Chapter 1 #2
“I’m not a grinch.” In fact, Rocco had actually kind of looked forward to living in a town with this much affection for and attention to the holidays.
It felt like when he’d been a kid, he’d never gotten much of that kind of season-long revelry.
Other than the celebration on Christmas Day itself, when the restaurant was closed, in December it always had been packed with revelers and holiday parties and office celebrations.
His parents certainly hadn’t ignored him, but that was one of their busiest times of year.
In fact, starting at a young age, Rocco had often been drafted to help.
He’d been excited about being part of this community expression of pure holiday joy.
That was before he’d lost all sense of community and joy.
“I’d hope not.” Rebecca reached over and brushed one of his curls back from his forehead. “Seriously, you can’t just sit at home on the couch and feel sorry for yourself. It’s not healthy.”
“In this mood, sulking feels great,” Rocco said.
“Yep, you’re definitely tapping into that overdramatic Moretti side,” Rebecca said, chuckling. “I’ll let you sulk for approximately two point five hours, but then you’re gonna come with me to the tree lighting.”
“Fine,” Rocco said. “I’ll do it. Then I can sulk in peace?”
Rebecca laughed. “All you want to, Moretti.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
He’d just made it upstairs to his little apartment over the coffee shop when he got a text.
Hey, call me when you have a sec, it read, from his cousin Luca’s husband, Oliver.
Rocco had spent the last year in Indigo Bay, soaking up every little thing Oliver, a master baker who owned a charming and popular bakery and cafe in town, had to teach him.
He’d originally gone out to the east coast to save up additional money for his nest egg, but the bonus had been that Oliver had been willing to show him just about anything he asked about, and more.
During the ten months he’d spent in Indigo Bay, he’d learned more about how to be a business owner and a baker than he had in the last few years before that.
It was one of the reasons why when the opportunity to purchase Jolly Java had come up, he’d jumped at it. He’d felt ready.
Now, he just felt like a failure.
His first foray into ownership and he hadn’t just not brought in new customers, he’d alienated the ones he’d inherited.
Rocco debated just not answering him, but Oliver had given him so much, it felt wrong to return that with silence.
Besides, he was family, now, and Rocco had learned from an early age that you didn’t just ignore family.
He dialed Oliver’s number and set it to speaker as he flopped down onto the couch.
The owners of Jolly Java had just put in the second floor when they’d decided—when their daughter moved with their granddaughter to Florida—to sell.
They told Rocco they’d intended to rent it out to tourists during the holiday season and to use it for storage the rest of the year.
Along with some of his other changes to the main space, he’d expanded the bathroom and even put in a little kitchenette, but for the rest of his cooking, he went downstairs and used the big kitchen.
“Hey, I thought you’d be busy,” Oliver said.
Rocco made a face. If he didn’t want Oliver to know the truth, he should’ve waited to call him.
“Slow one today. It’s the big tree lighting tonight,” Rocco said. Like the tree lighting would have normally kept anyone away from Jolly Java. In fact Holly and Joelle had specifically told him that festival afternoons were always some of their busiest.
Ha.
Not today.
“Oh, that sounds so fun,” Oliver said. “You gonna go? You made any friends yet?”
“You sound like my mother,” Rocco complained. “Actually—a cross between my mother and your husband.”
Oliver chuckled. “That’s a terrifying thought.”
“Yeah. Seriously.” He paused. “So, what’s up?”
“That marzipan syrup you did for that new latte on your menu? I wondered if you’d send me the recipe.”
Rocco winced. “You really want that?”
“Sure, I do. It sounds delicious. I think the customers would love it,” Oliver said and the confusion in his voice made it clear he had no idea why Rocco wasn’t eager to give it to him.
“Well, at least someone might,” Rocco said under his breath. Then louder, “I’ll email it to you.”
“Great. Thanks.” Oliver paused, and Rocco could practically hear the wheels turning in his head. Don’t ask, don’t ask, just don’t ask. “Everything alright?”
Dang it. He’d asked.
“Fine,” Rocco said, but he could hear the high, false note in his own voice.
“Rocco, you know running a business is hard. But then I don’t have to tell you that. You want to talk about it? Everyone has a bad day, every once in awhile.”
“How about a bad month?”
There was only silence on the other end. Rocco wished he hadn’t said it. Wished he’d kept his failure a secret.
“Is it going that badly?” Oliver sounded cautious. Careful.
“I fucked it up.” Rocco rubbed a hand over his face. Knew the moment the words were out of his mouth this time that it actually felt good to tell Oliver and stop trying to grind it out alone.
He had Rebecca, sure, but he hadn’t made any other friends in town. In fact, it felt like the exact goddamn opposite.
He’d been lucky they hadn’t run him out of town already for refusing to make a pumpkin spice latte.
“What?” Oliver sounded shocked. “How could you? Rocco, you’re great at this. The place looked awesome. Just perfect for you.”
“That’s the worst of it,” Rocco said glumly. “It was perfect.”
“Well, what happened? Tell me about it,” Oliver coaxed.
“Ugh, so you know the marzipan latte? That’s the problem. That’s the whole problem.”
“Huh.”
“I changed too many things, too fast,” Rocco admitted. “And I took a bunch of stuff people loved off the menu.” He made a groan. “Including fucking pumpkin spice.”
Oliver chuckled. “You didn’t.”
“I know.” Rocco groaned again. “I know. It’s back on the menu, but the thing is it pissed off some people, most of the regulars, and now they won’t come back. I get some tourist business, but it’s not the same. It’s not Sweetie Pie’s.”
Oliver sighed when Rocco brought up his bakery. “Sweetie Pie’s didn’t start like you saw it, you know that.”
“Yeah, but it still got there,” Rocco said despondently. “I’m not sure Jolly Java is gonna get there.”
Just saying it out loud made Rocco want to cry.
He’d poured so much into this business. Every penny he’d saved starting back when he’d been only a gangly teenager, every time he’d put in a twelve or fourteen or sixteen hour day, doing what he loved, but that was still fucking hard work.
He’d done it because of this day. But now this day had come, and it wasn’t anything like he’d expected—and honestly, some of that was his own damn fault, and that made it even worse.
“You’re gonna fix it,” Oliver soothed. “You put pumpkin spice back on the menu, right?”
“Yes,” Rocco said, laughing because it was better than crying. “And gingerbread, too.”
“Good,” Oliver said. “I’ve read about Christmas Falls. The community there is so fantastic. You can win them back. I know you can, Rocco. You won me over, didn’t you?”
“You were easy,” Rocco scoffed. “You were predisposed to like me. I’m a Moretti, and you’re married to a Moretti.”
Oliver laughed. “True. But you’re still a good-natured, charming guy. Maybe you’re not Ren, but you’re no slouch.”
“Nobody is Ren except for Ren,” Rocco retorted, referring to his cousin Lorenzo, who had cut a swath through the eligible bachelors of Los Angeles with breathtaking ease.
“What I’m saying is deploy some of that infamous Moretti charm,” Oliver said. “People like you. If they like you, they’ll figure out they made a mistake.”
“Does that mean I can’t hide in my apartment, drowning my sorrows with Cherry Garcia?” Rocco asked. Even though he already knew that Rebecca wouldn’t let him tonight, anyway.
“Absolutely not. Doesn’t that festival thing start soon?” Oliver asked.
“Yep. Tonight, actually.”
“There you go,” Oliver said. “Go. Participate. Be part of the community. I know small towns. You’re a stranger. Once you’re not a stranger, you’ll be part of them, and they won’t hold the pumpkin spice thing against you.”
“I don’t know,” Rocco said with faux gravity, “people take their pumpkin spice pretty goddamn seriously.”
“Exactly. And now you know that. You’ve learned your lesson, and you won’t make that mistake again.
” Oliver paused, and Rocco knew him well enough to know he was smiling.
“Listen, being a business owner? Honestly, it’s just making one mistake after another.
The difference between successful businesses and the ones who don’t make it?
The owner’s ability to learn from their mistakes and not make them again.
And you’re smart and you’re flexible. You’ll get there. ”
For the first time since things had started to go badly, Rocco felt like this situation could actually be salvaged. Like he might really turn this whole thing around.
“Really?” he asked.
“Yeah. Absolutely. I wouldn’t lie to you,” Oliver said seriously. “And, if all else fails, I’ll send Luca out there to fix you up.”
“No!” Rocco yelped. He did not want Luca Moretti, the now de facto head of the Morettis, Oliver’s husband, and the culinary business genius of the family to come fix him. He wouldn’t live through it—they both wouldn’t live through it, probably.
Oliver cackled in delight at his vehemence. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t.”
“Can you . . .” Rocco hesitated. He didn’t want to tell Oliver to keep a secret from his husband, but also . . .he wasn’t ready to tell Luca he’d screwed things up here. Maybe when they were already on their way to being fixed, he’d be willing to tell his ridiculously competent cousin about it.
“Don’t worry, I won’t breathe a word to him. This stays between us,” Oliver said. “You’ll tell him when you’re ready.”
“Thank you,” Rocco said.
“But don’t be a stranger, either. You need help, you call me, okay?” Oliver’s voice was kind, empathetic even, but there was the ring of steel beneath it.
“I will,” Rocco promised.
“Good,” Oliver said. “Now go out and mingle, okay? Charm the pants off some hot guy.”
“Oliver!” Rocco squeaked, but Oliver just laughed.
“You young kids didn’t invent sex, you know.”
“I’m not young, and you’re not old,” Rocco said.
Oliver chuckled. “No, not even close. But still. Have fun, okay?”
“Okay,” Rocco said and flopped back on the couch after he’d hung up. He should get up, take a shower. Fix his hair, even though all he’d end up doing was shoving a hat on top of it, in deference to the cold Illinois weather.
But he would, in a minute. First though, he was gonna enjoy this warm feeling—the feeling that told him that this wasn’t over, not by a long shot.