Page 5 of The Night Before Grumpmas
Tomorrow, I’ll have a talk with her. A polite, firm reminder that not everyone’s here for the never-ending holiday parade. And maybe, just maybe, she’ll dial it back a little. How hard can that be?
I’m halfway through convincing myself that tomorrow’s conversation will go smoothly—polite, firm, no cinnamon debates—when I hear a knock on my door.
Who the fuck is knocking on my door at seven o’clock? I’m ready to get rid of whoever it could be, but when I swing the door open, there she is—Noelle Joy Holiday, all bright-eyed and . . . holding a mixing bowl?
“Hey, there new neighbor,” she says, her voice cheerful enough to make my headache worse. “I’m so sorry to bother you, but I seem to be out of sugar, and I really need some for this butternut squash risotto I’m making. Do you, by any chance, have some to spare?”
I blink at her, processing. Risotto? The one dish I have an embarrassingly soft spot for? Figures. But of course, she has to be the one making it.
“You . . . need sugar?” I repeat, trying not to sound annoyed. “For risotto?”
She grins, like she’s just so pleased with herself. “Just a pinch. It helps balance the flavors, you know? The savory with the sweet.” She tilts her head, all casual, but there’s something in her expression that tells me she knows exactly what she’s doing.
I open my mouth, ready to say no, when my stomach betrays me with a low grumble. Okay, so I’m hungry. Sue me. It’s nothing that can’t get fixed with some takeout.
I glance down at the empty bowl in her hands, then back up at her, wondering why she’s carrying it if she only needs a pinch. Does it matter?
“Fine,” I mutter, stepping back and waving her inside. “Wait here. I’ll get the sugar.”
She beams. “Thank you. I promise I’ll return the favor. Maybe with a plate of the finished product?”
I freeze for a second, my grumpiness faltering. A plate of risotto? That’s not part of the plan, Jacob. But before I can reject the offer, she’s already eyeing the place like it’s some kind of fixer-upper project.
“You know,” she says, peeking around the corner into my kitchen, “you’ve got some decent space in here. A little bland, but with a few personal touches, maybe a couple of pumpkins and apples this could be really cozy. I could ask Dad to bring a hale bale from home.”
What the fuck, is she kidding me? “Keep your holiday shit out of my area.”
She shrugs, still smiling, her tone annoyingly light. “Sure, if you’re going for the ‘lone wolf who hates joy and all things happy’ aesthetic.”
I stop rummaging through the pantry and turn to glare at her, feeling the irritation flare in my chest. “I don’t hate joy. I just . . . don’t need it shoved in my face twenty-four seven.”
Her eyes sparkle with amusement, and she leans casually, like she’s enjoying every second of this. “You’re kind of proving my point.”
Of course I am. I bite back the urge to fire off something sarcastic and instead move toward the kitchen shelf, grabbing the sugar and practically shoving it in her direction. “Here. Sugar. Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” she chirps, her grin widening as she takes the whole bag from my hands. “But I only need a pinch.”
Take the whole fucking thing then, I think, but all I manage to say is, “Keep it.”
She’s still smiling, like she knows she’s winning this little exchange, and it grates on my nerves in the worst way. She gives me a quick, playful salute with the bag of sugar. “I’ll bring over some risotto in a bit. It’s the least I can do after you saved dinner.”
I open my mouth, ready to refuse—I don’t need her charity, or her food, or her relentless fucking cheeriness—but before I can say anything, she’s already turning toward the door, waving over her shoulder like we’re best friends. “Thanks again, Jacob. I’ll make sure it’s extra delicious.”
The door closes behind her with a soft click, leaving me standing there, still holding the pantry door open like an idiot.
Great. Now I’ve somehow signed up for dinner, and I didn’t even try. I rub a hand over my face, groaning at how quickly she dismantled my defenses with nothing but a smile and a bag of sugar. She’s infuriating. Too bright, too fucking happy, and way too comfortable barging into my space like she owns it.
I shut the pantry door with a little more force than necessary and stalk back to the couch. The silence is almost peaceful, but I can already hear her in my head—humming, probably, while she stirs that fucking risotto. And the worst part? I know she’s going to show up at my door soon, grinning like she’s done me some massive favor, holding out a plate of food like it’s a peace offering I never asked for.
Maybe I should leave my apartment before she comes back. Just vanish for the night, avoid the whole thing entirely. God, this is a nightmare. Like some twisted, holiday-themed version of The Nightmare Before Christmas—except instead of Jack Skellington, I’m stuck with Noelle Joy Holiday. The human embodiment of all things festive and insufferable.
I flop onto the couch, crossing my arms and glaring at the ceiling. The only solution to this ordeal is to figure out a way to get rid of her. Because if there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s this: I’m not getting sucked into whatever holiday hell she’s planning. Not without a fight.
Chapter Three
Jacob
So much for the risotto.The second I catch the scent of vanilla wafting through the wall, I know she’s baking instead of cooking. Fucking vanilla, of all things. Since I’ve got work to do, I try to shove the thought aside and focus on the contracts I was sent a few minutes ago. Dinner can wait.
