Chapter 13 Sustained #2
And now? Now my morning humiliation has gone mobile. Because as Jack and I stroll hand in hand through the market, I catch more than one sidelong glance. A whisper behind mittened hands. A raised brow from a crochet clubber nudging her friend.
It doesn’t take a degree in small-town anthropology to know exactly what’s happening: The rumor parade has officially left the café and marched straight into the Christmas market.
Catching me staring at the sparkly logo across his chest, Jack flexes like he’s auditioning for a holiday latte ad. “I feel like your town has sponsored me.”
I take an extra-long sip of cinnamon foam to hide my groan.
He grins like he won the lottery.
Another sip hides my matching smile.
The whole street hums with pedestrian traffic—parents with strollers crowd the stalls, the older kids not yet out of school, while a brass trio attempts “Deck the Halls” just off-key enough to be charming.
“Let’s head this way.” Jack gestures toward a booth where a woman stirs almonds in a copper kettle. “Always wanted to try those.”
Nodding, I toss my empty cup into a trash bin. Before I can tuck my hand into my coat pocket, Jack takes it in his own.
This time, there’s nothing to hide my smile.
Hand in hand, we pass the rows of wooden huts—one stacked high with mittens, another gleaming with carved ornaments, another fragrant with pine wreaths and beeswax candles. The glowing windows of Town Hall and the white stucco church frame the scene, wrapping the whole street in twinkle lights.
Jack buys us a paper cone of roasted almonds, still hot enough that he needs to juggle it between his hands before offering it like he’s presenting a winning case.
“Careful.” One side of his mouth kicks up. “This won’t be easy to lick off like your icing.”
Heat flickers low in my stomach, completely unrelated to the almond I pluck from the cone. It’s warm and sweet, but the taste is nothing compared to the look Jack gives me.
We keep walking, weaving past couples swinging shopping bags, kids sticky with candy canes, teenagers daring each other into wasabi popcorn. The brass trio stumbles into “Jingle Bells,” one note sliding sharp enough to make me wince.
At the end of the avenue, fudge is displayed in neat squares between nutcrackers, and my mind wanders to fudge whoopie pie fillings. Double chocolate. Call it Fudge Me Twice. Maybe even—
Jack nudges me with his elbow, his expression soft. “Day off, remember?”
Right. A day off.
Smiling at his reminder, I take a deep breath of holiday-heavy air. Linking my arm through his, we drift toward a wooden bench beneath a lamppost wrapped in garland and twinkle lights.
Jack dusts it off with his coat sleeve before tugging me down beside him.
Our bags at our feet, the scent of sugared almonds rising between us, we sit in comfortable silence and people-watch.
Across the way, a little boy argues with his mom over why a giant stuffed lobster should count as a “necessary purchase.” A couple in matching plaid coats take turns holding up ornaments for each other’s approval.
A dog in a red sweater tries to steal kettle corn from a distracted toddler.
Jack leans back, stretching his arm across the back of the bench until his fingers graze my shoulder. Not possessive—just… there. Warm, steady.
I let my head tip until it brushes his sleeve, the sequined logo peeking through his open coat winking at me. For once, I shelve my to-do lists, table my business plans, and silence the voice that says I always need to be doing more.
I’m just… here. In the town I came to because I wanted this exact feeling. The bustle, the cheer, the slow rhythm of a December day where everything tastes sweeter because you’re not rushing through it.
And maybe my picture-perfect future—the flannel-wearing Christmas tree farmer and two point five kids I drafted as carefully as a gingerbread blueprint—was never the pièce de résistance I needed.
Maybe what matters is how life feels. And right now, with Jack beside me, it feels like more than enough.
Jack
I’m halfway through pretending to admire a display of hand-carved reindeer when a familiar voice calls out behind me.
“Lourd! Got a second?”
Dr. Eli Bennett strides over, tall and steady, munching roasted almonds from a paper sack. “I’ve been looking for you. Wasn’t sure where to find you with the bakery closed today.” His wry smile pulls one from me in return.
“Enjoying the day off.” I look pointedly at the green scrubs under his parka. “I take it you’re not?”
He scoffs. “Yeah, no. But don’t worry, I’m not here about Skippy’s overdue shots.” He pulls a packet of papers from his coat. “Could use a lawyer’s eye. And with Hideaway’s view on lawyers…”
We both laugh, knowing full well how Hidies feel about my line of work.
Taking the papers Eli hands me, I pause, thinking how different my reception has been lately. Less wary. More welcoming. “What have we got here?”
Eli taps the top of the stapled documents. “I’ve been renting my clinic space for ten years. Landlord finally offered to sell me the building, but the terms…” He shakes his head. “Let’s just say I don’t trust them.”
I skim the first page, and the noise of the market fades. Inflated purchase price. Maintenance clauses that put all the liability on Eli. A line about ‘restricted renovations’ that might as well chain him to the status quo.
“You’re right,” I tell him, pointing at the clause. “This is stacked against you. You’d be paying like an owner but living like a tenant.”
Eli exhales, half relieved, half frustrated. “That’s what I thought. So what would you do?”
I hesitate, the desire to help fighting against the state’s restrictions on my legal reach. “I can tell you what’s wrong. I can even outline what a fairer deal would look like. But I can’t actually fix it. I’m not licensed in Maine.”
“So you know how to help, but you’re not allowed to?” Eli frowns. “That’s gotta be frustrating.”
I nod, recognizing the same weight in him. A fellow high-responsibility guy. “Exactly.”
“That’s a shame.” The vet studies me, his expression thoughtful. “Because a guy like you could do a lot of good here. Even as an outsider—and a dreaded lawyer—people here already trust you.”
The words catch me off guard, landing heavier than they should.
When I glance across the square, I spot Audrey at a booth with Portia, laughing over a stocking the length of her leg, her cheeks pink from the cold, her dark hair curling around the shoulders of her red coat. She looks like she’s exactly where she belongs.
And suddenly, I can picture it.
Not me on a red-eye back to LA. Not me tied to A-list clients and residuals and box office percentages.
Me here. Next to her. Practicing law that actually helps people. Solving problems that matter.
And damn if I don’t want it.