Page 7 of The Night Before Grumpmas
“Either . . . I don’t know,” I reply. “Just don’t do it.”
She laughs, completely ignoring my warning. “No promises. Besides, I’ve got some holiday recipes up my sleeve and you seem like the best person to try them all out on. You haven’t even seen the Halloween cupcakes yet.”
Halloween fucking cupcakes. This is going to be a nightmare.
I blink at the tray, my temper warring with the fact that everything smells incredible. The warm scent of the risotto mingles with the fresh-baked cookies, and my stomach grumbles in betrayal.Fucking traitor.
Before I can say anything, Noelle starts rummaging through my kitchen drawers like she lives here. She finally finds a fork, holds it up triumphantly, and turns to me, all smiles. “Sit. I’ll grab you something to drink.”
I stare at her for a beat, the words sinking in. She’s too much. But sit and eat? I guess I don’t have a choice. Grumbling under my breath, I drop into the nearest chair, watching her bounce around the kitchen. How the hell did I end up in this situation?
She hands me a glass of water, then leans back against the counter, arms crossed, looking far too pleased with herself. “Try it, I’m sure you’re going to love it.”
“Sure,” I mutter, grabbing the fork and poking at the risotto. “Next time you plan on cooking, make sure you have all the ingredients—just in case I’m not here or . . . well, I’m working, you know.”
She grins. “I’ll try my best.” Then she adds, with a shrug, “But I’ll bring you food even if you don’t lend me ingredients. It’s what my family taught me to do.”
I shake my head, staring at the risotto and wondering if it’ll kill me at the first bite. Maybe that’s how she wins the holiday match, “But next time, just the risotto. I’m not trying to get roped into a holiday buffet every time you knock on my door.”
She laughs, completely unfazed. “You say that now, but give it time. By December, you’ll be knocking on my door asking for cookies.”
I shoot her a look. “Not happening.”
“Mm-hmm,” she hums, her grin widening. “We’ll see.”
I finally take a bite of the risotto, and instantly, I hate how good it is. It’s warm, creamy, perfectly seasoned—exactly what I needed after today. And exactly the kind of thing I don’t want to admit I’m enjoying.
“Good, right?” she asks, folding her arms as she watches me eat. Her face lights up like she’s genuinely proud of herself for feeding me.
I begrudgingly swallow, trying to keep my tone even. “It’s . . . fine.”
She laughs again, clearly not buying it. “Yeah, okay. You don’t have to lie. I know it’s amazing.”
I feel the corner of my mouth twitch into a small, reluctant smile before I quickly stuff another bite into my mouth, smothering it. I am not giving her the satisfaction.
“Well, enjoy,” she says, backing toward the door with that annoyingly bright smile still plastered on her face. “I’ll leave you to your grumpiness and my amazing food, Jacob McCallister.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, unsure if I’m thanking her for the food or for finally leaving.
“Oh, and one more thing,” she adds, pausing in the doorway. “Don’t forget to eat the snickerdoodles with milk. It’s my grandma’s recipe. It’s killer, but better with warm milk.”
I don’t look up, already committed to pretending I’m indifferent. “Sure.”
She hesitates for a moment, then gives a little wave. “Good night, neighbor.”
The door clicks shut behind her, and suddenly, the apartment feels unnaturally quiet without her energy buzzing through it. She’s gone, leaving me with way too much food . . . and the annoying realization that I’m actually grateful.
I glance at the cookies. If I’m not careful, this is going to be a long fall.
Chapter Four
Noelle
It’s Sunday evening—timefor the weekly family calls. Mom already got hers in before dinner, and Val won’t be calling until later tonight since she’s on the other side of the country. Now, it’s time for Grandma Holly. I flop down on the couch, tuck my feet under me, and dial her number, adjusting my earbuds as it rings.
“How’s my favorite granddaughter doing today?” she asks, her voice warm and teasing.
“Don’t let Valentina hear you say that. She’ll never forgive you,” I laugh.
