Chapter 5
five
. . .
Wells
Saved By the Grump
Everything in this damn town is decked out in Christmas, and it’s only been December for about five whole minutes.
I’m not anti-Christmas. I don’t… hate it. I mean, what kind of guy would I be if I hated the happiest holiday in the world?
I’m just impartial. Really impartial.
The last ten years of my life have been spent playing professional hockey, and Christmas represents one of the two days that the NHL gave us off during the season.
Now, it’s just a staunch reminder that I no longer have a career to return to. There will be no getting on a plane after Boxing Day to head to the next game.
I’ll be here in Mistletoe Falls while my friends and teammates are heading back out to fight for a chance to take home the Stanley Cup.
It still feels like I should be there, even though this is the second year that I won’t be.
If it were at all up to me, then I’d skip over all of it. The decorations, the events, the holiday cheer. Christmas as a whole.
“Wells Jude McCoy, are you even listening to me?” My mother’s voice breaks through my thoughts, and I press the phone tighter against my ear as I step out onto the sidewalk in front of the bar.
“Yep. I’m listening.”
I glance down at the stack of envelopes in my hand addressed to Sweet Sullivan’s and fight the urge to groan just as I did when I discovered the post office had delivered their mail to my box by mistake.
I’m sure Rosalie Sullivan is going to love the fact that I’m going to be hand delivering them back to her, giving her another opportunity to accuse me of stealing mail.
For fuck’s sake.
Who returns something after stealing it?
“So, you’re going to be here, right?” Mom asks, and I blow out a sigh.
“Yeah, I’ll be there. Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Mom.”
I can practically see her smile through the speaker, and a pang hits me directly in the chest, adding to the guilt already piling up inside of me that the last place I want to be is stuck at my family’s cabin for three days, celebrating a holiday that I actually don’t give a shit about.
Listening to the constant barrage of questions about “When are you going to settle down and find a good girl, Wells?” and “Isn’t it about time that you gave me some grandkids? ”
I’d rather dip my balls in water and stick them to this frozen light pole if that were an alternative option.
“Oh, good. I can’t wait. I’ve already started planning activities, and your sister will email you the itinerary sometime this week.
I’m so excited, honey. It means so much to me that you’re going to be here this year.
” Her tone is soft and hesitant, but mostly hopeful in a way that only makes me feel even more guilty.
Last year, I wasn’t in the headspace to do anything but wallow in my self-pity during the holidays, so I stayed home in Vancouver. I knew it disappointed her and made her sad, but I also knew that it was the better option than her seeing me like that.
I didn’t want anyone to see me like that.
I put the mail under my arm and turn toward the candy shop. “I know. It’ll be great. I’m glad we’ll all be able to be together for the holidays.”
“Me too, Wells. I love you, honey.”
“Love you too. Talk to you soon.”
We end the call, and I shove my phone back into the front pocket of my jeans with a weary sigh. Regardless of how badly I don’t want to go to the annual McCoy Christmas, I’m doing it for her.
A few years ago, she had a health scare that rattled all of us and shook the core of our family. Even more than when I got injured and my career ended as a result.
It was the first time that it felt real that one day we’re going to have to live without our parents.
The days in the hospital, the follow-up appointments, the fear. It changed things in our family, and somehow, it brought us all closer. And now Mom’s only ask for Christmas? That we’re all under the same roof for three days, just spending time together.
I can survive a few days of Christmas activities.
I push open the door to Sweet Sullivan’s, the bell above my head jingling loudly as I step over the threshold and shut the door behind me.
Immediately, I’m assaulted by the smell of caramel hanging in the air, saccharine and overwhelming in a way that feels surprisingly comforting.
Nostalgic almost. It’s something I’ve gotten used to over the last couple of weeks while working on Well + Good.
The sweet smell permeates through the walls between our buildings, and my entire bar smells like candy.
At first, it annoyed me, mostly because all I could think about after meeting Rosalie Sullivan was how goddamn sweet everything around her seems to be and how she couldn’t be any further from that.
She’s an enigma that I can’t seem to stop thinking about, and it’s driving me crazy that I can’t figure out why. What is it about her that’s filling up so much damn space in my head?
I spot her behind the counter, talking to a couple on the other side with a smile on her face that doesn’t reach her eyes. One that feels forced, somehow.
Not that I’ve been paying enough attention around town all of the times I’ve seen her to know what kind of smiles she has.
But then again, this one does not feel like the blinding bright one she gives the kid at Frosty’s when he hands over that disgustingly sweet coffee that she orders.
Or the one that she wears when she’s walking down Main Street with her best friend and they’re giggling about God knows what.
It wasn’t that I noticed everything about her, but this town is the size of a shopping mall—it’s hard to miss anything.
Rosalie has a striped red-and-white apron tied around her neck with the shop’s logo stretched across the center of her chest. The soft curls of her dark hair fall loosely around her as she lets out a fake, weirdly high-pitched laugh that has my brows pulling tight as I watch.
Her fingers fly to her hair, and she picks up a strand, twirling the end through her fingers as she babbles on, and now that I’m closer, I can hear the conversation.
She’s so focused on the two standing across from her that she hasn’t even realized I’m here, which feels a bit concerning for her self-awareness after that loud-ass bell jingled when I entered.
Is she not paying attention like that when the store is open late at night and she’s here all alone?
Fuck, Wells, why are you worried about what the girl does? Your business is on the other side of that wall, not here. Not her.
“Yeah, it’s been a long time. Um.” Rosalie laughs awkwardly again, her throat moving in a rough swallow. “And this is…”
The guy standing across from her nods, reaching out to place his hand along the small of the woman’s back. “This is my fiancée, Jessica.”
The look on Rosalie’s face is immediate, her eyes widening, the flush on her cheeks staining even darker pink, her gaze bouncing back and forth between the two of them. “Your… fiancée?” Her voice is a squeak, and now I’m fully invested.
Clearly, this is not a comfortable conversation for her. I shift on my feet, and finally, her panicked eyes flick to mine, widening ever so slightly at the realization that I’m here, but she quickly turns her attention back to the girl when she starts babbling.
“Yes! We actually just got engaged over Thanksgiving at this breathtaking cabin in Vail. Bradley got on one knee in the middle of the ski slopes and proposed to me, right in the middle of the snow,” the woman says, looking over at him and lifting her hand to cradle his cheek before extending the same one out toward Rosalie and wiggling her fingers.
“It was the most romantic moment of my life. He picked out the exact ring I had always envisioned for myself. It was just like fate, honestly.”
Rosalie hums awkwardly as she looks down at the ring, her eyes nearly bulging out of her head.
That ring is a fucking tragedy, if I’m being honest. Sure, it’s a rock that probably cost a fortune, weighing down her finger, but it’s also gaudy, flashy in a way that you know is only for the benefit of others and not her.
“Listen, I know that we had a bit of a messy breakup, but I’d really love for that to be water under the bridge,” the douche canoe with his loafers and too-tight chinos mutters to Rosalie.
Oh, fuck. This guy is her ex?
No wonder she looks like she’s currently the recipient of a colonoscopy. This idiot brought his fiancée in here to what… rub it in her face?
At least that’s the way it seems to be from where I’m standing.
What a motherfucker.
Before Rosalie even has a chance to say anything back, he continues yapping. “Jessica and I had a really long, vulnerable discussion about our pasts and how we want to go into our marriage with only happiness and nothing to hold us back. It was actually her idea to come in here today.”
Yeah, I bet it was.
Rolling my eyes, I lean against the glass display, crossing my arms over my chest as I watch this shitshow unfold.
“I’ll just ask it,” his fiancée says brightly, tossing her long, sleek blonde hair over her shoulder flippantly.
“We wanted to know if Sweet Sullivan’s would be willing to cater our engagement party in a couple of weeks?
I know it’s a bit last-minute, but we’re only in town until Boxing Day for the party and to spend the holidays with Bradley’s family.
And honestly, I couldn’t think of anyone better.
Or anything more, you know… full circle to have this happen? ”
Rosalie’s face turns white, or maybe even a little green tinted, like she’s going to puke on the two standing across from her.
“You make the most incredible sweets in the entire town, Rosalie. No one else will be able to do it on such short notice,” Douchebag adds. “C’mon, for old time’s sake?”
“I-I—” she starts, then stops, her lips snapping back together as she swallows, and her gaze darts to mine, only for a second, before she looks back at him. “I… I guess, I don’t kn—”
“It would mean the world to my parents too,” the guy cuts her off, pasting on a smile that can only be described as predatorily fake.
“You know how much they support this little business of your family’s when they can.
My father’s running for mayor again this year, and I think he’s been discussing the campaign with your grandfather.
They were worried that things might be awkward, but I assured them that you were the bigger person, and it wouldn’t be an issue.
I told Mom, of course Rosalie wouldn’t be hung up on a silly past relationship. It wasn’t ever that serious.”
Jesus, this guy’s a fucking prick.
Rosalie’s face is stricken as her eyes turn watery, and fuck, I can’t watch this guy do this shit to her.
I have no fucking clue what I’m doing, but what I do know is that I can’t stand here and watch her be subjected to this shit any longer. I’m a dick sometimes, but I’m not that much of a dick.
“Hey, baby,” I murmur roughly as I walk around the counter to Rosalie and slip an arm around her waist, tugging her gently against my side. “Sorry I’m late. My run took forever. You kept me up so late last night, I’m fucking exh—”
A throat clears, and I look away from Rosalie’s wide, now surprised gaze to the dumbass standing across from us. “I’m sorry, who are you? We’re in the middle of a conversation?”
Chuckling, I extend my hand over the counter toward him. “Oh, sorry. I’m Wells, Rosalie’s boyfriend.”
She stiffens slightly beside me as I say it, and then I feel a sharp pinch beneath the counter on the outside of my thigh, causing my grin to widen. I bump my foot against hers, hopefully telling her to play the fuck along with it.
“Oh… I didn’t know you were seeing anyone, Rosalie,” Douchebag mutters, but still slides his clammy, way-too-soft palm into mine. I somehow resist the urge to roll my eyes. “I’m Bradley Ashford. An old fr—”
“Ex-boyfriend. Of a silly past relationship, of course. That’s why I never mentioned it, you know, because it wasn’t anything serious,” Rosalie says, cutting him off, her brow arched.
Her voice is suddenly strong and unwavering, and fuck if I’m not proud.
It’s like she’s snapped out of whatever trance of shock she was just in.
“I’m sorry I didn’t mention it before now.
Um… I didn’t think it was important. Bradley lives in New York now. I think?”
I drag my gaze from her back to her ex, whose gaze turns icy. “Los Angeles.”
Apparently, this is exactly what Rosalie needed to regain her footing. She smirks, rolling her lips together. “Oh, sorry.”
“That’s sweet of you to cater their engagement party, baby,” I say, looking over at Rosalie. I lift my fingers to her chin and tip it up. “That’s my girl. Always being charitable to those in need.”
My other hand is at her waist, pulling her tightly against me.
Douchebag’s fiancée squeaks, and we both promptly ignore it, tuning the both of them out. Or, at least, I do.
Mostly because this gorgeous girl is in my arms, her pretty eyes holding mine, and I like the way that feels a little too much.
Her soft, warm body plastered against me, the sweet, sugary smell of her filling my nostrils, her chest rising and falling as if she’s just as affected by the proximity as I am.
Surprising the hell out of us both, I’m sure. I can’t be the only one.
“So you will cater the engagement party?” he asks, interrupting the moment. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing at this point, but I’m going with the latter since the last thing I need is to get tangled up in her.
Rosalie glances at him, then back up at me, chewing the corner of her lip as if she’s truly contemplating it, until finally she pastes on a smile and looks over at him. “Of course. I’d be happy to. You’re right, the past is the past, and I’m glad that it was so insignificant for the both of us.”
I bite back a grin when his eyes narrow slightly, but he pastes on a smile. “Good. Good. That’s perfect. Jessica will email you all the details. You know, you should both come to the party. It’ll be great for everyone to see us make amends, Rosalie. It’s something to celebrate.”
With a wink, he grabs his fiancée by the arm and tugs her behind him, literally hauling her out of the store like she’s a child, leaving me and my infuriatingly sexy neighbor, who I can’t decide whether I want to kiss or choke, alone in a heavy, strained silence.
The second the door shuts behind them, that fucking bell jingling loudly above it, she turns to me.
“What the actual fuck was that, Wells!”