Page 55 of Back to December
“Occupational hazard.” He gestures toward the counter. “Have you tried the eggnog latte yet? Emma swears it can solve most crises.”
“You’ve seen her?”
I’ve wondered if I should. The last time I was here, Holden and I were celebrating our “sixth month fake-a-versary,” and I don’t know what I’d say if I show up alone. We never made a huge deal about being a married couple, except to Winnie at The Sweetheart Inn, but most people assumed.
Not that I blamed them. Holden and I have always been easy around each other, but I don’t know how to do that now.
“Just this morning. She and Miles roped me into speaking at the farm’s winter market about local folklore and modern storytelling.” A small smile. “I think they have selective memory where I’m concerned in their love story.”
I can’t help but smile. “They always speak of you fondly, Henry. You’re almost myth status where they’re concerned—the man who single-handedly revived their business for good.”
His cheeks pink up, and he ducks his head for a second. Henry is usually so confident, almost overtlyso. Not rudely, he’s just smart enough to know it. So, it’s amusing to see him blush at a compliment.
Then I realize it’s because Emma and Miles are part of his story now, too.
“They put in the hard work, don’t let them tell you otherwise. They had a lot of money they needed to raise in a short period, but they were doing okay on their own. The bachelorette auction helped.”
“So you didn’t deliver a baby goat in the bakery kitchen?” I grin.
He huffs out a laugh. “No. And for the record, I’m also not the town’s resident Christmas ghost who shows up every few winters to ‘restore belief.’ If that’s true, someone owes me back pay and a better costume.”
“This is amazing. Should I be taking notes?”
“I’d rather you didn’t. But if we’re on the record, I also didn’t officiate their secret wedding under the mistletoe, rescue a lost reindeer, or single-handedly save their bakery from an oven fire. It’s all a bunch of malarkey.”
“And yet, you came back?”
“I did.” His voice softens. “This town has a way of convincing you there’s more to the world than logic and frostbite. But Emma and Miles have a way of making the farm feel like home without expectations. A safe place to retreat and all that. We can all use one of those, I think.”
That lands harder than it should.
Holden hasalwaysbeen that for me, for as long as it mattered and even before then. I just don’t know how to build a bridge back to that place, how to settle all the feelings inside and accept that I’m not my mother.
Not that I ever wanted to be.
“So,” he says after a beat, “tell me the truth. Whyareyou here, if not hiding? Thanksgiving escape? Romantic exile?”
“Work,” I answer too quickly. “A brand thing.”
“Ah, the classic avoidance pilgrimage.” He takes a thoughtful sip of his coffee. “Doesn’t usually work, I’m afraid. But the cookies help.”
I laugh despite myself. “Do you always psychoanalyze your former students over pastries?”
“Only the promising ones.” He studies me for a long moment, then asks quietly, “How’s the new account coming?”
I hesitate. “It’s fine. Just… harder than I thought to find my voice. The story. The purpose. I don’t know what I’m doing.”
He nods, eyes kind but knowing. “That’s usually when the story’s about you.”
My breath catches. “That’s not very academic of you.”
“Don’t tell my department.” His lips curve into that crooked, almost-smile. “I just mean, sometimes what you need to share is deeper than surface-level attraction. Or someone else’s story, like the way you told Holly’s story.Sometimesit’s confession.”
I stare at the foam art on my gingerbread latte, melting into a white blob of nothingness.
Henry stands, tugging his scarf back into place. “For what it’s worth, Sweetheart Springs has a way of reminding people what they’re really looking for.”
“Belief?” I tease, half-hoping to derail the conversation.
