Page 15 of The Night Before Grumpmas
Except . . . somehow, it’s not better. It’s worse.
I unlock my door, pushing inside with a huff, the box tucked under my arm. The apartment is quiet, just how I like it. I set the box down on the counter, staring at it like it’s mocking me.
Why does it feel weird?
It’s not like I wanted her to make me food in the first place, so what’s with the sudden punch of disappointment that I’m not the only one getting this treatment? Hell, I didn’t even ask for it. This whole thing is ridiculous. She’s ridiculous. Henderson is ridiculous.
I groan, leaning against the counter, rubbing the back of my neck as if that’s going to untangle the knot of frustration building there. This is exactly why I avoid people. They make things complicated. They drop off food for no reason and suddenly, your quiet little world gets turned upside down. Now I’m thinking about why I’m not special, and why that pisses me off.
I shake my head, grabbing the note that came with the box. Her handwriting is neat, too perfect for someone so . . . unruly.
This should go straight to the trash. I don’t need her food. I don’t need her kindness. I don’t need anything from anyone.
But then again . . . there’s chicken pot pie.
And chocolate cake.
I stare at it like it’s something radioactive. Just throw it out, McCallister. You don’t need this. You don’t need her.
I think about just chucking the box into the trash without even opening it. Out of sight, out of mind. Simple. Easy.
Except the damn smell hits me. Pot pie. Homemade. The kind of meal that sticks with you, makes you remember the good days when life was less complicated. I pause, standing in the middle of my kitchen, the box sitting on the counter in front of me like it’s daring me to open it.
My hands hover over it for a second. Don’t do it.
I pull at the string tying it together and peel back the lid. There’s plastic wrap covering everything—her attempt to keep it fresh, I guess—but the smell is already creeping into every corner of the room. I grab a fork, glaring at the box like it might grow legs and walk itself out if I scowl hard enough.
And I feel it, the golden crust of the pie, the rich, savory filling—it’s working its way under my skin, taking root in all those places I like to pretend don’t exist anymore. And that stupid little voice in my head is whispering,you’ll regret it if you don’t at least taste it.
I stab the fork into the pie like it’s offended me. The crust gives way with a satisfying crunch, and I lift a bite to my mouth, still glaring at the food as if it’s responsible for the growing frustration in my chest.
Of course it’s good. Perfectly flaky, buttery, seasoned just right. I take another bite, cursing under my breath.
I should hate this. I should hate that she left it for me, that she somehow knows exactly the kind of comfort food I haven’t had in years. But I don’t hate it.
I glance at the rest of the box. There’s a slice of chocolate cake tucked away in the corner, still wrapped in plastic, waiting like some kind of dessert dare. Can I resist, or am I just a total fucking pushover at this point?
“Fuck,” I mutter, dragging a hand through my hair. I take a step back, staring at the counter like it’s some kind of battlefield. This is ridiculous. I should have tossed the whole thing the second I walked in. But now? I’m halfway through the pot pie, and that cake is sitting there, smug as hell, like it knows it’s next and swears I’m going to enjoy every little bit of it.
I shove another bite of pie into my mouth, the flavors hitting just right—savory, rich, and far too good for my pride to handle. I slam the fork down, glaring at the food as if that’ll make it any easier to hate. I’m annoyed at myself, annoyed at her, and especially pissed that I’m actually enjoying it.
I scrape the last bite of pie off the plate and toss the plastic wrap aside. And then . . . the cake. I rip off the plastic like I’m committing some sort of crime, but who am I kidding? It smells like pure chocolate heaven.
By the time I’ve finished it, I’m so full of food and frustration, I can barely stand it. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, still frowning, and decide I’ve had enough of her messing with my life, my appetite, and my sanity.
I walk over to the wall and knock—three solid bangs.
“Is that your only way of communication?” Noelle’s voice comes through, light and teasing. Of course. “Banging on walls and . . . growling?”
“What’s the deal with all this food?” I snap, not bothering to hide my irritation. “You trying to fatten me up for winter? Feed me to the bears before they hibernate?”
“That’s a terrible thing to say—or a joke, whatever that was,” she calls back.
“Well?” I press, crossing my arms as if she can see my glare through the damn wall. “Then why the food?”
“I was in the mood for chicken pot pie and thought you could use a little comfort food.” Her maddeningly cheery tone cuts through the wall, bright and unapologetic. “You know, since you’re always so . . . cranky.”
“I’m not fucking cranky,” I protest, even though I can hear how cranky that sounds.
