Page 87 of Shut Up and Jingle Me
“Yeah,” I say, drying my hands on a dish towel. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Eli’s grin could light the whole damn kitchen. “You’re in for it now. They do whipped cream mountains and sprinkles like it’s a religion.”
I arch a brow. “Whipped cream mountains?”
“You’ll see.” He tosses the towel onto the counter and snags my wrist, tugging me toward the door with an energy that could drag the whole world behind it.
And as we follow his mom out into the cool Carolina night, I realize something I probably shouldn’t—something dangerous.
I want to belong here in his perfect little life. Every second here feels too easy. Too good.
And I’m starting to want it all.
The custard shop glows like a beacon on the corner of Main Street—red-and-green lights strung across the windows, holiday music spilling faintly through the open door. It smells like sugar and toasted waffle cones, like childhood summers pretending to last forever.
Inside, the place is packed, buzzing with chatter and laughter. Eli fits into it instantly. He waves to the girl behindthe counter, knows her by name, and orders like it’s a sacred ritual:peppermint swirl soft serve, extra whipped cream, and the biggest cone you’ve got.
I keep my order simple. Vanilla custard in a cup. Which earns me a look of pure betrayal.
“Boring,” he declares, grinning up at me. “You’re getting sprinkles.”
“I am not.”
He doesn’t listen. Of course, he doesn’t. By the time we reach the counter, he’s already charmed the server into dumping half a rainbow on my custard. His mom’s laughing, his dad’s shaking his head fondly, and his sister’s trying to take a picture of the entire thing.
I pay, because it feels like the only thing I can control, and follow them to a booth near the back. Eli slides in beside me, pressed close enough that our thighs touch.
“This,” he says around his first bite, “is the real South Carolina holiday experience.”
Ava—Mom—smirks. “The sugar rush is tradition.”
Jules grins. “You’ll know you did it right if you’re vibrating by the time we get home.”
I’m mid-laugh when Eli points his cone at me. “You’ve got a little something—” He gestures vaguely at his own chin.
Before I can grab a napkin, he leans in andlicksthe spot clean.
Right there. In front of his entire family.
“Mmmm, sweet,” he murmurs with a huge smile.
For a split second, the world freezes. I can feel every nerve in my body lock up, waiting for something—awkward silence, discomfort, maybe even disapproval or anger.
But it doesn’t come.
Instead, his mom bursts out laughing, his dad’s grin widens, and Jules cackles, clapping her hands.
“Well,” Brett says, voice full of humor, “guess we know who’s claiming that cone.”
My face is burning, but the sound—the warmth—it’s not mocking. It’s joy. It’s family teasing each other the way families are supposed to.
Eli leans back against me, smug and unrepentant. “Told you it’s part of the tradition.”
I can’t help it. I laugh. Real, unguarded laughter that shakes out of me like something I didn’t know I’d been holding in.
And when his mom slides her spoon into my cup for a taste, teasing me about “sharing nicely,” I let her. Because for the first time in a long damn while, I’m not braced for impact.
When I look down at Eli—his cheeks flushed, eyes shining—I know exactly why.
