Page 32 of Jingle Bell Flock
The bell over the door chimed, and a guy in a brown UPS uniform walked in, pushing a dolly stacked with boxes. He was maybe in his late twenties, fit, and with one of those carefullymaintained beards that probably required all sorts of hipster products.
His eyes landed on Stella, and his whole face lit up. “Hey, Stella.”
“Hey, Matt.” She pushed off the bar and pointed toward the door that led to an “employees only” section of the brewery where Stella had set up a make-shift office when she’d opened the brewery a few years back. “Same place as always.”
“Got it.” Only, he didn’t move right away. Instead, he stood there grinning at her like an idiot. She stared back at him for a few long seconds, and his cheeks turned pink. He cleared his throat and said, “Uh, new shipment of glasses?”
“Yep. Holiday designs.”
“Nice,” he replied, nodding his head. “You, uh, doing anything special for the season?”
“Working, mostly. Big event out at Winterberry Farm on Saturday.”
“Oh yeah? That sounds cool.” He finally started moving toward the back. “Maybe I'll stop by.”
“You should,” Stella said, her tone completely neutral.
I watched him disappear into the back room, then turned to Stella. “You should give him your number.”
She didn’t even look up from wiping down the bar, but I saw the way her lips tipped down into a slight frown. “It’s not like that.”
“Um, it’s definitely like that, Stella. He was practically drooling.”
She shrugged, still focused on a nonexistent spot on the bar. “Whatever.”
I studied her for a second. Back in high school, some of the assholes on the football team used to give her shit for being chunky, which was bullshit then—and now. Stella McKinley was a knockout. Always had been. She was tall, built like those oldpinup girls with curves in all the right places, and covered in intricate ink that likely cost a fortune.
When I’d first moved back to town and I’d stopped in to her brewery, I’d thought about asking her out. But within five minutes of talking, I realized we were too fucking similar—both stubborn, both prone to brooding, and both seriously allergic to small talk. We would have driven each other insane before the date was even over.
But that didn’t mean other guys couldn’t see what I saw. Matt sure as hell did.
It pissed me off that Stella couldn’t see it, too.
“He’s my delivery man, Jeremy.”
“So?”
She looked at me then, and said, her voice deadpan. “So … that means he has my number. And my address. And he pretty much knows every store I shop at—including the sex shop where I buy my vibrators.”
And there it was. Stella might have traded her heavy eyeliner and band t-shirts for a more polished look, but she’d never grown out of wanting to shock people, especially when she was feeling defensive.
I couldn’t relate at all.
I opened my mouth. Closed it again. “Okay, yeah. Fair point. What’s that saying—‘if he wanted to, he would’?”
She pointed at me. “Yes, that. Exactly.”
Matt reappeared then, shooting Stella one more hopeful smile before heading out with a lift of his hand in farewell. “See ya next time.”
The bell chimed again as the door closed behind him.
She turned to me, her arms crossed over her chest. “Speaking of pathetic puppy dog looks … are you still pretending you’re not hopelessly in love with your former best friend?”
I nearly choked on my beer. “What?”
“Oh, please.” She reached into her back pocket and pulled out her phone, swiped the screen a few times, and then turned it toward me. It was a picture someone had posted of me and Harrison on the cold, snowy ground after I’d tripped and accidentally tackled him. The look on my face was …
Yeah, okay.
