Page 14 of An Unexpected Christmas
I hesitate, my fingers idly tracing the rim of my glass, my wine long gone. “I wanted quiet. Space to think.”
“Think about your books?” I nod and then briefly debate whether to deflect again and keep things light between us, but I’ve come this far now.
Her hand waves between us, dismissing her question before I can reply. “I’m sorry, is that crossing a line? You don’t have to answer.”
“No, it’s… okay.” I take a steadying breath. “I moved here after… well, trying to figure out life. What I’m doing with it.”
She pauses before speaking, intrigue glistening in her eyes. “That sounds like there’s a story.”
There is, and I’m not sure I should be divulging it all to my sunshiney neighbor two glasses of wine deep. This is the most I’ve spoken to another woman who isn’t our elderly neighbor in the last four years, but maybe I’ll tell Frankie one day.
“And you?” I counter, deflecting just enough to regain some control of the conversation. “Did you grow up here?”
She shakes her head, rattling her curls that have fallen from her bun, her smile fading slightly. “I grew up in Boston. I fell in love with this place when I visited a friend one year. When I graduated, I managed to get a job in the hospital too. It was just meant to be.”
“Do you miss your family not living near them?” I ask and immediately regret it. Of course she misses them. Everyone misses someone they love but can’t be with. “I’m sorry. That was a really stupid thing to ask.”
“No, it’s not.” She tucks a curl behind her ear. “I do miss them, but I love what I do too. I know I could do it anywhere, but there’s something about Holly Creek I’ve always loved. The place called to me, and I don’t know. I guess it feels like home too.” She smiles, but it’s not one for me; it’s for the life she’s built here for herself. I can’t help but admire it. “For sure, it’s a balance of missing them, loving them from afar, and seeing them when I can, but we make it work.”
“It probably sucks being stuck here with me of all people.” I definitely meant for that to come out as a joke, but it snags on the way out, and my voice cracks a little.
“It’s not so bad,” she says softly. I chance a glance up at her just as she gestures to her empty bowl. “Who knew the grumpy neighbor could cook?”
“It’s just soup,” I reply, pouring us another glass of wine. “Yeah, but it’s homemade soup. That means effort. And skill. And... heart.”
I stare at her, a warmth unfurling in my chest that feels familiar yet unsettling. I’m not used to women like her, and somehow, all I want is to prolong the evening into more time because being around her is easier than I thought it would be. “It’s chicken and vegetables, Frankie.”
“You say that, but this soup says otherwise, just like your books do. There’s more heart in you than you let people see.”
Heart. She has no idea how wrong she is. Or maybe how right. I’m not sure anymore. Either way, I’m not used to someone looking past the surface, let alone calling me out for it. It should make me want to retreat, to shut it down. Instead, all I can think is that maybe I don’t want her to stop seeing me like this. I’ve spent years convincing myself I didn’t have a heart to give away anymore, and here she is undoing all of that over a bowl of soup and a glass of wine. Ridiculous. And maybe the first thing that’s made me feel alive in a long time.
“Bet you had no idea you were moving in across from someone who would single-handedly try to light up the entire block?” she snorts that same noise again; it’s adorable.
“Not a clue,” I say, deadpan. “Would’ve thought twice if I had.”
She laughs, a genuine, melodic sound that cuts through the storm outside. “You say that, but deep down, I think you secretly like it.”
“Frankie,” I say, meeting her gaze, “there’s nothing secret about it—I don’t like it.”
Her grin widens. “But you’re being neighborly. It’s almost like you’restartingto like me.”
I roll my eyes, but I can feel the corner of my mouth twitching upward and my chest thawing. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
Frankie
Cracks in the armor
“As delicious as the soup was, I can’t survive without something sweet too. Let me make dessert.”
He sighs, the kind of long, drawn-out sigh people use when they’re about to give in but want you to think they’re reluctant. But I know from experience that no one can deny fresh-baked goods. Not even hot, grumpy Englishmen. Or my favorite authors. Still not over that. “What do you need?”
“Let’s see what you’ve got.” I head for his pantry before he can protest. Flour, sugar, cocoa powder—it’s sparse but workable. “Perfect. We’ll make something chocolate-based.”
“We?” he echoes, leaning against the counter next to where he’s now standing, his arms crossed over his chest, forearms looking extra veiny, taunting me again. “This is your project. I’ll be the professional taster.”
My thoughts go awry real fast with that line of him tasting anything, namely me, maybe.Bad Frankie.
“Oh no, you’re helping.” I pull a mixing bowl out and place it on the counter in front of him. “I can’t do this alone.”
