“Wow.” I nod, wide-eyed over the steam curling off my hard-earned latte. “I never knew plastic to glow such a vibrant orangey-red.”
Jack drops it into my hand with a grin, like he’s daring me not to love it.
I tuck my newly gifted ornament into a rapidly filling shopping bag as Jack and I wander down Lobster Avenue with insulated cups warming our palms, the market alive with smells that make my stomach growl.
Sugared almonds, fried dough, and hot cider steeped with cinnamon sticks. If joy had a flavor, it would taste like this street. And while it’s unusual to find me out and about like this even on my day off, the real part I didn’t see coming by taking a chance on slowing down?—Jack by my side.
Of course, leave it to Eileen Burrows to make sure my slowing-down epiphany came with a side of humiliation.
And now? Now my morning humiliation has gone mobile. Because as Jack and I stroll hand in hand through the market, I catch more than one sidelong glance. A whisper behind mittened hands. A raised brow from a crochet clubber nudging her friend.
It doesn’t take a degree in small-town anthropology to know exactly what’s happening: The rumor parade has officially left the café and marched straight into the Christmas market.
Catching me staring at the sparkly logo across his chest, Jack flexes like he’s auditioning for a holiday latte ad. “I feel like your town has sponsored me.”
I take an extra-long sip of cinnamon foam to hide my groan.
He grins like he won the lottery.
Another sip hides my matching smile.
The whole street hums with pedestrian traffic—parents with strollers crowd the stalls, the older kids not yet out of school, while a brass trio attempts “Deck the Halls” just off-key enough to be charming.
“Let’s head this way.” Jack gestures toward a booth where a woman stirs almonds in a copper kettle. “Always wanted to try those.”
Nodding, I toss my empty cup into a trash bin. Before I can tuck my hand into my coat pocket, Jack takes it in his own.
This time, there’s nothing to hide my smile.
Hand in hand, we pass the rows of wooden huts—one stacked high with mittens, another gleaming with carved ornaments, another fragrant with pine wreaths and beeswax candles. The glowing windows of Town Hall and the white stucco church frame the scene, wrapping the whole street in twinkle lights.
Jack buys us a paper cone of roasted almonds, still hot enough that he needs to juggle it between his hands before offering it like he’s presenting a winning case.
“Careful.” One side of his mouth kicks up. “This won’t be easy to lick off like your icing.”
Heat flickers low in my stomach, completely unrelated to the almond I pluck from the cone. It’s warm and sweet,but the taste is nothing compared to the look Jack gives me.
We keep walking, weaving past couples swinging shopping bags, kids sticky with candy canes, teenagers daring each other into wasabi popcorn. The brass trio stumbles into “Jingle Bells,” one note sliding sharp enough to make me wince.
At the end of the avenue, fudge is displayed in neat squares between nutcrackers, and my mind wanders to fudge whoopie pie fillings. Double chocolate. Call it Fudge Me Twice.Maybe even?—
Jack nudges me with his elbow, his expression soft. “Day off, remember?”
Right. A day off.
Smiling at his reminder, I take a deep breath of holiday-heavy air. Linking my arm through his, we drift toward a wooden bench beneath a lamppost wrapped in garland and twinkle lights.
Jack dusts it off with his coat sleeve before tugging me down beside him.
Our bags at our feet, the scent of sugared almonds rising between us, we sit in comfortable silence and people-watch. Across the way, a little boy argues with his mom over why a giant stuffed lobster should count as a “necessary purchase.” A couple in matching plaid coats take turns holding up ornaments for each other’s approval. A dog in a red sweater tries to steal kettle corn from a distracted toddler.
Jack leans back, stretching his arm across the back of the bench until his fingers graze my shoulder. Not possessive—just… there. Warm, steady.
I let my head tip until it brushes his sleeve, thesequined logo peeking through his open coat winking at me. For once, I shelve my to-do lists, table my business plans, and silence the voice that says I always need to be doing more.
I’m just… here. In the town I came to because I wanted this exact feeling. The bustle, the cheer, the slow rhythm of a December day where everything tastes sweeter because you’re not rushing through it.
And maybe my picture-perfect future—the flannel-wearing Christmas tree farmer and two point five kids I drafted as carefully as a gingerbread blueprint—was never the pièce de résistance I needed.
