Page 8 of A Love Like Christmas Time
“Thankfully, Henry is better at hammering.” She bites her lip once she realizes how that sounds. “Innuendo not intended.”
“Good for you, girl,” I say, with a tinge of melancholy in my voice. I hate playing into clichés, but I am a damsel, and I am in distress. But there’s a voice in my head, shouting ‘Fuck that. You’re awesome, you’re capable, a bookshelf cannot defeat you!’ and then suddenly I’m determined to build them on my own again.
“You’ll get there,” Nic assures me. “And in the meantime, if you want me to reach out to the company that put all of my stuff together…” She makes a vague gesture to her own bookshelves. “You only need to say the word. It’s been months since we moved here, and you still aren’t able to unpack all of your moving boxes. Maybe it’s time to let ‘DIY’ become ‘Have someone else do it.’ It’ll be your early Christmas present.”
“Please,” I scoff and roll my eyes, pursing my lips in a pout. “I could hire them myself. But it’s the principle at this point.” I meet her eyes. “Maybe it’s my subconscious that’s still apprehensive about putting down roots here.”
“Why? Is there somewhere else you’d rather be?” She tilts her head, worry washing over her face.
“No,” I assure her quickly. “Only the same old ‘what if nobody likes me?’ doubts.”
“I like you.” She narrows her eyes at me. “And if Cinnamon weren’t in your lap, I’d throw a pillow at you. Is it because of your mother?” My eyes jump to hers. “Please. Do you seriously think I’m not having the exact same thoughts? We’re the blacksheep. Self-doubt is woven into our DNA.” She blows a strand of hair away from her face.
“It’s frightening to suddenly have this many people who care,” I whisper and try to shift my weight without waking Cinnamon. She stirs nonetheless, and I scoop her up to cuddle her to my chest.
“I know.” Nic leans forward and reaches for my hand. “But life is a lot more fun if you accept it and take the leap to trust. At least it’s working well for me so far.”
“I’ll try.” I shoot her a small smile. “Also, I cannot let a bookshelf defeat me.”
“That’s the spirit!” She squeezes my hand. “Make sure you win soon, before it defeats your nerves.” She lets go of my hand and fishes Pumpkin out of the pocket of her hoodie. “But for now, let’s make dinner. All this talk about food has made me hungry.”
“You have the best ideas,” I tell her and get up, Cinnamon sleeping peacefully in my arms.
Chapter 3
Caleb
There is nothing better than the hour after the lunch rush.
At twelve o’clock, on the dot, what appears to be the entirety of Wayward Hollow gathers here. Either to eat a lunch snack, or to have a coffee to get them through the rest of their day. Then at one o’clock on the dot, they go back to their own stores and work. Blissfully predictable.
It has always been that way, and I suspect it will continue to happen until one day either the café closes or the last person living in Wayward Hollow dies.
Now, the only ones in here are Henry, who tends to take a late or early lunch to avoid the rush, with his dog Jensen, who is sleeping at his feet. And Kieran, who doesn’t appear to have any other hobbies apart from hanging out here and keeping an eye and ear on what’s happening in this town.
Occasionally, he will leave with Andrea, the owner of Wayward Hollow’s only hotel, or Courtney, who owns the flower shop, if either of them need a hand for the afternoon. Apart from that, he pretty much keeps to himself. Usually, he sits in a corner with a laptop on the table in front of him and earphones on. Unless someone from their friend group decides to join him.
And that’s the best kind of customer I can have. I don’t care what they do, as long as they don’t try to tangle me upin senseless small-talk. Just like now, as I’m wiping down the counter, cleaning coffee stains and crumbs off it.
“You’re coming to Lauren and Nic’s Friendsgiving tomorrow, right?” Henry shouts my way from their table. I glance over to them.
My movement falters. I almost forgot they invited me. Those two moved into Wayward Hollow a few months back, bringing a figurative tornado with them. For some reason, they decided on my café for their meeting spot. They also decided that means I’m now part of their new friend group. Like a stray puppy they took in.
Lauren in particular has taken it upon herself to get a rise out of me, for whatever reason. And she’s damned successful at it, too.
“Don’t know yet,” I tell him gruffly and shrug.
Right. It’s that time of the year again. The ‘let’s all pretend we love pumpkin pie and each other’ season. And apparently, if you’re not spending it with your family, you’re some kind of tragic, lonely hermit who needs saving. Everyone who comes in here in the days leading up to Thanksgiving gives me the same type of look. The‘oh, poor guy, he’s probably microwaving a turkey dinner for one’look.
And there’s even more pity when you claim your family’s dead. Sadly, in my case, they’re still alive and kicking as far as I know. But at this point, whether they’re dead or alive, it’s all the same to me. I might as well make it easier for me and say the former if anyone asks.
“What?” Kieran gasps, clutching imaginary pearls. “You can’tnotcome. Who else is going to put out the turkey fire? Who’s going to be the voice of reason when chaos inevitably breaks out? Or save us when Nic’s ghost cat tries to drag us into the underworld? Don’t you dare leave me unsupervised.”
Kieran jumps up to pace the café, while I continue to wipe down the counter. There’s one persistent coffee stain right in the center.
“This is the first proper Thanksgiving I’ve had in over ten years.” He throws his arms into the air, waving them around as if he’s trying to fly. “How can you be so indifferent? I can’t believe you’re not jumping at the chance to stuff yourself with turkey! And whatever TikTok recipes Lauren finds and probably declares to become a tradition.”
“I’ll think about it.”
