Page 77 of A Love Like Christmas Time
“Caleb!” she shrieks, wiggling in the snow, trying to escape the cold. “God, you’re mean. I will get you back.”
“Oh, I have no doubts about that.” I lean closer and steal a quick kiss. Then I get up and extend my hand, pulling her upright once she takes it. “Take this as payback for you smuggling that damned syrup into my café.”
“Hey, you’re supporting my habit!” She narrows her eyes at me. “I’ll get you back when you least expect it. You just wait.”
“I’m looking forward to it.” I smirk and nod toward her car. “Are we doing this? Or do you want to warm up first?”
“No, let’s get this over with.” She blows a loose strand of hair out of her face. “Before it starts snowing again.” She unlocks the vehicle, opens the trunk, pulls out the first box, and heaves it into my waiting arms.
“Could you put it on the porch, please?”
“Sure.”
We empty her car in record time. She pulls out the boxes, hands them to me, and I stack them on her porch, making sure they’re as close to the wall as possible, in case there is more snow before we get them inside.
“Great, we got it,” she says after ten boxes in varying sizes. She eyes the two stacks on her porch. “I bet we can slide them inside.”
It takes some maneuvering, but it’s definitely easier on my back than carrying each of them all the way to her living room.
As she unpacks them, one by one, I get acquainted with her coffee machine. Thankfully, it’s easy to operate. It’s a little awkward, sitting on her couch, watching her scurry around as she unpacks her stuff, but she didn’t want my help.
“Okay, finally done.” She sinks down next to me with a big sigh, and I hold up my mug for her wordlessly.
She grabs it with a thankful nod and takes a big sip. As soon as the coffee reaches her tongue, her face stretches into a grimace.
“Yeah, no. I’m going to go make my own.”
I follow her to the kitchen, lean my back against the counter and watch her turn on the coffee machine. My eyes widen at the selection of syrups she has lined up.
“Cinnamon roll,” I read out loud, confused. “What about that is different from simple cinnamon syrup?” Which she has standing right next to it.
“It’s got a hint of buttery flavor,” she points out, filling a jug with milk to foam it up. “Don’t judge my taste, and I won’t judge yours.”
“I hate to tell you, but you just did when you almost spit out my coffee,” I point out, and her lips purse in a pout. She turns around to foam up her milk.
It’s so loud that continuing our conversation is impossible, but when she’s done, she taps the jug on the counter, then fills up her mug. She tosses the jug into her sink, pumps two shots of gingerbread syrup into it, and stirs her coffee creation with a small spoon.
“So,” she says, turning to me and taking a sip.
“So,” I echo and set down my mug. This is it. The part where we talk about our fight.
“I’m sorry about yesterday,” she says softly.
“You have no reason to apologize. I was—” I take a deep breath, trying to find the right words, my hands clutching the counter at my sides. “My emotions got the best of me. I was scared you wouldn’t come back. Then I was elated you did. Then I saw how upset you were, and my mind translated it to mean you’d rather be elsewhere.” Her eyes soften, and she reaches for my hand. “It won’t happen again.”
“I know.” She nods softly and gives my hand a little squeeze. Silence stretches for a few moments before she explains. “I promise I wasn’t upset about being back here.”
“Snickerdoodle?” I whisper, searching her face. Not because I think she’s lying to me, but because I need to make sure.
Thankfully, a grin tugs at her lips.
“Snickerdoodle. It’s the truth.” She nods, staring at my hand as she’s playing with my fingers. “And I’m sorry too. I was overwhelmed. When I was in L.A.—”
“Hey, you don’t have to tell me,” I say, but she shakes her head, meeting my eyes.
“The more I think about what I said, the more I realize it was bullshit.” She lets out a deep sigh. “We might not know each other’s reactions inside out yet, but that doesn’t even matter. What matters is that I trust you. And I trust you to tell me if I’m treading a thin line between wanting to vent about my own issues and poking yours.”
She holds my gaze, searching for the answer to her unspoken question in my eyes. “You haven’t given me any reason to think differently so far.” She winks at me, and I lace her fingers with mine. “And ultimately, I want to tell you what’s going on. I want to hear your opinion on this, and I want you to stick with me as I work through it. If that’s okay.”
