Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Jacob
So much for the risotto. The second I catch the scent of vanilla wafting through the wall, I know she’s baking instead of cooking. Fucking vanilla, of all things. Since I’ve got work to do, I try to shove the thought aside and focus on the contracts I was sent a few minutes ago. Dinner can wait.
I dive into the documents, determined to drown out the smell of baked goods with legal jargon. But my concentration doesn’t last long. My stomach growls, and I’m pretty sure I’ve read the same sentence four times without it sticking. I give up and lean back in my chair, eyeing my phone like it holds the answer to my problems. Takeout it is. Her offer was obviously more of a joke than a promise.
I’m about to order something when there’s a knock at my door.
I groan, rubbing a hand over my face. It’s either Ms. Noisy Holiday next door or—I don’t even want to imagine who else it could be. I don’t have the energy for more human interaction today. With a resigned sigh, I pull open the door, fully expecting the worst.
And there she is. Noelle fucking Holiday, standing there with not just a plate, but an entire tray of food. There’s the butternut squash risotto—because of course she came through—but also a salad, some bread, and a small dish of what looks suspiciously like snickerdoodles.
The Pumpkin Spice Goblin.
“Hey, neighbor,” she chirps, her grin so wide it should be illegal. “Thought I’d bring over a full dinner. I figured, since I was cooking anyway, why not share the wealth?”
I blink, staring at the absurdly cheerful display in front of me. It’s not just food—it’s a fucking feast. And there’s no escaping her relentless cheeriness. It’s like she’s trying to infect me with holiday spirit, and honestly, it’s borderline criminal.
“You made all this?” I ask, though I don’t know why I’m surprised at this point.
“Yup,” she says, holding the tray up proudly. “Figured you could use more than just risotto. A balanced meal, right?” She tilts her head and winks, like she’s doing me the biggest favor in the world. “Plus, you can’t skip dessert and with all the sugar you gave me it was more than enough for snickerdoodles. Not having something sweet after dinner is almost criminal.”
Of course it is. She probably has a whole section of the legal code dedicated to joy-related offenses.
I open my mouth to say something—anything to get her to stop looking so goddamn pleased with herself—but all that comes out is a defeated, “Thanks.”
She beams even brighter, which I didn’t think was possible, and steps past me like she’s already been invited in. “Please, make yourself at home,” I mutter under my breath as I shut the door behind her, sighing. I watch as she sets the tray down on my counter like she owns the place.
Noelle glances at me, flashing that same overly cheerful grin. “Well, thank you. Aren’t you a gentleman?”
No, I’m not. And I need to figure out how to kick her out of my apartment. I start with the basics. “You really didn’t have to do all this,” I grumble, mostly to myself.
“Of course I did,” she says, brushing me off like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You gave me sugar. I owe you.”
I stare at her, completely bewildered. “You owe me this?” I gesture toward the entire tray, raising an eyebrow. “For a bag of sugar?”
She shrugs, throwing me that grin again, like it’s the most normal thing to do. “That’s what we do at home.”
Home? I narrow my eyes at her, wondering if she’s from another planet, dimension, or some alternate universe where people repay minor favors with entire meals. “Where is home, exactly?”
“Maple Ridge,” she says casually. “It’s a small town in New Haven, close to the Vermont border.”
I blink, trying to process. “I had no idea Mrs. Holiday was from a small town,” I say, genuinely confused. Mrs. Holiday always felt like pure New York City energy, not the small-town type.
“Grandma Holly?” She shakes her head, laughing like I’m a little slow on the uptake. “Nah, she’s from here. Born and raised. My dad too. He met my mom while she was going to college, but he couldn’t take the small town out of her. They tried to get Grandma to move in with us after Grandpa passed, but yeah . . . she wasn’t having it.”
“Until she moved to Arizona?” I ask, feeling a creeping suspicion that her granddaughter might be taking over the apartment permanently.
Noelle shakes her head, laughing again. “Nope. She’ll be back. It’s just for a few months. Something about hating the cold and humidity.”
I nod, trying not to look too relieved. Okay, so this is temporary.
“Well, thanks for the food,” I say, glancing—not so subtly—toward the door. Time for you to leave.
“As I said, it’s the least I could do. You’ve been so hospitable,” she says, her voice dripping with something that sounds suspiciously like sarcasm. Is she messing with me?
Usually, I’m good at reading people, but this woman . . . she’s harder to figure out than most. There’s something about her—too joyful, too relaxed, too comfortable in my space—that’s throwing me off.
I rub the back of my neck, feeling oddly unsettled. I don’t know how to deal with someone this nice. It’s unnatural. She’s unnatural. And yet, here I am, about to eat the meal she made for me, because my stomach is loudly protesting any attempt at resistance.
“Fine,” I mutter, reaching for the risotto. “But don’t make a habit of this.”
“Asking you for help or repaying with kindness?” She eyes me suspiciously. “Which one is it?”
“Either . . . I don’t know,” I reply. “Just don’t do it.”
She laughs, completely ignoring my warning. “No promises. Besides, I’ve got some holiday recipes up my sleeve and you seem like the best person to try them all out on. You haven’t even seen the Halloween cupcakes yet.”
Halloween fucking cupcakes. This is going to be a nightmare.
I blink at the tray, my temper warring with the fact that everything smells incredible. The warm scent of the risotto mingles with the fresh-baked cookies, and my stomach grumbles in betrayal. Fucking traitor.
Before I can say anything, Noelle starts rummaging through my kitchen drawers like she lives here. She finally finds a fork, holds it up triumphantly, and turns to me, all smiles. “Sit. I’ll grab you something to drink.”
I stare at her for a beat, the words sinking in. She’s too much. But sit and eat? I guess I don’t have a choice. Grumbling under my breath, I drop into the nearest chair, watching her bounce around the kitchen. How the hell did I end up in this situation?
She hands me a glass of water, then leans back against the counter, arms crossed, looking far too pleased with herself. “Try it, I’m sure you’re going to love it.”
“Sure,” I mutter, grabbing the fork and poking at the risotto. “Next time you plan on cooking, make sure you have all the ingredients—just in case I’m not here or . . . well, I’m working, you know.”
She grins. “I’ll try my best.” Then she adds, with a shrug, “But I’ll bring you food even if you don’t lend me ingredients. It’s what my family taught me to do.”
I shake my head, staring at the risotto and wondering if it’ll kill me at the first bite. Maybe that’s how she wins the holiday match, “But next time, just the risotto. I’m not trying to get roped into a holiday buffet every time you knock on my door.”
She laughs, completely unfazed. “You say that now, but give it time. By December, you’ll be knocking on my door asking for cookies.”
I shoot her a look. “Not happening.”
“Mm-hmm,” she hums, her grin widening. “We’ll see.”
I finally take a bite of the risotto, and instantly, I hate how good it is. It’s warm, creamy, perfectly seasoned—exactly what I needed after today. And exactly the kind of thing I don’t want to admit I’m enjoying.
“Good, right?” she asks, folding her arms as she watches me eat. Her face lights up like she’s genuinely proud of herself for feeding me.
I begrudgingly swallow, trying to keep my tone even. “It’s . . . fine.”
She laughs again, clearly not buying it. “Yeah, okay. You don’t have to lie. I know it’s amazing.”
I feel the corner of my mouth twitch into a small, reluctant smile before I quickly stuff another bite into my mouth, smothering it. I am not giving her the satisfaction.
“Well, enjoy,” she says, backing toward the door with that annoyingly bright smile still plastered on her face. “I’ll leave you to your grumpiness and my amazing food, Jacob McCallister.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, unsure if I’m thanking her for the food or for finally leaving.
“Oh, and one more thing,” she adds, pausing in the doorway. “Don’t forget to eat the snickerdoodles with milk. It’s my grandma’s recipe. It’s killer, but better with warm milk.”
I don’t look up, already committed to pretending I’m indifferent. “Sure.”
She hesitates for a moment, then gives a little wave. “Good night, neighbor.”
The door clicks shut behind her, and suddenly, the apartment feels unnaturally quiet without her energy buzzing through it. She’s gone, leaving me with way too much food . . . and the annoying realization that I’m actually grateful.
I glance at the cookies. If I’m not careful, this is going to be a long fall.