Chapter 9
Lauren
I can’t get a read on him.
While I have a feeling Caleb needs to be nudged into leaving his comfort zone, it’s hard to tell when I’m going too far. That man has an incredible poker face, all hardened jaw and perpetual frown, and I’m not trying to make him hate me.
Yes, his café could use some holiday cheer. After all, every other store in Wayward Hollow is decorated, with thick pine garlands and the most adorable images sprayed on their windows with fake snow.
Also, I need a break from home. The cats are now climbing any and everything, and it’s stressing me out. Not because I fear they’ll break something, but because I never know where they are and am scared to sit on them accidentally.
But if Christmas decor genuinely gives him the heebie-jeebies, I’ll stop.
I got an idea.
“You know,” I say, and slowly walk around the counter to him. “When I was five, my grandpa and I had this little inside thing. If one of us said our code word ‘cabbage,’ the other person would have to tell the truth. No matter what.”
I stop right in front of him and tilt my head back to watch his face. He stares right into my eyes, his eyebrow twitching as he tilts his head slightly to one side.
“I think we should establish one, too. What do you think about ‘Snickerdoodle’?” I cock my head slightly and tap my lip. “Yes, that’s perfect.”
“Why on earth would I agree to that?” Caleb asks, crossing his arms in front of his chest. It’s a gesture I’ve seen him do often, usually when he’s uncomfortable or angry. His voice is steady, though, as calm as always. That rules out anger.
“Because you,” I tap my index finger against his chest, “have a handsome, albeit impenetrable poker face and I’m trying to be a good friend and not cross any hard boundaries while trying to get you to expand your comfort zone.
” The word ‘friend’ tastes wrong as it comes over my lips.
But he doesn’t know yet that his gruff voice makes my heart flutter.
Or that I’ve spent an unhealthy amount of time imagining how it would have been like to kiss him.
Now it’s too late to take it back, though. “And I’ll be honest with you too.”
“Please.” He scoffs and rolls his eyes. “You’re a horrible liar, anyway.”
My lips stretch into a grin. “Am I?” I arch my eyebrow provocatively.
“Or did I want you to think that? Remember - I used to be an award-winning actress.” I take a step back and lean against one of the cupboards he has behind his counter and plant my hand on my hip.
Now it’s my turn to give him the best poker face I can manage.
His eyes roam over my face, searching for the slightest reveal or cue that lets him call my bluff. He won’t find one.
It’s a skill I’ve trained over the years. When you have to shoot a scene while your friends try to make you laugh behind the camera, you quickly get your expression in check. Who knew it would come in handy outside of acting?
“Cross your heart. Are you truly against Christmas decorations?” I ask him, trying to find any shift in his expression that would reveal his real stance.
“You could do with some holiday cheer, but if it will make you hate me, I will pack those boxes right back up and leave.” My eyes wander around the room, the silence stretching.
Then my eyes jump back to him and narrow. “Snickerdoodle.”
I can see him tense. His shoulders tighten and his jaw clenches as thoughts race through his head. The air stands still between us; the only sounds I hear are a car driving by and a low hum from his kitchen.
“It’s not going to make me hate you,” he finally admits in a whisper, pinching the bridge of his nose, and I let out a breath of relief.
“Great!” Tension rolls off me, and I turn around, trying to hide my smile from him. But there’s a spring in my step as I walk over to the first box and pull it open. “Then go get your ladder, please. We have some garlands to hang up.”
When he returns with a ladder only two minutes later, I have already hijacked his stereo, connected it to my phone, and pressed play on a Christmas playlist that has been on repeat in my house for the past week.
“Seriously?” He stops in his tracks when the first notes of “Last Christmas” fill the café.
“Come on, it’s a fun Christmas song. Take a deep breath and embrace it.”
I grin and pull out the first still-boxed-up garland.
No idea how I’ll get them back into storage once Christmas time is over, but that’s a problem for future Lauren.
The store Nic and I went to had a sweet 3-for-2 deal on garlands, and I might have gone a little crazy with my shopping, unfortunately for Caleb.
“Where do you even want to put them?” He casts a puzzled glance around his café, his hand idly fiddling with the seam of his beanie.
“Oh, I have a vision,” I tell him and point over my shoulder to his front door. “Let’s put the first one along your door frame. It’s going to be great!”
He shakes his head but carries the ladder over there. Before I can attempt to climb it myself, he’s already on the top step. Wordlessly, he reaches out his hand — demonstratively avoiding eye contact.
“Give it here.” Grinning from ear to ear, I sashay over to him, hand him the hammer from the counter along with a few nails and watch him pound them into the door frame.
Once he’s done, I hand him the green faux-pine garland, and then dance right back to the box and carry the decorations for it over.
“Okay, I think that should do it,” he mumbles around a nail between his lips.
“You look se - I mean the garland looks great.” I gulp. There’s something about seeing him on a ladder, focused crease between his eyebrows and taking the nail from between his lips.
Goddamn. What is it about men hammering that has me all but ready to jump them? Or is this a Caleb-exclusive sensation?
Maybe I should get Kieran to build one of my bookshelves. Just to have data to compare.
Then again, he’s the kind of guy who would probably choke on a nail if he kept it between his lips, and I quite like him as a friend. Guess I’ll have to think of something else.
Caleb gives the box in my hands a skeptical once-over, then exhales a loud sigh and extends his hand. One by one, I hand him plastic baubles and other little ornaments to hang on the garland, topping it off with a giant bow.
He might pretend he’s not having fun, but I can see the corner of his mouth twitch as I sing along to Mariah Carey, though very badly in comparison, then dance around the room to Jingle Bells.
The next garland lines his counter. There are enough for one more on the menu board behind it. Another four to line each of the windows. While he puts on the baubles, I place pine arrangements with fake candles at the centers of each table.
“It looks so good!” I say cheerfully and sink onto one of his chairs for a short break, stretching out my legs and letting my eyes roam the room as he climbs down the ladder.
Yes, I like it. It’s slowly coming together, and it's even cuter than I imagined. He folds the ladder together and leans it against one of his windows for later, then takes a seat next to me.
“What do you think?”
“It’s okay, I guess.”
I watch him from my periphery.
“Why do you not like Christmas?” The question comes out in a whisper.
It feels wrong to ask, the words bitter on my tongue, but I can’t stop myself.
“You don’t have to answer,” I quickly add when he tenses.
“I’m just curious. I mean, I love Christmas — how everyone comes together to do good, the cookies, the holiday decorations, it makes me happy.
I don’t understand what could make someone hate that.
But you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. Pretend I never asked.”
He remains silent, his heavy breaths the only sound filling the room. “Okay, tell me more about the Christmas market.” I change topics. “Nic and I-”
“It was Christmas time when she left,” he mumbles, and a cold fist grips my heart. His voice is barely above a whisper, but the pain in it knocks the air out of my lungs. Slowly, I turn my head to him.
“Who?” I ask softly, fighting the urge to reach out.
“My mom,” he finally mutters, then jumps up from his chair, twisting away from me and walking to the counter with quick steps. I can only watch after him, too stunned to react.
What?
So many questions race through my head, my heart breaking for him. When did that happen? What would lead to that? How old was he?
“I’m sorry, Caleb,” I whisper, but he shakes his head and clears his throat.
“Forget I said that.” He grabs the ladder and unfolds it again, quickly climbing the steps and holding out his hand. "Get the next one over here."
“Okay,” I whisper and pick up the box to set it on the table closest to him. He hammers the nails into the frame without another word. When the time comes for me to hand him the garland, I softly close my fingers around his wrist.
“If you ever want to talk about it—” I wait until his head turns around. “I’m here.”
“Are you?” he asks with such heaviness in his voice it makes my breath hitch, and such skepticism and sincerity in his eyes I almost forget how to breathe.
“Yes.”
His eyes say he doesn’t believe me. I guess I’ll need to prove him wrong.