Page 34 of The Night Before Grumpmas
“These are sustainable silk,” the stylist explains as she places them on the floor for me to try on. “Prota Fiori, Juniper sandals. They’ll finish the look beautifully.”
I slip them on, the soft silk wrapping around my feet comfortably despite the height of the heel. I take a few steps, feeling how the dress moves with me, and glance back at Jacob. He’s still staring, his jaw clenched, his hands stuffed in his pockets as though he’s holding himself back.
“Well?” I ask, raising an eyebrow, half-expecting some gruff comment about how it’s “fine” or “good enough.”
But Jacob’s voice, when he finally speaks, is low, almost hoarse. “You look . . . stunning.”
I blink, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. “Really?”
He nods, his gaze never wavering. “Yeah. It’s . . . perfect.”
For a moment, everything else fades away. The grumpiness, the sarcasm, the bickering—it’s all gone, replaced by the quiet intensity in his eyes. And just like that, I realize that maybe, just maybe, this is more than a dress, more than a gala and I don’t think I’m ready for any of it.
Chapter Eighteen
Noelle
Between yesterday and today,things have been . . . surreal. Yes, I think that’s the best way to describe them.
Yesterday evening, after Jacob and the stylists left, I stood frozen for what felt like hours, staring at the dress hanging on the back of my bedroom door. It was stunning. The kind of dress that made you feel like you belonged on a red carpet instead of some gala where you’d be doing everything but mingling with celebrities.
The stylist had outdone herself, picking the perfect outfit for me, right down to the shoes. She’d even left her card, saying, “Call me if you ever need me again,” with a wink. Yeah, right. Like I could casually afford another round of Cinderella makeover. The dress and those shoes probably cost more than my rent and utilities for the next few months combined.
I sighed and sank into the couch, already feeling the pressure of the upcoming weekend creeping in. It wasn’t just the dress or the gala. It was the apple-picking trip with him. Jacob McCallister.
His name alone makes my stomach twist, filling me with fluttering butterflies at the same time. I dread seeing him, yet I want to be with him so badly it’s ridiculous. The man is infuriating—grumpy, impatient, and always looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. But then there’s the other side of him and I’m not talking about the chiseled jawline that looks like it’s carved from marble, those piercing eyes that make you feel like he sees everything (and not in a creepy way), and the broad shoulders that could probably carry the weight of the world—and my tendency to overshare.
Why, why does he have to look like he walked straight out of a moody cologne ad or an expensive watch commercial?
Anyway, that’s not the side I’m talking about either. It seems like the grump next door is actually kind. Maybe his heart is not as small as I thought. Yesterday I found out while the stylist was finding me dresses that Jacob is one of the major sponsors of the Starlight Foundation’s gala. The brooding and impossible man has been silently sponsoring not only one of the biggest events of the foundation but also the foundation.
But even with all the new information and this unsettling shift from intolerable to maybe I’m crushing hard, I still plan to bail. I had it all worked out: leave the house early—around eight—and disappear until Sunday night. Problem solved, right? Can I pull it off? Probably not.
Why? Because Jacob McCallister shows up at my door way too early.
At seven.
Seven.
On a weekend. What is wrong with him?
I barely have time to process the knock before I open the door, and there he is—towering over me with a steaming cup in hand, looking annoyingly picture-perfect.
“Morning,” he says, his voice still rough around the edges but—dare I say—almost pleasant. It’s a strange and unsettling combination.
“Brought you this,” he adds, and I swear there’s a faint smirk tugging at his lips. Not his usual arrogant, cocky smile—nope. This is a sincere, almost light smile, which I’m guessing he barely ever uses. “Figured you’d need something to wake you up for our trip.”
I blink, staring at him, trying to figure out his angle. Why is he being nice? What’s the catch? That’s when I realize he’s holding out a paper cup. “Gingerbread latte,” he says, and the comforting scent of cinnamon and nutmeg hits me as he hands it over.
I hate how much I love how good it smells—and worse, how swoony I feel over the fact that he brought me something other than his usual black coffee with a shot of espresso. Since when does he know my drink order?
I glance down at the cup, then back up at him, completely thrown off. Is he okay? Am I still asleep? Is this a nightmare or one of those hot dreams I’ve been having where he suddenly kisses me, and we end up naked against a wall doing very, very nice things?
Since he’s standing a good few feet away from me, I realize this is definitely not one of those dreams. So, I say, “Uh, thanks.” Still half-expecting him to lash out at me for something. Maybe criticize my choice of pajamas—unicorns in a winter wonderland, classy—or lecture me on punctuality, even though we never agreed on a time to meet.
Instead, he leans casually against the doorframe and gives me a slow once-over. “Why don’t you get ready so we can leave early?”
“I . . . you’re too early,” I point out, realizing he looks like a walking ad for fall in the woods. Dark wool coat, scarf, and somehow his perpetual scowl has transformed into sexy brooding. Great. Just great.
