on the way to his wheezing red pickup truck.
I walk with my head down, my mittens stuffed deep in my jacket pockets.
I walk with my hat pulled down over my ears and my scarf wound tight around my neck.
I walk until my boots no longer scrape because of the snow on the sidewalk and my stomach starts rumbling.
I think of Mom and the cooling sauce pan full of hot chocolate back home, of the champagne we were saving until midnight but that she’ll no doubt drink with Derek in front of the tree and lift my head.
As if by magic, I’m standing in front of the only store still open in Snowflake at this hour: Books ‘n Beans.
Inside the cozy little A-frame bookstore-slash-coffee shop a warm fire beckons, books galore line the handmade wooden shelves and an array of seasonal treats await alongside a dozen varieties of hot, fresh coffee!
I stamp my feet to get the circulation going again and reach for the door handle, just as a looming shape appears, hands reaching for the “Open” sign.
“Sorry, miss,” says a youngish voice that sounds vaguely familiar, not bothering to look down at me. “We’re closing up for the night.”
“Seriously?” I snort, spotting chipped nails bitten to the quick as they hesitate on the sign. “It’s frickin’ freezing out here!”
“Rio?” asks the voice hesitantly, dropping the sign and opening the door. “Is that… you?”
I look up, pausing until the “Jingle Bells” door chime stops blaring in my ear and smile.
“Jory?” I croak, marveling at my luck.
I mean, I ask you: who else stumbles on the only store still open in town and the last person she wants to see in town, all standing in the same doorway?
Jory hustles me in, and I can’t tell if he smells like cinnamon or if it’s just the whole store.
He locks the door behind me, flips the “Open” sign over to “Closed” and stands back, as if he was creeping too close.
“I thought you were away at Salsbury Academy for Wayward Girls,” he grins, leaning behind the counter to shut off the lights.
“I was and… what are you doing?”
He waves a hand in the international gesture for “ignore what I’m doing” and says, “Nothing, I was just supposed to close an hour ago but these last-minute shoppers wouldn’t leave me alone. ‘Do you have this in hardback?’ ‘Don’t you have any more of these?’ ‘Well it was here yesterday!’ So… I’m just done dealing, you know?”
I snort and stare out the floor-to-ceiling windows – more like walls, actually – on either side of the mostly glass front door.
“And so… what, are you planning on hiding the entire time I’m in here?”
He snorts his old snort and says, “Who cares, as long as the lights are out and the door’s locked. I wasn’t supposed to be working tonight anyway.”
Books ‘N Beans is warm and sultry inside, cinnamon and coffee and chocolate smells oozing from the café side to my right.
I kind of shuffle in between the bookstore side and the café side, uncertain as to why Jory would let me in after what I did to him.
But he did and I’m here and he must not hate me too bad because he’s not reaching behind the cash register for a gun or anything.
And even if he was, I’m so hungry and aching for a cup of coffee, I might not even care.
He sees me biting my lip and eyeing the bakery display hungrily and says, “Oh, what? You’re gonna make me keep working?”
I laugh to hide my nervousness and follow him as he shuffles over in his adorable little green Books ‘N Beans apron and fluffy red Santa hat.
“Just a little,” I say, sliding out of my backpack and taking off my mittens to reach inside.
The card from Aunt Hazel has the usual $20 inside.
I smile and look up at the menu board.
There are a million and one different combinations to choose from, from mocha mint to pumpkin latte to cinnamon shakes and hot apple cider with cinnamon sticks.
I don’t know where to start.
I’d love a cinnamon shake, but these chocolate-colored leggings are snug enough as it is.
So what about a pumpkin latte?
But no, that’s—
“Hey,” I say as he slides over a giant red mug covered in white snowflakes. “I didn’t even order yet.”
“Trust me,” he says knowingly, lifting his own matching mug up to his thin, pale lips. “It’s the Snowflake Special; you’ll love it.”
I raise it to my own lips, see a thin layer of whip cream on top, with what looks like cinnamon and nutmeg sprinkled on top.
So far, so good!
I taste and it’s… it’s… liquid heaven!
“Is that…?” I begin to ask.
“Two parts hot chocolate and one part hot coffee, winter blend. You can thank me later!”
There is a padded stool to my left and I just sort of… melt… into it, kind of the way the Snowflake Special is melting my insides into a glittery goop of goodness.
Jory snorts, satisfied that he’s made the right choice, and starts snatching pastries, cookies and other assorted treats from the bakery window beneath the counter.
He shoves a plate full of them in between us and reaches for the biggest gingerbread man cookie I believe I’ve ever seen outside of a kids’ holiday cartoon.
It rests gingerly in his long, pale fingers and I smile.
“I only have $20 on me,” I confess.
“So?” he snorts, spraying gingerbread in every direction.
I duck for cover and say, “Well, you’ve just plated about $200 worth of goodies.”
He shrugs and slides the plate a little closer, eyeing me as I gaze longingly at a scrumptious cinnamon and pumpkin scone.
“We’re not open tomorrow anyway,” he confesses. “And I’ll just have to throw them out on the 26th so… either we eat this stuff now, or some raccoon’s going to be very happy when he snuggles up in the dumpster later tonight.”
I shrug and reach for the scone.
It’s so delicious, I don’t even care if I make not-so-silent moaning noises as I inhale it in three large bites.
“Hungry much?” he snorts, he of the two giant gingerbread cookies rounding on his third.
“Yeah, well, I was supposed to have this awesome prime rib dinner and champagne with my mom tonight, but… she had her stupid boyfriend over and I was so ticked I let without eating.”
He nods, looking over my shoulder.
“Why do you think I’m working on Christmas Eve?” he kind of shrugs after swallowing his cookie. “Dad took his new family on a cruise and left me to hold down the fort here in Snowflake.”
I look over the giant lip of my giant cup and ask, “You still call them his ‘new’ family? I mean, didn’t he get remarried, like, five years ago?”
He smiles and says, “Look at you. Didn’t your Mom and Derek start dating, like, two years ago?”
“Uhhm, no,” I correct him. “Two Christmases ago she was dating, let’s see, Willem. And then last year it was Crandall, so Derek is actually ‘new’ new, but thanks for playing.”
“Anywhatever,” he snorts, not smiling and not quite frowning, either. “I’m just saying; it gets complicated when your folks break up.”
“Especially around the holidays,” I add, looking down at the exquisite nutmeg and cinnamon layer of cream coating my tasty coffee concoction.
I’m about to open my mouth and add something more when a knock shatters the otherwise silent store.
“Dang!” we both say at the same time, sloshing Snowflake Special all over the counter as we bolt upright at the noise.
“I told you, didn’t I?” he spazzes, hustling out from behind the bar and walking a few steps to the door.
Jory is about 6’2” and 180-pounds, which tonight is poured into wheat-colored chords and a red and white rugby shirt with a tattered collar.
“We’re closed,” I hear him saying through the glass, then a muffled voice fro
m outside says something I can’t understand, to which Jory says, “No, she’s not a customer and no, we’re not open and no, that’s not a Snowflake Special in her hand.”
More muffles and Jory says, “Goodnight, Mrs. Johnson. And Merry Christmas to you, too! What’s that? Well, that’s not very Christmassy, is it now?”
I inch over just a smidge to peer out the window and see a very large, very angry woman stomping away in the snow toward a BMW parked at the curb, wagging her middle finger inside an expensive leather glove as she hoists a large Gucci bag over her shoulder.
“Nice,” I say, dabbing at the last of the Snowflake Special with, what else, a snowflake covered napkin.
“What’d I tell you?” he says, standing near me impatiently.
“What?” I ask, turning around in my stool to look up at him. “You’re kicking me out now?”
“No,” he says, blushing slightly. “It’s just, it’s harder for customers to see you if we… if we sit over by the fireplace.”
I follow his gaze to a secluded corner with three leather chairs and a circular, kind of modern coffee table covered in books and magazines.
I nod and shrug at the same time, not wanting to seem too eager, and follow him over.
I still can’t figure his game.
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