Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Jacob
It’s Wednesday. That middle-of-the-week stretch where everything feels a little too much. Too much work, too much noise, too much life. By the time I finally make it home, the only thing I want is silence. Blissful, uninterrupted silence. Maybe I’ll pour a drink, throw on a game—I have to make sure my clients are in good form—and pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist for a while.
But when I turn the corner to my floor and spot that damn familiar little box sitting on my doormat, my mood—already hanging by a thread—drops like a fucking rock.
Not again.
There it is: another perfectly packaged, homemade meal courtesy of my far-too-cheerful-for-her-own-good neighbor, Noelle. It’s like she’s made it her life’s mission to sabotage my pursuit of silence and solitude. I can already feel the irritation bubbling up as I walk closer. I glare at the box, willing it to disappear, as if my scowl alone could make it vanish into thin air.
Spoiler: it doesn’t.
I stop in front of the damn thing, my jaw clenching so hard I’m pretty sure I hear my teeth grind. Yesterday, she didn’t leave anything—and it was fucking glorious.
Okay, fine, maybe not glorious since I had to let the takeout delivery guy into the building. Noelle wasn’t answering her doorbell, something about “a bath and wine and salts” and how I wouldn’t understand because, in her words, “the word relaxation probably isn’t in your vocabulary.”
I mean, she’s not totally wrong, but still, the nerve. Like I don’t know how to relax? It’s just that my version of relaxation doesn’t involve soaking in scented bubbles and pretending life is some kind of dream sequence.
My version involves quiet. No intrusions. No food wrapped up like some Instagram-worthy project waiting on my fucking doormat.
I stand there, staring down at the box like it personally insulted me. Why does she keep doing this? It’s not like I asked for meals or gave any indication that I enjoy unsolicited acts of . . . whatever this is. Hospitality? Charity? I don’t know, but it’s starting to feel like she’s running some kind of experiment to see how long it takes before I snap.
Between now and probably never.
I stare down at the thing, taking in the neatly wrapped package, tied up with a little string like it’s straight out of one of those Pinterest posts Audrey keeps saving and even printing to improve her life.
I’m about five seconds away from kicking it across the hall out of sheer frustration, but something stops me. There’s a little handwritten note on top, folded neatly with my name on it.
Of course.
I pick it up, fully prepared to toss it without a second glance, but the scent hits me before I can. Chicken pot pie. The kind my mom used to make when I was a kid, back when life was simple and uncomplicated. When dinner wasn’t something you grabbed out of a takeout bag, sitting at a restaurant, or the freezer aisle but an actual homemade meal. I hadn’t had something like that in years since she barged into my life with her overly cheerful self.
Then there’s dessert. Chocolate cake, if the smell is anything to go by . . . I can’t ignore it.
The irritation pulses a little harder. Why does she do this? Seriously, why? Is she trying to annoy me into submission with home-cooked meals? Does she think this is some heartwarming sitcom and we’re about to have a touching moment over pie? Because that’s not happening.
I start to bend down to grab the box, deciding maybe I’ll just toss it in the fridge and forget about it, when something catches my eye. Mr. Henderson’s door. Across the hall. He’s got the same setup. The same neat little box with a neat little note, just like mine.
Huh.
I blink, feeling something strange crawl under my skin. For some reason, it doesn’t sit right with me. The thought plants itself firmly in my head, and I immediately hate that it even bothers me. But it does. Because if she’s leaving food for Henderson too, that means this isn’t some personal vendetta against my grumpiness. She’s not singling me out—this is just who she is. She’s giving him a meal. And me too.
Which also means I’m not special.
Why the hell does that annoy me?
I let out a low growl, picking up the box with more force than necessary. “Fucking Old man Henderson,” I mutter under my breath, glaring at his door as if somehow it’s his fault that I’m in a bad mood.
I shouldn’t care. In fact, this should be a relief. If she’s feeding the entire building, then maybe I can stop reading into it like some kind of attack on my personal space.
Except . . . somehow, it’s not better. It’s worse.
I unlock my door, pushing inside with a huff, the box tucked under my arm. The apartment is quiet, just how I like it. I set the box down on the counter, staring at it like it’s mocking me.
Why does it feel weird?
It’s not like I wanted her to make me food in the first place, so what’s with the sudden punch of disappointment that I’m not the only one getting this treatment? Hell, I didn’t even ask for it. This whole thing is ridiculous. She’s ridiculous. Henderson is ridiculous.
I groan, leaning against the counter, rubbing the back of my neck as if that’s going to untangle the knot of frustration building there. This is exactly why I avoid people. They make things complicated. They drop off food for no reason and suddenly, your quiet little world gets turned upside down. Now I’m thinking about why I’m not special, and why that pisses me off.
I shake my head, grabbing the note that came with the box. Her handwriting is neat, too perfect for someone so . . . unruly.
This should go straight to the trash. I don’t need her food. I don’t need her kindness. I don’t need anything from anyone.
But then again . . . there’s chicken pot pie.
And chocolate cake.
I stare at it like it’s something radioactive . Just throw it out, McCallister. You don’t need this. You don’t need her.
I think about just chucking the box into the trash without even opening it. Out of sight, out of mind. Simple. Easy.
Except the damn smell hits me. Pot pie. Homemade. The kind of meal that sticks with you, makes you remember the good days when life was less complicated. I pause, standing in the middle of my kitchen, the box sitting on the counter in front of me like it’s daring me to open it.
My hands hover over it for a second. Don’t do it.
I pull at the string tying it together and peel back the lid. There’s plastic wrap covering everything—her attempt to keep it fresh, I guess—but the smell is already creeping into every corner of the room. I grab a fork, glaring at the box like it might grow legs and walk itself out if I scowl hard enough.
And I feel it, the golden crust of the pie, the rich, savory filling—it’s working its way under my skin, taking root in all those places I like to pretend don’t exist anymore. And that stupid little voice in my head is whispering, you’ll regret it if you don’t at least taste it.
I stab the fork into the pie like it’s offended me. The crust gives way with a satisfying crunch, and I lift a bite to my mouth, still glaring at the food as if it’s responsible for the growing frustration in my chest.
Of course it’s good. Perfectly flaky, buttery, seasoned just right. I take another bite, cursing under my breath.
I should hate this. I should hate that she left it for me, that she somehow knows exactly the kind of comfort food I haven’t had in years. But I don’t hate it.
I glance at the rest of the box. There’s a slice of chocolate cake tucked away in the corner, still wrapped in plastic, waiting like some kind of dessert dare. Can I resist, or am I just a total fucking pushover at this point?
“Fuck,” I mutter, dragging a hand through my hair. I take a step back, staring at the counter like it’s some kind of battlefield. This is ridiculous. I should have tossed the whole thing the second I walked in. But now? I’m halfway through the pot pie, and that cake is sitting there, smug as hell, like it knows it’s next and swears I’m going to enjoy every little bit of it.
I shove another bite of pie into my mouth, the flavors hitting just right—savory, rich, and far too good for my pride to handle. I slam the fork down, glaring at the food as if that’ll make it any easier to hate. I’m annoyed at myself, annoyed at her, and especially pissed that I’m actually enjoying it.
I scrape the last bite of pie off the plate and toss the plastic wrap aside. And then . . . the cake. I rip off the plastic like I’m committing some sort of crime, but who am I kidding? It smells like pure chocolate heaven.
By the time I’ve finished it, I’m so full of food and frustration, I can barely stand it. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, still frowning, and decide I’ve had enough of her messing with my life, my appetite, and my sanity.
I walk over to the wall and knock—three solid bangs.
“Is that your only way of communication?” Noelle’s voice comes through, light and teasing. Of course. “Banging on walls and . . . growling?”
“What’s the deal with all this food?” I snap, not bothering to hide my irritation. “You trying to fatten me up for winter? Feed me to the bears before they hibernate?”
“That’s a terrible thing to say—or a joke, whatever that was,” she calls back.
“Well?” I press, crossing my arms as if she can see my glare through the damn wall. “Then why the food?”
“I was in the mood for chicken pot pie and thought you could use a little comfort food.” Her maddeningly cheery tone cuts through the wall, bright and unapologetic. “You know, since you’re always so . . . cranky.”
“I’m not fucking cranky,” I protest, even though I can hear how cranky that sounds.
“Sure, you’re a ray of sunshine. How dare I say you’re angry at the world,” she teases. There’s amusement dancing in her voice. “Plus, may I remind you that yesterday you growled at me? Pretty sure that qualifies as cranky.”
I let out a short, humorless laugh. “That wasn’t growling. That was . . .” I trail off, realizing I’m not sure what time she’s talking about. When I went for my daily coffee or the takeout incident.
“Forget it,” I grumble.
“Oh, no, please. Do tell,” she presses, that playful edge back in her voice. “Was it my new wreath on the door? Or maybe the berry-scented salts I used during my bath?”
I blink. New wreath? I need to check that out later. Make sure it’s not violating any building codes. But I shake the thought off, annoyed with myself for even caring.
“You’re impossible,” I grumble.
“Thanks, McCallister,” she chirps, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “That’s probably the nicest thing you’ve said to me in the last twenty-four hours.”
I open my mouth to fire something back, ready to give her some snarky response that’ll put this whole ridiculous conversation to bed. But I stop. All I can hear is her voice, and it’s softer tonight. Softer in a way that pulls at something deep in my chest.
For a moment, I picture her on the other side of the wall. That playful smile she always wears, the one that somehow manages to be both maddening and . . . cute. And those eyes—bright, always sparkling with some kind of mischief, like she’s just waiting for her next opportunity to push my buttons.
Fuck, why does she get under my skin like this?
I lean against the wall, running a hand through my hair, trying to shake the image from my mind. But it lingers. Her smile. Her laugh. The way she teases me, never missing a beat, never backing down. It’s . . . infuriating.
And yet, I can’t help but wonder what it’d be like to see her face-to-face right now. To watch that smile of hers fade, just for a second, when I surprise her. To see the way her eyes widen, maybe with just a hint of surprise, when I step closer than I should. Would she push me away? Or would she hold her breath, waiting for my next move.
I close my eyes, feeling a knot twist in my chest as my mind betrays me, imagining how it would feel to kiss her. Just once. Soft at first, just to shut her up—because she talks too much—but then deeper, slower, as I let myself get lost in it. Her lips, soft and sweet, would taste like the chocolate cake she baked today. I bet she’d melt into the kiss, that stubborn sass of hers dissolving for a moment, leaving her breathless.
Shit.
I blink, pushing off the wall as if I can physically shove the thought out of my head. What the hell am I thinking? Kissing Noelle? I’ve clearly lost my mind.
But now, I can’t stop imagining it—her standing in front of me, that teasing smirk fading as I close the space between us. Her lips softening under mine, her body going still, and maybe, just maybe, she’d kiss me back. No more banter, no more sarcasm—just the heat between us, cutting through the silence.
No. Stop it.
I grit my teeth, forcing myself to shake the image from my mind. The last thing I need is to complicate things further. She’s already upending my life with these damn meals. A kiss? That’d just be asking for trouble.
“Goodnight, Noelle,” I say, my voice rougher than I intended. I knock on the wall once, a little gentler this time, then step away, as if putting distance between us will help me keep my thoughts straight.
“Goodnight, Grumpy McCallister,” she replies, her voice still light, still teasing. But it’s softer, like she’s winding down for the night too. And for some reason, that softness gets under my skin. It’s not annoying like usual. It’s . . . something else.
“Get a grip,” I mutter to myself, stepping back from the wall and turning away, determined to shake off the thought of her.