Page 35 of The Night Before Grumpmas
He shrugs, that smirk still lingering. “Figured you’d try to escape, like you’ve been doing all week. Thought I’d beat you to it.”
I groan internally. Of course he did. He’s not just grumpy—he’s annoyingly perceptive. But I’m not about to let him know he’s probably right. Instead, I give him an innocent look and bat my eyelashes. “Me? Escape? You must have me confused,” I lie, taking a sip of the latte and looking away, hoping he can’t tell when I’m bluffing. I’d rather not give him the chance to figure out my tells.
And, damn it, the latte is perfect. Not too much nutmeg, just the right amount of cinnamon. Traitorous taste buds. I should hate it, if only because he’s the one delivering it, but nope. It’s delicious, and I love it.
“Like I’m going to believe you weren’t planning on avoiding me again,” he mutters, that smirk growing into something dangerously close to a grin. “You’re under watch for the next twenty-four hours, or at least until we’re back from the gala. Now, go get ready. I’ll wait.”
I hesitate for a second, then step aside to let him in. He moves past me with that calm, brooding air, settling by the door like he owns the place. My living room suddenly feels a little too small with him in it, his presence somehow taking up more space than should be physically possible.
“You don’t have a Christmas tree,” he says, glancing around. “And aren’t the walls supposed to have wallpaper—old wallpaper?”
Of course, he had to point that out. Now I’m not sure what to address first: the missing Christmas tree or the lilac walls that look amazing with the new art I’ve hung up. Although, my grandma nearly had a heart attack when she saw it. Apparently, I was supposed to get it approved by the owner first. The good news? The owner never comes by. The bad news? With my luck, he might knock on my door right now and kick me—and my grandmother—out.
“Make yourself at home,” I say, avoiding both observations. My voice comes out a bit more high-pitched than I’d intended, probably because I’m trying not to overthink the fact that Jacob McCallister is standing in my apartment at seven in the morning, looking infuriatingly good for someone so grumpy—and asking the questions I’d rather not answer.
I turn and head to my room to change, the soft hum of his breathing in the background making me oddly . . . giddy. I tell myself it’s just the caffeine kicking in, but deep down, I know better. This is fine. Totally fine. It’s just one day. One day with him.
What could go wrong?
As I pull out clothes, I catch myself smiling like an idiot. The thought of spending a whole day with Jacob—grumpy, annoyingly perceptive, secretly thoughtful Jacob—has my stomach flipping in ways I didn’t expect.
I slip out of my unicorn pajamas and quickly change into something more suitable: jeans, boots, a long-sleeve shirt, and my best attempt at a casual-yet-cute look, all while trying to suppress the little surge of excitement bubbling up inside me.
Get a grip. It’s just one day of apple-picking with Mr. Scowly. He’ll probably be growling at children in the middle of the orchard and reminding me he’s not the swoony kind. This whole flirty-latte attitude? Just a ploy to get me to the gala. But then again . . . why does he need me there?
I take a deep breath, smooth down my sweater, and glance at myself in the mirror. Okay, this is fine. Everything’s fine.
Surprisingly, the morning isn’t a disaster. Cedar Falls, a small town tucked away in the hills of upstate New York, is every bit as quaint as I’d hoped. The orchard sprawls out before us, rows of trees heavy with apples, their leaves glowing in warm autumn colors.
We wander through the orchard, baskets in hand, and—shockingly—Jacob isn’t awful company. In fact, he’s almost . . . charming. Sure, he still scowls at anything remotely cheerful—like the couple taking selfies in front of a particularly picturesque tree—but for the most part, he seems . . . relaxed. Or as relaxed as Jacob McCallister can get.
It’s surprising when he tells me he’s a sports agent, right after I ask what he does for a living. Honestly, I could’ve sworn he was some grumpy corporate lawyer or Wall Street douche. Apparently, he’s neither.
“So, most of your clients are athletes?” I ask, eyeing him as he expertly plucks an apple from a branch and tosses it into his basket, like he does this every weekend.
“Yeah. Hockey and football, mostly. Occasionally a tennis player or two.” He gives a small shrug, as if managing some of the most famous names in sports is no big deal. “It’s not as glamorous as it sounds. A lot of it is making sure they don’t end up on TMZ while also getting them the best contracts with their teams and sponsors.”
I laugh, picturing him dragging some quarterback out of a nightclub at three in the morning, scowl firmly in place. “So, you’re a glorified babysitter?”
“Pretty much,” he says, smirking. “But with better pay. I could let them be stupid and do whatever they want, but if they lose sponsorships, I lose money too.”
He says it so casually, like the only reason he cares about their behavior is the paycheck. But there’s something in his voice—almost like he’s not just in it for the money. I think there’s more to him than that, but I let it slide. For now.
“And here I thought you just loved torturing people with your grumpy moods,” I tease, raising an eyebrow. “Made me wonder if that’s what you did full time—scowl and yell at others.”
“Only with the ones who deserve it,” he shoots back, his smirk deepening, turning into something almost . . . playful?
What is happening here?
“Like me?” I poke him lightly, trying to steer us back to our usual dynamic. There’s something about the way he’s looking at me that’s throwing me off balance, and I don’t like it. Well, maybe I do. A little.
“No, like your holiday decorations,” he counters, shaking his head in mock exasperation. “The ones that made the building look like a horror movie and now have transformed it into Santa’s workshop. I swear, one day I’m going to come home and find myself recruited as an elf. And let me tell you, I’m no toymaker, Ms. Holiday.”
I gasp dramatically, placing a hand over my chest. “Excuse me, those decorations are festive and bring joy to an otherwise bleak world.” I give him a mock-serious once-over, pretending to study him. “Yeah, you wouldn’t make a good elf, you’re right. We’ll try to figure out what else you can do when Santa starts hiring again.”
He chuckles softly, the sound catching me off guard. It’s rare, but when he lets down his guard like that, it feels like the clouds parting after a storm.
“Yeah, well, we’ll see how much joy I have when I’m tripping over a stray reindeer on my way out the door,” he says, but there’s a lightness in his tone that wasn’t there before.
