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Chapter One
Noelle
My breath mists around my face as I wait for the little glowing man to tell me it’s safe to enter the crosswalk. Cautious drivers creep into the intersection, unable to see past the piles of snow heaped along the edges of streets.
With only five days left until Christmas, the downtown shoppers are out in force. I’m a few minutes late to meet my dad and his girlfriend for dinner at Lumino, the upscale fusion eatery that also happens to be my place of work.
It’s barely six o’clock in the evening, but it could just as well be midnight for how dark it is. The crosswalk sign dings. I make my way toward the enormous glittering tree at the top of Church Street.
Instrumental Christmas music fills the air, as multi-colored orbs glitter in the skeletal trees flanking the pedestrian-only pathway. As I approach the front of the restaurant, I can see through the glass panels that there must be at least a dozen people clustered in the atrium-style entryway. A man at the tail end of what looks to be a sizable party has turned himself into a human doorstop. If I were working tonight, I might feel inclined to ask him to pick a side. But tonight’s my first night off in over a week, so I’ll let my boss worry about the heating bill.
Rather than squeeze through the hungry hordes, I head around back toward the kitchen entrance. As I turn the into the alley, I’m blocked by a man and woman in the obvious throes of a heated argument, their faces hidden in shadow.
The woman hisses a string of words that I can’t quite decipher. The man sighs.
“I told you, Cara,” he says. “I don’t do relationships.”
Cara is one of our pastry chefs. She’s usually quick to smile and always humming, though she’s certainly not smiling now.
“How can you say that?” Cara says. “You’ve slept at my apartment every night this week.”
The guy shrugs. “I’m just being honest.”
I roll my eyes. At nineteen years old, even I can tell this guy’s a total fuckboy. Cara’s five years older than me. You’d think she’d know by now that guys whodon’t do relationshipsaren’t worth the ones and zeroes their two-a.m. text messages are made of.
Steam and all manner of delicious aromas billow into the alley from the doorway I’m trying to reach. As reluctant as I am to be at Lumino on my night off, I know the sooner I sit down, the sooner I can leave.
I clear my throat. “Excuse me.”
Cara and her reluctant companion turn to look at me—and I immediately cut her about ten miles of slack for being so damn pathetic.
The man’s ocean-blue gaze hits me, knocking the wind from my proverbial sails. Dark chin-length hair that’s just the right amount of messy frames a face coated with day-old scruff that does nothing to hide a square, sculpted jaw. His soft lips tilt higher the longer I look at him—and looking at him takes some effort, because he’s really fucking tall.
“Um, sorry,” I mumble, suppressing my lust so I can speak like a fully-functioning human. “Can I sneak past you guys?”
“Yeah,” Cara says self-consciously. “Sorry, Noelle.”
They step aside, giving me room to pass.
The closer I get to the man, the younger he appears, though he has to be at least twenty-five. In the span of a few seconds, he’s mapped out my open mouth, my windswept hair, and the faux-fur neckline of my wool coat. I swallow hard as I angle past him, catching a spicy whiff of his cologne, married with the sweet scent of chocolate from Cara’s uniform.
I extend a silent apology to my co-worker. She probably went into it thinking she could have one slice of this stupid-hot beefcake and leave it at that. But as with potato chips and chocolate truffles, the craving doesn’t go away after one bite. It gets stronger.
I won’t be the least bit surprised if I slip off to the ladies’ room later and discover my panties have literally melted into my tights.
As I reach the open door, I tell myself not to glance back, but it’s like my neck has a will of its own. The man watches as I slip into the kitchen, my mind and body reeling from his presence like a shot of something strong.
I make a mental note to ask whoever’s bartending tonight to fix Cara a double of whatever she usually orders.
I hustle through the kitchens to the front of the house. More than one of my co-workers asks what the hell I’m doing here on my night off. My boss, Ken, and my dad are old college buddies. Ken always gives my dad the friends-and-family discount whenever he’s in town. Never one to refuse a deal, my dad refuses to dine anywhere else.
Who cares if there are better restaurants in Burlington, or that I might appreciate a change of scenery? Ken’s going to knock ten percent off a twelve-dollar plate of overcooked calamari.
For the record, I never wanted to rely on my dad's connections to land a job. But getting a manager at a high-end restaurant to take you seriously when you're nineteen, with only seasonal ice-cream gigs behind you, is virtually impossible. I applied to over a dozen restaurants before caving and calling Ken, who hired me on the spot. I could’ve settled for a job at a diner, but after seeing the fat wads of cash my roommate was bringing home every night in tips, I decided to hold out for a place with cloth napkins.
I catch sight of my dad and his girlfriend, Miranda, at our usual table and make my way over. His hair is shorter than I’ve seen it in a while, buzzed almost to his scalp. Probably Miranda’s doing, or maybe he noticed his hairline receding and decided to literally cut his losses. He and I don’t look very much alike at first glance, but if you squint you can tell we have the same nose and mouth. I got my mom’s green eyes and sandy-blonde hair, but managed to dodge the lone dimple on the right side of her face when she smiles.
I’ve only met Miranda once, last September, shortly after they started dating. My first thought upon meeting her was, holy shit, this woman is gorgeous. Dark hair and eyes to match, high cheekbones, and only slightly overlined lips. She’s a bombshell, which of course led me to think she could probably do a hell of a lot better than my dad.
