Page 4 of The Night Before Grumpmas
Who the hell says “duck off” anyway?
I rub a hand over my face, trying to shake the irritation that’s been simmering ever since our not-so-friendly exchange. I was expecting an apology, maybe a little remorse for subjecting me to that god-awful pumpkin spice-scented nightmare she calls “fall décor.”
Instead, I got Noelle Holiday, of all people, firing back with more sass than any human should be allowed to possess.
It’s infuriating.
And that’s the problem. The whole encounter with her has been rolling around in my head since it happened, like an itch I can’t scratch. The way she stood there beautiful with that annoyingly chipper smile, her eyes sparkling like she couldn’t wait to spread more holiday cheer in my general direction—it’s fucking worrisome.
Should I move, or make sure she moves out of here as soon as possible?
I’m not a complicated guy. I just want to come home, eat dinner, and be left alone. But no. Instead, I get the human embodiment of a Hallmark movie waltzing into my life with pumpkins, cinnamon, and enough enthusiasm to power the goddamn sun. And worst of all? She’s right next door with nothing but a thin wall separating us.
I sigh, sinking into the couch and running a hand through my hair. Why the fuck did she have to move in here? Of all the apartments in New York, why this one? Actually, no—the better question is, how could someone like her be related to Mrs. Holiday?
Mrs. Holiday, I could handle. The woman was quiet, unless you count the rare times we ran into each other in the hallway, and she’d chat my ear off about God knows what at a gazillion miles per minute.
But even then, it was . . . manageable. She wasn’t pushing an overwhelming amount of holiday cheer down my throat—just enough. The right balance of festive, if you ask me. Should I text her and ask her to tell her granddaughter to chill the fuck out?
I actually have her number for emergencies. When I pull my phone out, I groan as reality slaps me in the face. I can’t text her. The number I have is for her landline. That’s right—the woman still has one of those rotary phones attached to the wall like it’s 1975. Never understood why she pays for two phone services, but hey, to each their own.
So, if I can’t call her, how the hell am I supposed to handle this?
The wall separating us feels like it’s mocking me now. Every little sound from Noelle’s place makes my teeth grind—whether it’s a chair scraping, her music playing on repeat, or that soft humming she does like she’s auditioning for some Disney princess role. Every note of that cheerful tune feels like a spike to my blood pressure.
I lean back, glaring at the ceiling. Maybe I should move.
Hell no, I’m not going to let her push me out of my own space. I was here first. She’s the one invading my peaceful existence with her pumpkin spice-scented nightmares. It’s like she’s running a goddamn fall-themed assault on my sanity.
I close my eyes, but there’s no peace. All I can think about is Noelle, with her bubbly personality and the way she looks at me like I’m some kind of grumpy challenge she’s just itching to take on.
Fucking fantastic.
Who knew someone could make fall decorations feel like a personal attack? Cinnamon, pumpkins, and whatever that horrendous music was—I’m convinced her apartment’s trying to turn me into a walking Hallmark card.
Earplugs, I remind myself. I need earplugs.
She’s been here, what, a day? And already it feels like she’s setting up camp to spread holiday cheer like a virus. If I’m not careful, she’s going to turn the entire building into some kind of gingerbread-scented nightmare by Christmas.
I rub a hand over my face, releasing a groan. It’s bad enough the city’s loud and relentless, but now I’ve got a neighbor who’s determined to bring “joy” into my life. Joy.
Who has the middle name Joy, anyway?
If she thinks I’m going to get swept up in her over-the-top holiday spirit, she’s got another thing coming. I’ll make sure of it. Starting now.
I head to the kitchen, flipping the switch on the kettle because if I’m going to survive this, I’ll need caffeine. Lots of it. With the quiet hum of the water heating up, I glance out the window. Fall might be her season, but for me? It’s just a slow march to winter, and I hate winter. It’s cold, messy, and full of pointless holidays that require people to plaster on fake smiles and pretend they’re not miserable. Exactly what I try to avoid.
Why does she even care about all this festive crap? I pour water on the percolator, frustration bubbling up. It’s not like I have anything against fall per se, but the whole “autumnal cheer” thing? Completely unnecessary. Leave the pumpkins at the store, people.
And then there’s her—the human embodiment of every cheerful holiday special I’ve ever avoided. Noelle Joy Holiday. You can’t make this stuff up.
I should’ve known something was off when I saw her moving in. Too much smiling. Way too much energy for someone carrying boxes up three flights of stairs. And that cinnamon—fuck, that cinnamon—it’s like the air freshener equivalent of a punch in the face.
I slam the cabinet shut and sigh. The truth is, people like Noelle—people who love the holidays and think they can turn everything into a festive wonderland—are exhausting. It’s not like I’m anti-holiday, I just don’t need to be bombarded with it every time I open my door.
And now I’ve got her, right next door, determined to turn this building into a Hallmark movie set.
This is going to be a nightmare.
