What about you? Boston must be fun. Big city, lots to do, plenty of places to escape to.”
“Yeah, but you’re also anonymous. No one cares what you’re doing or who you’re doing it with. People stay out of your way, and you stay out of theirs.”
I lean my head against the wall, sensing the weight in his voice. “And you like that?”
“I mean, it’s like that except when you have your mother and family so close, hence I moved to New York,” he admits. “I guess you can say that my family could be considered their own small town with how much they meddle.”
I can’t help but smile. This poor guy. He’s got people issues. Who hurt him? Who knows it could be no one. He’s just Jacob—misunderstood or maybe clueless when it comes to family. “It’s not so bad to let people in, you know.”
He scoffs, but it’s softer this time, almost like he’s beginning to let his guard down. “Obviously, you don’t know my mother.”
“If she’s anything like mine—or my grandmothers—I’d love the attention,” I lie. Because honestly, there are times when you don’t need the constant smothering.
There’s a long pause, and for a second, I think the conversation’s over. But then he adds, “You still haven’t explained the cookies.”
I laugh, leaning back against the wall. “Just a little taste of small-town charm for my grumpy big-city neighbor. Is that enough of an explanation?”
“I didn’t need the charm,” he grumbles, but there’s the faintest hint of amusement in his voice.
“Can you just eat them and enjoy them?” I counter, trying not to laugh. “I promise they’re free of poison and joy. Just flour, sugar, and a few other simple ingredients.”
“Fine. Just no more cookies,” he mutters, sounding like he’s surrendering.
I grin, triumphant. “That’s the closest thing to a ‘thank you’ I’ve heard from you, Jacob. I’ll take it.”
Chapter Seven
Noelle
It’ssix in the morning, and the coffee shop is already buzzing with activity. Nothing like early risers, commuters, and the unmistakable scent of freshly ground espresso to start the day. This is my first shift, and I’m determined to charm the caffeine-deprived masses, one cup at a time.
“Morning. What can I get started for you?” I chirp, flashing my biggest, brightest smile at a woman who looks like she rolled straight out of bed and into the shop. She’s clutching her phone like it’s the only thing keeping her upright.
“Uh . . .” Her eyes narrow at the menu, like it’s an ancient script she’s trying to decode. “Give me a large caramel macchiato. Non-fat milk, sugar-free, extra shot, extra caramel.”
I nod, punching all that into the system. “Name?”
“Sally,” she mutters, barely glancing up.
“Coming right up,” I say, trying not to let her lack of enthusiasm chip away at mine.
After the sticker prints. I add it to the cup, and spin toward the espresso machine, lining up the cup for John, the barista. There’s something comforting in the process, the way coffee wakes people up, pulls them out of their sleepy fog, and gets them through another day.
