Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Noelle
I’m halfway through my nighttime routine—face regimen done, cozy sweatshirt with matching socks on, and my hair piled in a messy bun—when the knock comes. Well, more like a bang. Not on the door, but on the wall I share with Jacob McCallister.
I freeze, toothbrush halfway to my mouth. Is that . . .?
Bang, bang, bang. “Are you there Ms. Holiday?”
Yep. It’s Jacob.
I set the toothbrush down, rinse my mouth, and head toward the living room—and the shared wall—banging just as loudly as he did. “What is wrong with you? Didn’t your mother ever teach you manners?”
“Why were there cookies left at my front door?” His voice comes through, muffled but still dripping with irritation.
I roll my eyes, already regretting my attempt at neighborly charm. This ain’t Maple Ridge and he’s definitely not a good neighbor. “Ugh, it’s like I left a dead mouse on your welcome mat.”
I lean against the wall, waiting for his response. My grandmother swore that this—kind gestures, maybe a baked good or two—would be the thing to make him, I don’t know, human? But clearly, nothing will make this man behave like a normal person. He’s pissed about the cookies. Cookies. The guy probably files complaints with the building board about random acts of kindness.
“That woman in 1A smiled at me today. Mrs. Johnson must be plotting something.”
The nerve of poor Mrs. Johnson in 1A, daring to be kind to the grump of the building. God forbid anyone show him basic human decency.
“They’re harmless cookies, Jacob,” I call out, shaking my head as I lean against the wall. “Just a little something to wish you a good start to your week.”
“I don’t need cookies to have a good week,” he grumbles.
I roll my eyes, because of course he’d say that. “I think you meant to say, ‘thank you for the delicious cookies,’” I shoot back, my voice dripping with mock sweetness.
I shift against the wall, like we’re having some sort of casual, normal neighborly chat. Which is something that will probably irritate him and if there’s something I’m beginning to love is to tease the fuck out of him. It’s entertaining. Better than a good comedy show.
There’s a beat of silence on his end, and I can almost hear him debating whether or not to respond. “I’m not going to pretend that I’m grateful for them,” he mutters and I can practically hear the grumpiness in his tone. “I just don’t understand what your angle is. Why would you drop off cookies?”
“Angle?” I laugh. “There’s no angle you paranoid weirdo. It’s just cookies. No one asks for gifts or in this case, cookies, Jacob. That’s the beauty of it. They’re a gift. You don’t have to ask.”
He mutters something I can’t quite make out, but I catch the grumble of frustration in his tone. “I seriously need to know, what’s your angle?”
“You seriously think I’m playing some long con with baked goods?” I release a loud laugh. “Trust me, you’re not that interesting. I have no hidden agenda.”
Another pause, and I swear I can feel him scowling. “People don’t just leave shit at your door for no reason.”
I blink, incredulous. “It’s called being nice. I now understand it’s a foreign concept for you, but not everything in life is some kind of twisted plot.”
There’s a long, grumpy silence, and I start to wonder if he’s finally done being . . . well, him, when his voice cuts through again. “You’re from a small town, right?”
That catches me off guard. I blink, still standing in the middle of my bedroom, staring at the wall like I can see through it. “Uh, yeah. Maple Ridge. Why?”
“That explains it,” he grumbles. “All this . . . neighborly shit. I grew up in Boston. No one does that there. Unless you’ve known your neighbors for years.”
I snort, settling back against the wall. “So what? No one in Boston bakes cookies?”
“They bake ‘em. They just don’t go around leaving them at stranger’s doors.” He pauses, like he’s thinking it over. “At least not in the part of Boston I’m from.”
I grin at the wall. “Well, aren’t you just a ray of sunshine.”
“More like a raincloud,” he mutters, then sighs. “What’s it like? Growing up in a town where everyone knows everyone?”
I pause, biting my lip, thinking about it. “It’s comforting . . . but also suffocating sometimes. You can’t sneeze without your neighbor calling your mom to ask if you need soup or if the allergy meds aren’t working.”
“Sounds like hell,” he deadpans.
I laugh, the sound bouncing off the walls of my tiny apartment. “Sometimes it was,” I admit. “But there’s something nice about knowing everyone’s got your back. Someone’s always around to help you out. Even if it means they also know everything about you.”
“Right,” Jacob mutters. “So, basically the opposite of living in a city.”
“Pretty much,” I agree. “What about you? Boston must be fun. Big city, lots to do, plenty of places to escape to.”
“Yeah, but you’re also anonymous. No one cares what you’re doing or who you’re doing it with. People stay out of your way, and you stay out of theirs.”
I lean my head against the wall, sensing the weight in his voice. “And you like that?”
“I mean, it’s like that except when you have your mother and family so close, hence I moved to New York,” he admits. “I guess you can say that my family could be considered their own small town with how much they meddle.”
I can’t help but smile. This poor guy. He’s got people issues. Who hurt him? Who knows it could be no one. He’s just Jacob—misunderstood or maybe clueless when it comes to family. “It’s not so bad to let people in, you know.”
He scoffs, but it’s softer this time, almost like he’s beginning to let his guard down. “Obviously, you don’t know my mother.”
“If she’s anything like mine—or my grandmothers—I’d love the attention,” I lie. Because honestly, there are times when you don’t need the constant smothering.
There’s a long pause, and for a second, I think the conversation’s over. But then he adds, “You still haven’t explained the cookies.”
I laugh, leaning back against the wall. “Just a little taste of small-town charm for my grumpy big-city neighbor. Is that enough of an explanation?”
“I didn’t need the charm,” he grumbles, but there’s the faintest hint of amusement in his voice.
“Can you just eat them and enjoy them?” I counter, trying not to laugh. “I promise they’re free of poison and joy. Just flour, sugar, and a few other simple ingredients.”
“Fine. Just no more cookies,” he mutters, sounding like he’s surrendering.
I grin, triumphant. “That’s the closest thing to a ‘thank you’ I’ve heard from you, Jacob. I’ll take it.”