Page 49 of If Only In Our Dreams

Which was…apparently the kinda guy who bought a gallon of black paint from a hardware store so that I could fix up a haunted house for two funny little kids.

Rosie and Jane were hilarious.

They always had something to say—even without words. Sometimes it was as simple as a scathing, chubby-cheeked look. They were terrifying in their own way, and I loved them.

I loved them a lot.

Even before I found out they loved my music—which woah. Man. That had been…fuck. That had been so fucking sweet I could hardly breathe.

Gave me a pang when I realized I probably would’ve loved Bubs at this age too, all chubby-limbed and grouchy. It was a shame I hadn’t had the chance to really spend time with him.

I hadn’t realized what I was missing back then, but I definitely did now.

Maybe…I could negotiate more time to visit in my contract moving forward?

My term was up after the Christmas party in L.A. I was hosting. Nancy was already working on drawing up the new one. I could always call her and ask. It didn’t hurt. And besides, even though I wassupposedto be on vacation—she couldn’tactuallyget mad at me for calling about something work-related, right?

Ben had dropped me off at the hardware store after our impromptu cocoa not-date.

Everyone who had been at the shop had stared, and stared, and stared.

And some old lady sitting in the corner nodded at Ben with a slow, happy smile, wiped a tear, and said, “It’s about time!”

I wasn’t an idiot. But even I had a hard time piecing that one together.

Ben had just blushed bright red and steered us to the back corner of the room away from the eclectic mix of people—all staring. He hadn’t acknowledged their attention though, aside from the blush. He simply put his back to them, blocking me from view, and spent five minutes explaining to me why Belgian hot chocolate was superior to any other kind.

Apparently, he’d stumbled upon it when he lived in New York and never gone back.

The fact he was so opinionated about cocoa was fucking cute.

I mean…

What was he? Santa’s overgrown elf?

Maybe it was a Vermont thing. Seeing as the coffee shop was completely full of well-meaning Bellevillians. Maybe theyallloved cocoa? Like a collective hive mind of chocolate devotees.

Somehow I doubted that.

It was after dodging fifty questions about “the thing”—the toddlers would not let go of that secret once they’d caught scent of it, and two cups of Belgian cocoa, which was, absolutely, the best cocoa in the world, holy shit—that Ben had driven me back to Main Street and the hardware store I currently occupied.

He’d offered to wait and drive me home, but that was stupid as hell.

He had his little kids with him, and his house was right across the street from the hardware store. So I declined.

I’d already taken enough of their day. Didn’t want him, or the munchkins, to get sick of me.

So yeah. Me, a gallon of paint, and my phone were about to make the trek back to the B&B alone.

“Are you allergic to vacation?” Nancy’s voice was full of ire. Apparently, she could, in fact, be mad at me for calling. She picked up on the first ring, which was good for me because itgave me an excuse to set my paint bucket down and sit on it. Right at the end of the street.

“No,” I retorted. Except, I kinda was. “I just have a question.”

“Jesus Christ. What part of ‘get some rest’ and ‘do not call me for any reason other than death before December’ do you not understand?” Nancy huffed.

“Nancy—”

“I will fly out there andchainyou to a bed if I have to.”

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