Page 49 of Pining for Christmas

Psycho, she called me. Because of that game, but still.

Does Noelle believe that? Does she think there’s something seriously wrong with me, all because I’m not… socially gifted?

I’d hate that. I’d really hate that.

We pass a coffee shop with steamed windows and laughter seeping out through the glass. When someone opens the door and spills out onto the street, a bell tinkles and we’re hit with a misty, coffee-scented cloud.

Noelle moans, lusting shamelessly after her afternoon caffeine fix.

“On our way back,” I find myself promising, even though it will mean spending more time in this godforsaken snow globe. “We’ll stop in there before we leave.”

Noelle gives me a cautious smile. Her cheeks are pink from the cold.

The diner windows are fogged over too, and when I open the door for Noelle, we’re hit with a wall of heat and laughter. The conversation is loud, almost deafening after the muffled quiet of the street, and my headache squeezes my temples. The air tastes like oregano.

“In that booth at the back.” Guiding Noelle gently between tables, I glare at anyone who dares to stare at her too long. Yes, she’s beautiful, the most beautiful woman in the world, but they can still put their tongues away. “The older gentleman.”

“The silver fox,” Noelle murmurs, so quiet only I can hear, and I want to both laugh and punch the wall. “Haven’t you seen a nature documentary, boss?”

At least she’s teasing me again. That’s something, right?

“I missed that special. Watch that step.”

I don’t take my hand off her back until we reach the booth.

“Merryweather.” Our client stands up, his smile broad, and pumps my hand in a firm handshake. His beard is indeed tinted silver, trimmed close to the jaw, and he’s dressed in a pinstripe vest and white shirt. An honest-to-god pocket watch is tucked in his pocket, the chain dangling against his chest. When he nods politely at Noelle without reaching for her too, my shoulders relax an inch. “Ready to sue these motherfuckers into oblivion?”

So much for the genteel silver fox. As we shrug off our coats and all settle into the booth, getting acquainted, there’s a hungry glint in my client’s eye. Not for food, or even for Noelle, but for victory. It’s that corporate blood lust.

That’s why he hired me.Why he’s happy to pay a small fortune to get us out here, working his case.

I always win.

Always.

And Noelle is used to this posturing. Used to the testosterone that always seems to flood the table at these meetings, like we’re planning an actual battle rather than a lawsuit. She unfolds her laptop serenely, fingers poised and ready to take notes.

Ready to be everything I need, even if I never return the favor.

* * *

“You’re not happy,” Noelle observes several hours later, marching back along the snowy sidewalk with a take-out coffee cup clutched in her hands. The wind is stronger now, snowflakes stinging our cheeks, and we’re not wasting another minute in this town. Need to get home before the weather turns for the worse.

She’s wearing those mittens again today, the wool slipping around her cup, and I keep panicking that she’s going to spillscalding coffee all over herself.

Since when am I such a goddamn mother hen?

“Mm?”

“You’re not happy,” Noelle says again. Right. Yes. “Usually, after these meetings you’re all arrogant and puffed up. Ready to make some rich businessman cry.”

I rub my jaw, the day’s stubble rasping against my palm. My coat collar is turned up against the cold, but the wind slips inside my layers, chilling me from the inside. The sky is getting darker, clogged with black clouds. “Maybe all this festive bullshit is dampening my spirit.”

Noelle hums, genuinely sympathetic, and hooks her spare arm through mine. The wind gusts so hard, I have to hook her closer to keep her from staggering off the sidewalk.

When did the weather turn so badly?

Are we going to get home?

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