Not that anything will ever come from it. For one, I refuse to date customers—too messy if things don’t work out. And two, I don’t have time. I’ve tried dating over the past few years, but most men want more—more than I’m willing or even capable of giving. So, I’ve decided to stay single until I get my life together.
Which means I might spend the rest of my life alone.
But I’m strangely okay with that. I have my neighbors. I have my cat. I have my memories of my mother.
That’s enough. Right?
Chapter Two
Alex
Eloise is coming for Christmas! Suck it, bro!
“Grant, you damn bastard,” I mutter under my breath.
I’m in line at the Beans to Go, the coffee shop on the ground floor of my Atlanta office building, with my business partner Roland Greer at my side. He’s scrolling through his phone as are most of the people in the line in front and behind me.
Festive holiday music is playing on the overhead speakers. The shop has floor-to-ceiling windows on two of the walls. One faces the street, and through the painted glass I see people hurrying to wherever they seem to be heading. The other glass wall looks into the three-story lobby. A giant fifteen-foot glass bobble chandelier hangs in the lobby, making the dark marble floor gleam.
The coffee shop is always bright and cheerful, with live plants and comfortable furniture. But from November to January, when it’s decorated for the holidays, the place transforms into a holiday wonderland. It reminds me of Christmas at home, so some days I’m down here twice, even if lately it makes me more homesick than usual.
But I’m going home in five days—a trip I’m equally excited for and dreading. And now that Eloise is coming, dread is winning out.
The woman in front of me must have heard me swear, because she glances over her shoulder, giving me a dead-eyed stare.
Clearly, someone needs her caffeine fix.
I’m about to ignore her, but she looks so much like my Aunt Sylvia—from her widow’s peak hairline, the bump at the bridge of her nose, and the way her eyebrows seem sunken over her eyelids—that it’s damn spooky, and there’s no way I’d blow off my aunt. So, I cringe and say, “Sorry, ma’am. I just got some bad news.”
She turns to face me, her irritation replaced by concern. “And at Christmas time too, you poor thing.” She shakes her head. “What happened? Did you lose your house? Your job?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Did Grant run over your dog?”
I’m taken back that she knows my brother’s name, then remember I used it when I swore. “What? No, nothing like that.” I take a breath, trying to figure out the shortest way to explain it. “Grant stole my bed.”
Her eyes widen, and she eyes me up and down, clearly appraising me. I’m used to it from women of all ages, but they’re usually more sly about it. Finally, she tilts her head and narrows her eyes with a venom I don’t expect. “Grant could do worse, so you must be a downright bastard yourself if he left you.” Then she turns around and begins whispering to the older woman next to her.
Roland bursts out laughing. “She thinks you’re gay.”
“No shit,” I grumble. “I got that.”
I’m not irritated that she thinks I’m gay. Curtis, one of my best friends from high school, is gay, and if I swung that way, he’d be the first man I’d hit on. But I’m still pissed at Grant, and becoming more so by the second.
“So, Eloise is coming to Christmas after all?” Roland asks, still chuckling.
Given his narcissism, I’m surprised he figured that out without me spelling it out.
“I’m so glad you find this amusing.” I give him a dark look. “You’re not the one who’s going to end up sleeping on a sofa bed for eleven days. And on top of that, my mother said my Aunt Jean is coming this year and bringing her three grandchildren.” I narrow my eyes. “Who are sleeping in the rec room.” I level my gaze. “Where the sofa bed resides.”
The line moves forward, and Roland breaks out into another fit of laughter. My Aunt Sylvia doppelganger has reached the register, and she and her friend are placing their order, some complicated mash up of syrups.
Roland can’t seem to let this go. “You’re bunking with three little kids? Dude, that’s insane. Just get a room at a hotel or rent an Airbnb.”
“Have you ever been to Hollybrook, Vermont, at Christmastime?” I ask. “It’s like a Christmas Hallmark movie. Hotels and Airbnbs sell out by February for the next year. And even if I wanted to stay somewhere else, my mother would have a fit. She insists we all stay in the same house, especially since it’s the only time she can see some of us.” Last time she said it, she’d looked me dead in the eye.
Guilty as charged, though. I don’t see them enough. The start-up takes nearly all my time and attention. But that’s an excuse, and I know it.
