Chapter 19 When In Rome
Claire
My brain feels like it’s in overdrive. Stella just disappeared before we could get any real information from her, leaving us with nothing but a piece of paper and more cryptic messages. I’m also in desperate need of coffee and, at this point, probably some food.
Exhaling, I fold the schedule and slip it into my coat pocket and remove the crown from my head.
“You want to go check out the coffee shop?” I ask, looking over at Everett as we move toward the front of the diner. His brow is knitted together and his hair falls messily across the top of this forehead.
“We can. What do you think the reporter being with SDN means?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think I’m right about falling in love?”
“I don’t know,” I repeat. “That was…”
“A lot?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, let’s get some coffee and then we can try to make sense of everything.”
“Table for two?” a woman standing behind us asks as Everett reaches for the door of the diner.
She can’t be over five feet tall, and her curvy frame is accentuated by the striped apron resembling a candy cane tied around her waist. Blonde hair highlighted pink hits right below her chin and brings out the rosiness of her cheeks.
“Oh…um…we were just heading out,” I say.
“Nonsense,” she says. “I heard you say you were grabbing coffee, and we have plenty. Plus we have food too, and I know Everett can always eat.”
He shrugs. “I am a little hungry.”
“Okay,” I agree, my eyes landing on the waitress’s name tag. “Thank you, Ruth.”
“Wonderful,” she sing-songs, grabbing two menus and then leading us to a booth where we slide in across from one another. “Two cups of coffee?”
“Please,” I say, perusing the menu. “Actually, I think I’ll try a gingerbread latte. That sounds good.”
“I’ll take one of those too.”
My eyes find Everett’s and narrow.
“Great, I’ll be right back.” She smiles at us both before heading toward the kitchen.
“A gingerbread latte?” I ask.
“When in Rome, right?”
“That’s rich coming from Scrooge.”
“Hey, just because I don’t love Christmas doesn’t mean I don’t like the drinks associated with it. I don’t know if you heard, but I was crowned the king of the Sugarplum Park Christmas Extravaganza a few moments ago, so I have to play the part, right?”
I roll my eyes and then drop them back to my menu. “I guess so.”
Ruth returns and sets the two drinks on the table.
They’re both topped with a heaping serving of whipped cream, shaved nutmeg, and a tiny gingerbread cookie.
His mug is shaped like some type of Christmas soldier, and mine is pink with the words Son Of A Nutcracker printed across the front in different shades of green.
“Do you know what you want to eat, or do you need another minute?” she asks.
“Another minute, please,” I say.
Ruth nods and walks away.
Picking up the mugs, we both take a sip of our drinks. Ginger and molasses swirl across my tongue. It tastes like it was made by one of Santa’s elves, and honestly, the way our time here is going, I wouldn’t be surprised if we found out it had been.
Glancing up at Everett, I giggle at the white cream now covering his mustache.
“What?”
“You have a little whipped cream...” Standing slightly, I lean over the table and wipe my thumb across his lips, making him freeze under my touch.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have done that,” I stammer, sitting down and wiping my fingers clean with a paper napkin. “You’re perfectly capable of wiping your own face.”
“It’s okay.” He chuckles. “I liked it.”
There’s a beat of silence, and my eyes land back on my menu.
“Okay, you two,” Ruth chimes, walking back up to the table. “What can we get you?”
“I’ll have the eggnog French toast with a side of bacon.”
Ruth jots down my order and then looks at Everett.
“Two eggs over easy, bacon, and French toast.”
“Eggnog or plain?” Ruth asks.
“Surprise me.” He wiggles his eyebrows, laying on the charm.
She giggles, her cheeks turning a deep shade of pink. “Anything else?”
“Nope,” I say. “That’s all for now.”
She grabs our menus and walks away from our table. Crossing my arms, my gaze lands back on Everett.
“Copying my order is an improvement from the last time we ate together.”
“What are you talking about?” He shifts in his seat.
“You don’t remember stealing my food on our one and only date?”
“No, I don’t remember being a thief.”
“Oh, come on. You really don’t remember telling the waiter you didn’t want dessert and then proceeding to eat half of my crème br?lée.”
“Oh, you mean eating the dessert you ordered for us to share after I was a gentleman and let you order for the table?”
“What?” I gasp. “It wasn’t to share.”
“I’m a little offended,” he jests. “You’ve seriously thought for four and half years that I stole your dessert that night.”
“You did steal it.”
“The waiter brought two spoons.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Then where did the spoon come from?” He chuckles and lifts his brow.
“I can’t believe we’re arguing about this.” I run my hands through my hair. “We have such bigger problems.”
“You can admit I’m right.” He smirks.
“I think I’ll pass.”
“Suit yourself, but I think you’re going to start to realize I’m right about a lot of things. Like how I think you need to fall—”
“Don’t.” I hold up a finger. “That’s not how we’re going to get home.”
His face falls slightly before he sips his latte and clears his throat. Playing with the handle of my coffee mug, I contemplate our morning. The house. The wedding rings on my finger. The meeting. His insistence on us falling in love.
“Any ideas on how we get out of here then?” he asks.
A long sigh falls past my lips, and my head hits the back of the bench seat. “No, I was hoping Stella would be more helpful than she was.”
“Maybe I am right.” Everett huffs out a laugh as he looks down into his mug.
“Nice try, but if that was the case, I think love would’ve been mentioned.”
“It was mentioned. Remember?”
“No.”
“She said it’s the Sugarplum Park way to love one another.”
“I don’t think that’s what she meant.” I bite my lip. “What did she say after the meeting? Something about the key to it all being something.”
“Oh, when she was talking about judging the competition on Christmas Eve? I think something to the effect of giving into the magic and leaning into the spirit of the town.”
“Any idea what ‘spirit of the town’ means?” I ask, moving my head from side to side.
My phone chimes, and I look down to see a text.
The Naughty List
Aster:
I’m still laughing about Chip’s reaction to Lolly’s entry.
Aster? The flower shop owner.
Lolly:
I know. He’s insane. He was holding the article spotlighting my peppermint bark. He knew, but he just wanted to cause a scene. I swear he lives for trying to infuriate me.
Lolly? The candy store owner.
The women that waved.
Are they…my friends?
Aster:
So insane! Claire, it looks like you and your hubby have your work cut out for you.
Lolly:
For real! We looked for you outside Stella’s after the meeting, but you’d both disappeared. How are you feeling about having to judge this year?
Muting the text thread, I don’t respond. I can barely find people who want to be my friend in New York. The last thing I’m going to do is make friends with fictional people.
Nope. Not happening.