Page 23

Aha.

More baby steps. More personal progress.

Eventually, I pull back with a contented sigh. James seems to take the cue that the moment is over. In fact, to my surprise when I look over, I realize he’s watching me.

And in a way that’s not entirely disinterested.

He’s the first to speak. “It’s a pity, a little bit.”

Instantly, I roll my eyes. “Are you seriously going to try to ruin this too? First the nonsense about the bridge rotting—”

“There was a literal missing board you drove around. We could’ve died.”

“Now this.” I wave to the tree. “What’s wrong with the tree? Too many lights? Too much positivity and good cheer?”

“No, it’s just a pity. We’re missing the part with the hot cocoas.”

“Oh.” I purse my cold, chapping lips and give a tiny smile. “Well. That’s true,” I admit, though what I really mean is Sorry, probably shouldn’t have jumped all over you there.

James doesn’t seem offended. It’s becoming more and more obvious that he’s the kind of man who is nearly impossible to ruffle. I wonder what came first. Was he so good at not letting people get to him that he sought a job working out social problems, or did a job of dealing with continuous conflict eventually teach him to get over people and their endless opinions?

Something tells me it was the former.

His gaze drifts over to the coffee shop. “Perhaps,” he says, “it’s only fitting . . .”

“Ah.”

“In honor of your mother’s tradition.”

“Well.” I pause. Bite my lip at his impossibly thoughtful point. A grown man playing along with my silly games. “I could use something hot after the day I’ve had.”

“Oh, believe me. Me too.”

“Okay.” We both hesitate, then seem to get over it as we look at each other in a way that silently communicates, Well, we’ve already been tethered together this long on our little sailboat-in-the-middle-of-the-ocean kind of day. Might as well top it off with a drink.

We trudge through the snow toward the shop unoriginally named Maple Hills Coffee. At the peeling but brightly colored red entrance doors, we shake off the snow from our pants and shoes (he literally takes off his shoe and a slop of slushy snow falls out) and push open the door. There’s something familiar about the way we both automatically peel off our coats, a sign that we’ve gotten used to months of cold weather and long walks that require us to constantly shed and don layers. We’re both accustomed to city living, and in this way, we look the same.

Or, I don’t know. Maybe it’s just that we feel contrasted against the explosion of color from every ugly Christmas sweater in sight. There are a lot of sweaters. Regardless, the coffee shop is a nice change of pace from the freezing weather outside, and James and I gravitate toward the old radiators to one side of the shop before stepping up to the counter.

The place feels like we’re inside a roasting chestnut over an open fire. Colorful paper garland weaves this way and that above customers’ heads. A trio of Christmas trees stands beside a giant piano by the windows, through which snow appears to by flying downward at a rate much more alarming than we experienced outside. You’d think everyone here would take one look and pack it up with trepidation. But then, considering the number of trucks and the couple of ATVs outside, everyone here seems to have vehicles that deal with this on a regular basis. These are the people who go four-wheeling in two feet of snow up a steep mountainside on purpose.

I know because I recognize several faces.

In fact, throughout childhood, I’ve signed their casts.

“Chloe!” a man calls cheerfully from behind the counter.

Case in point, Peter Romero. The scar on Peter’s chin, from the time when he flipped off one of those ATVs on a hunting trip back in high school, is hidden now somewhere beneath his full beard. He grins widely as he stands at the espresso machine, pulling a shot. I look around the room automatically.

“She’s not here,” he says. “She got called in for a chat with the principal, but she told me she was heading to your place straight after.”

I throw back my head. Here’s hoping the chat has nothing to do with her “creative lesson” earlier.

Peter’s been dating Genie technically since last Christmas, but in reality, everyone has seen their relationship coming for forever. It’s a slow-burn, best-friends-to-lovers type of romance. The cutest (and most infuriating?) kind.

Peter shoots a not-so-subtle glance at James, and I thrust out a hand toward him and hurry to say, before anyone jumps to wrong conclusions, “This is James. He’s . . . uh . . . a guy I met at the airport. Who I’m giving a lift to.”

Wrinkles creep up Peter’s forehead, and the formerly curious and optimistic look he was giving James goes immediately south.