Page 59 of Light My Fire Three Times
I even ordered red and green cups withMerry & Brightstamped on the side. Honestly? It looks like an overcaffeinated elf decorated the place.
Which… fair.
By nine thirty a.m. I’ve already made forty-seven peppermint mochas, thirty-two gingerbread lattes, and approximately one million whipped cream clouds. My fingers are sticky, my apron looks like it lost a fight with a candy cane, and I may or may not have squirted caramel sauce directly into my mouth between orders.
Don’t judge.
“Olivia! You’re a lifesaver!” some frazzled mom with three kids sings at me as I hand her a tray of hot cocoa bombs topped with marshmallows the size of golf balls.
“Just trying to spread joy one sugar high at a time,” I say with my customer service smile, which is sixty percent genuine, and forty percentplease let me sit down before I collapse.
And the truth is, I do love it. The chaos, the chatter, the smell of beans and cinnamon. It feels alive. But underneath all that? There’s this buzzing in my chest I can’t turn off.
Because while I’m shoving cups into cardboard drink carriers, I’m also thinking about drywall and electricians and how much money it’s going to take to make my place livable again.
I’m trying not to think about Karl and the disaster at my temporary home. Trying not to think about how I’m free now… but also unmoored—a snowflake stuck in a windstorm, no idea where I’ll land.
And then, because the universe is a sadist, I glance up just in time to see Jesse strolling down Main Street toward the firehouse.
Tall, broad-shouldered, hat pulled low against the cold, and very much the last person I need to be thinking about while I’m sticky with whipped cream and wearing reindeer earrings.
He notices me. Of course he does. And instead of pretending I’m invisible like a sane person, he lifts a hand in a half-wave, half-awkward “please don’t bite me” gesture. He even tacks on a smile. Small, crooked, devastating.
And my treacherous heart? Yeah, it flutters. Clearly, it didn’t get the memo about self-preservation.
So yeah. December first, and I’m already running on fumes, sarcasm, and the memory of Jesse’s hands on my waist. Merry freaking Christmas.
By the time I close up, my brain feels it’s been steamed along with the milk. The register jammed twice. One guy ordered a peppermint mocha with oat milk, extra hot, no foam, and triple whip.
Seriously, why are people like this? And in a tired state, I accidentally wrote “Scrooge” instead of “Serge” on a cup, which… okay, that part was funny, but still.
I need a drink. Desperately.
So, I make a pit stop at the little grocery store on Main and grab the biggest, cheapest bottle of red wine they have. The kind with a cartoon reindeer on the label that screams I’m festive, drink me. Perfect.
I picture myself curled up at the cabin, fuzzy socks, glass of wine in hand, pretending my life isn’t a tangled ball of almost boyfriends, and definitely off-limits brothers.
But when I get home, the universe laughs in my face again.
I push open the kitchen door, bottle tucked under my arm, and there he is.
Leo. The man who hates me. My stomach drops.
He looks up, freezes. For a second, neither of us says anything—just the hum of the fridge and my pulse hammering in my ears.
“Olivia,” he says finally. He says my name like it’s something dangerous, like he’d rather swallow glass than let it linger on his tongue.
I grip the bottle tighter. “Leo.”
And I’m done.
I don’t know what snaps in me, but something does.
I just can’t stand thatlookon his face.
“Okay, nope,” I say, dropping the wine bottle on the counter with a thunk that makes him flinch. “We’re not doing this. I’ve had the longest day of my life, scratch that, this entire month has been the longest day of my life, and I am not about to stand here while you look at me like I’m an intruder in my own damn life.”
His brow furrows, that familiar crease digging deep. “That’s not what I?—”
