Page 36 of The Night Before Grumpmas
I roll my eyes, grinning. “Maybe you just need more holiday spirit. A little cheer could do wonders for your permanent scowl.”
“I’ve got plenty of spirit,” he retorts, but his smirk fades into something softer. His eyes linger on me for a second too long, and I swear the air between us shifts, just slightly.
What’s happening here?
I blink, trying to shake off the sudden warmth spreading through my chest. It’s just one day of apple picking with Mr. Grumpy. That’s it. Right?
By the time we sit down for lunch at the orchard’s restaurant—a cozy spot with plaid tablecloths and the smell of freshly baked pies in the air—I’m starting to think maybe Jacob isn’t the total grump I’ve pegged him to be. He’s still him, of course—scowling, sarcastic, and effortlessly broody—but there’s something else there too. Something softer, almost . . . kind. Or maybe I’m just high on apple cider.
We order cider and pie—because how could we not?—and the cozy atmosphere starts to work its magic. The conversation flows a little easier, and I decide to dive into a topic that always makes me light up.
“So, I remember you mentioning you work for a nonprofit,” Jacob says, taking a sip of his cider, his eyes actually curious.
I nod, smiling a little. “Yeah, we support LGBTQ+ kids and teens in the foster care system. It’s a safe place where they can come for support—counseling, mentorship, even housing. A place to be themselves without judgment. Some foster parents even bring their kids to us regularly, so they have a community of people who understand what they’re going through. It’s like this great, big extended family, and we do whatever we can to make them feel seen.”
I pause, glancing at him to see if he’s tuning me out. But he isn’t. He’s watching me, actually listening.
“Right now, I’m planning a gala to raise funds for next year’s programs. It’s . . . a lot.” I let out a small laugh, shaking my head. “Between securing donors, organizing everything, and just trying to make sure we can keep our doors open . . . sometimes it feels like I’m drowning.”
Jacob leans back in his chair, his gaze steady. “Sounds like a hell of a responsibility. But it’s worth it, right?”
“Absolutely,” I say, meeting his eyes. “Every kid who walks through our doors knows they’re not alone. That someone cares. That’s why I’m pushing so hard for the upcoming gala. It’s on December twenty-third, if you want to, you know, invite anyone, buy a table for ten guests, or donate. Sorry, I’m here trying to sell you on this event, sometimes it’s hard to get my head out of the job.”
He nods, and for a second, his usual gruffness fades away. “I get it. It’s more than just a job for you.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, suddenly aware of how serious the conversation has gotten. I hadn’t expected to open up like this—especially not to Jacob. But here we are, and it feels . . . easy.
“So, what do you still need for the gala?” he asks, surprising me again with his interest.
I blink, a little thrown. “Well, we’re still trying to secure some big donors, selling tables, and I’m working on finalizing the auction items. There’s so much left to do, and we’re running out of time.”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just watches me, his brow furrowed slightly like he’s turning something over in his mind. Then, with a small shrug, he leans forward. “Let me know if you need help. With the auction or . . . whatever.”
I nod, a little too quickly, feeling that warmth in my chest flare up again. “Sure, I’ll keep that in mind.”
What is happening right now? A civilized conversation and he’s offering to help me. Should I pinch myself, am I dreaming?
By the time we leave the orchard, I can’t help but feel like something has shifted between us. Sure, he’s still grumpy, still Jacob. But maybe, just maybe, there’s more to him than scowls and sarcastic remarks.
Chapter Nineteen
Jacob
Tryingto focus on the meal is pointless when all I can think about isher. Noelle Holiday. For the first time in my life, I’m struggling to keep up with a conversation. It’s not that what she’s saying isn’t interesting—hell, everything about Noelle is interesting. She’s smart, funny, beautiful in this effortless way that drives me insane. And, yeah, she’s unpredictable—keeps me on my toes in ways I didn’t see coming.
She’s got this energy, like she’s constantly one step ahead of me, and I can’t help but admire it and want to catch up. The way she gets so passionate about things, how she throws herself into everything she cares about, her laugh—it’s contagious. And don’t even get me started on those damn eyes. One look from her, and I’m done for. She’s captivating as hell, and I hate it. But I also don’t.
I should totally blame her for this . . . whatever this is. She’s too fucking distracting. And I can’t stop thinking about yesterday’s realization. I’m blown away by it, actually. I never saw this coming. Seriously.
While I’m busy wondering if I can stop myself from crashing and burning, Noelle takes a bite of the apple pie, and a small smudge of filling sticks to the corner of her mouth. Without thinking, I grab my napkin and gently wipe it away.
She freezes, staring up at me with those wide eyes—those eyes that make everything around us fade out, like nothing else matters. The silence between us is almost deafening, and for a second, I wonder if she’s as thrown as I am.
I should be paying attention to what she’s saying, but I can’t. I’m too focused on her lips. I’ve been staring at them for way too long, imagining what it would be like to kiss her. To taste the sweetness of the pie lingering on her lips. To feel the warmth of her smile against mine. There’s a softness to her that pulls me in, makes me want to take care of her in ways I’ve never even thought about with anyone else.
And this isn’t new. No, I’ve wanted to kiss her since she tried on that damn dress she’ll be wearing to the gala tonight. Maybe even before that. Definitely before that. Probably somewhere between the first time she attacked me with her cinnamon candles and the moment she challenged me to stop being such a grump about holiday decorations.
Fuck, I hate to admit it, but Audrey wasn’t wrong. My sister has called me out on it more times than I care to count. “He doth protest too much,” she had said, smirking at me like she knew exactly what was going on in my head. “Thy hath a crush, brother dearest.”
