Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Noelle
Between yesterday and today, things have been . . . surreal. Yes, I think that’s the best way to describe them.
Yesterday evening, after Jacob and the stylists left, I stood frozen for what felt like hours, staring at the dress hanging on the back of my bedroom door. It was stunning. The kind of dress that made you feel like you belonged on a red carpet instead of some gala where you’d be doing everything but mingling with celebrities.
The stylist had outdone herself, picking the perfect outfit for me, right down to the shoes. She’d even left her card, saying, “Call me if you ever need me again,” with a wink. Yeah, right. Like I could casually afford another round of Cinderella makeover. The dress and those shoes probably cost more than my rent and utilities for the next few months combined.
I sighed and sank into the couch, already feeling the pressure of the upcoming weekend creeping in. It wasn’t just the dress or the gala. It was the apple-picking trip with him. Jacob McCallister.
His name alone makes my stomach twist, filling me with fluttering butterflies at the same time. I dread seeing him, yet I want to be with him so badly it’s ridiculous. The man is infuriating—grumpy, impatient, and always looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. But then there’s the other side of him and I’m not talking about the chiseled jawline that looks like it’s carved from marble, those piercing eyes that make you feel like he sees everything (and not in a creepy way), and the broad shoulders that could probably carry the weight of the world—and my tendency to overshare.
Why, why does he have to look like he walked straight out of a moody cologne ad or an expensive watch commercial?
Anyway, that’s not the side I’m talking about either. It seems like the grump next door is actually kind. Maybe his heart is not as small as I thought. Yesterday I found out while the stylist was finding me dresses that Jacob is one of the major sponsors of the Starlight Foundation’s gala. The brooding and impossible man has been silently sponsoring not only one of the biggest events of the foundation but also the foundation.
But even with all the new information and this unsettling shift from intolerable to maybe I’m crushing hard, I still plan to bail. I had it all worked out: leave the house early—around eight—and disappear until Sunday night. Problem solved, right? Can I pull it off? Probably not.
Why? Because Jacob McCallister shows up at my door way too early.
At seven.
Seven.
On a weekend. What is wrong with him?
I barely have time to process the knock before I open the door, and there he is—towering over me with a steaming cup in hand, looking annoyingly picture-perfect.
“Morning,” he says, his voice still rough around the edges but—dare I say—almost pleasant. It’s a strange and unsettling combination.
“Brought you this,” he adds, and I swear there’s a faint smirk tugging at his lips. Not his usual arrogant, cocky smile—nope. This is a sincere, almost light smile, which I’m guessing he barely ever uses. “Figured you’d need something to wake you up for our trip.”
I blink, staring at him, trying to figure out his angle. Why is he being nice? What’s the catch? That’s when I realize he’s holding out a paper cup. “Gingerbread latte,” he says, and the comforting scent of cinnamon and nutmeg hits me as he hands it over.
I hate how much I love how good it smells—and worse, how swoony I feel over the fact that he brought me something other than his usual black coffee with a shot of espresso. Since when does he know my drink order?
I glance down at the cup, then back up at him, completely thrown off. Is he okay? Am I still asleep? Is this a nightmare or one of those hot dreams I’ve been having where he suddenly kisses me, and we end up naked against a wall doing very, very nice things?
Since he’s standing a good few feet away from me, I realize this is definitely not one of those dreams. So, I say, “Uh, thanks.” Still half-expecting him to lash out at me for something. Maybe criticize my choice of pajamas—unicorns in a winter wonderland, classy—or lecture me on punctuality, even though we never agreed on a time to meet.
Instead, he leans casually against the doorframe and gives me a slow once-over. “Why don’t you get ready so we can leave early?”
“I . . . you’re too early,” I point out, realizing he looks like a walking ad for fall in the woods. Dark wool coat, scarf, and somehow his perpetual scowl has transformed into sexy brooding. Great. Just great.
He shrugs, that smirk still lingering. “Figured you’d try to escape, like you’ve been doing all week. Thought I’d beat you to it.”
I groan internally. Of course he did. He’s not just grumpy—he’s annoyingly perceptive. But I’m not about to let him know he’s probably right. Instead, I give him an innocent look and bat my eyelashes. “Me? Escape? You must have me confused,” I lie, taking a sip of the latte and looking away, hoping he can’t tell when I’m bluffing. I’d rather not give him the chance to figure out my tells.
And, damn it, the latte is perfect. Not too much nutmeg, just the right amount of cinnamon. Traitorous taste buds. I should hate it, if only because he’s the one delivering it, but nope. It’s delicious, and I love it.
“Like I’m going to believe you weren’t planning on avoiding me again,” he mutters, that smirk growing into something dangerously close to a grin. “You’re under watch for the next twenty-four hours, or at least until we’re back from the gala. Now, go get ready. I’ll wait.”
I hesitate for a second, then step aside to let him in. He moves past me with that calm, brooding air, settling by the door like he owns the place. My living room suddenly feels a little too small with him in it, his presence somehow taking up more space than should be physically possible.
“You don’t have a Christmas tree,” he says, glancing around. “And aren’t the walls supposed to have wallpaper—old wallpaper?”
Of course, he had to point that out. Now I’m not sure what to address first: the missing Christmas tree or the lilac walls that look amazing with the new art I’ve hung up. Although, my grandma nearly had a heart attack when she saw it. Apparently, I was supposed to get it approved by the owner first. The good news? The owner never comes by. The bad news? With my luck, he might knock on my door right now and kick me—and my grandmother—out.
“Make yourself at home,” I say, avoiding both observations. My voice comes out a bit more high-pitched than I’d intended, probably because I’m trying not to overthink the fact that Jacob McCallister is standing in my apartment at seven in the morning, looking infuriatingly good for someone so grumpy—and asking the questions I’d rather not answer.
I turn and head to my room to change, the soft hum of his breathing in the background making me oddly . . . giddy. I tell myself it’s just the caffeine kicking in, but deep down, I know better. This is fine. Totally fine. It’s just one day. One day with him.
What could go wrong?
As I pull out clothes, I catch myself smiling like an idiot. The thought of spending a whole day with Jacob—grumpy, annoyingly perceptive, secretly thoughtful Jacob—has my stomach flipping in ways I didn’t expect.
I slip out of my unicorn pajamas and quickly change into something more suitable: jeans, boots, a long-sleeve shirt, and my best attempt at a casual-yet-cute look, all while trying to suppress the little surge of excitement bubbling up inside me.
Get a grip. It’s just one day of apple-picking with Mr. Scowly. He’ll probably be growling at children in the middle of the orchard and reminding me he’s not the swoony kind. This whole flirty-latte attitude? Just a ploy to get me to the gala. But then again . . . why does he need me there?
I take a deep breath, smooth down my sweater, and glance at myself in the mirror. Okay, this is fine. Everything’s fine.
Surprisingly, the morning isn’t a disaster. Cedar Falls, a small town tucked away in the hills of upstate New York, is every bit as quaint as I’d hoped. The orchard sprawls out before us, rows of trees heavy with apples, their leaves glowing in warm autumn colors.
We wander through the orchard, baskets in hand, and—shockingly—Jacob isn’t awful company. In fact, he’s almost . . . charming. Sure, he still scowls at anything remotely cheerful—like the couple taking selfies in front of a particularly picturesque tree—but for the most part, he seems . . . relaxed. Or as relaxed as Jacob McCallister can get.
It’s surprising when he tells me he’s a sports agent, right after I ask what he does for a living. Honestly, I could’ve sworn he was some grumpy corporate lawyer or Wall Street douche. Apparently, he’s neither.
“So, most of your clients are athletes?” I ask, eyeing him as he expertly plucks an apple from a branch and tosses it into his basket, like he does this every weekend.
“Yeah. Hockey and football, mostly. Occasionally a tennis player or two.” He gives a small shrug, as if managing some of the most famous names in sports is no big deal. “It’s not as glamorous as it sounds. A lot of it is making sure they don’t end up on TMZ while also getting them the best contracts with their teams and sponsors.”
I laugh, picturing him dragging some quarterback out of a nightclub at three in the morning, scowl firmly in place. “So, you’re a glorified babysitter?”
“Pretty much,” he says, smirking. “But with better pay. I could let them be stupid and do whatever they want, but if they lose sponsorships, I lose money too.”
He says it so casually, like the only reason he cares about their behavior is the paycheck. But there’s something in his voice—almost like he’s not just in it for the money. I think there’s more to him than that, but I let it slide. For now.
“And here I thought you just loved torturing people with your grumpy moods,” I tease, raising an eyebrow. “Made me wonder if that’s what you did full time—scowl and yell at others.”
“Only with the ones who deserve it,” he shoots back, his smirk deepening, turning into something almost . . . playful?
What is happening here?
“Like me?” I poke him lightly, trying to steer us back to our usual dynamic. There’s something about the way he’s looking at me that’s throwing me off balance, and I don’t like it. Well, maybe I do. A little.
“No, like your holiday decorations,” he counters, shaking his head in mock exasperation. “The ones that made the building look like a horror movie and now have transformed it into Santa’s workshop. I swear, one day I’m going to come home and find myself recruited as an elf. And let me tell you, I’m no toymaker, Ms. Holiday.”
I gasp dramatically, placing a hand over my chest. “Excuse me, those decorations are festive and bring joy to an otherwise bleak world.” I give him a mock-serious once-over, pretending to study him. “Yeah, you wouldn’t make a good elf, you’re right. We’ll try to figure out what else you can do when Santa starts hiring again.”
He chuckles softly, the sound catching me off guard. It’s rare, but when he lets down his guard like that, it feels like the clouds parting after a storm.
“Yeah, well, we’ll see how much joy I have when I’m tripping over a stray reindeer on my way out the door,” he says, but there’s a lightness in his tone that wasn’t there before.
I roll my eyes, grinning. “Maybe you just need more holiday spirit. A little cheer could do wonders for your permanent scowl.”
“I’ve got plenty of spirit,” he retorts, but his smirk fades into something softer. His eyes linger on me for a second too long, and I swear the air between us shifts, just slightly.
What’s happening here?
I blink, trying to shake off the sudden warmth spreading through my chest. It’s just one day of apple picking with Mr. Grumpy. That’s it. Right?
By the time we sit down for lunch at the orchard’s restaurant—a cozy spot with plaid tablecloths and the smell of freshly baked pies in the air—I’m starting to think maybe Jacob isn’t the total grump I’ve pegged him to be. He’s still him, of course—scowling, sarcastic, and effortlessly broody—but there’s something else there too. Something softer, almost . . . kind. Or maybe I’m just high on apple cider.
We order cider and pie—because how could we not?—and the cozy atmosphere starts to work its magic. The conversation flows a little easier, and I decide to dive into a topic that always makes me light up.
“So, I remember you mentioning you work for a nonprofit,” Jacob says, taking a sip of his cider, his eyes actually curious.
I nod, smiling a little. “Yeah, we support LGBTQ+ kids and teens in the foster care system. It’s a safe place where they can come for support—counseling, mentorship, even housing. A place to be themselves without judgment. Some foster parents even bring their kids to us regularly, so they have a community of people who understand what they’re going through. It’s like this great, big extended family, and we do whatever we can to make them feel seen.”
I pause, glancing at him to see if he’s tuning me out. But he isn’t. He’s watching me, actually listening.
“Right now, I’m planning a gala to raise funds for next year’s programs. It’s . . . a lot.” I let out a small laugh, shaking my head. “Between securing donors, organizing everything, and just trying to make sure we can keep our doors open . . . sometimes it feels like I’m drowning.”
Jacob leans back in his chair, his gaze steady. “Sounds like a hell of a responsibility. But it’s worth it, right?”
“Absolutely,” I say, meeting his eyes. “Every kid who walks through our doors knows they’re not alone. That someone cares. That’s why I’m pushing so hard for the upcoming gala. It’s on December twenty-third, if you want to, you know, invite anyone, buy a table for ten guests, or donate. Sorry, I’m here trying to sell you on this event, sometimes it’s hard to get my head out of the job.”
He nods, and for a second, his usual gruffness fades away. “I get it. It’s more than just a job for you.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, suddenly aware of how serious the conversation has gotten. I hadn’t expected to open up like this—especially not to Jacob. But here we are, and it feels . . . easy.
“So, what do you still need for the gala?” he asks, surprising me again with his interest.
I blink, a little thrown. “Well, we’re still trying to secure some big donors, selling tables, and I’m working on finalizing the auction items. There’s so much left to do, and we’re running out of time.”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just watches me, his brow furrowed slightly like he’s turning something over in his mind. Then, with a small shrug, he leans forward. “Let me know if you need help. With the auction or . . . whatever.”
I nod, a little too quickly, feeling that warmth in my chest flare up again. “Sure, I’ll keep that in mind.”
What is happening right now? A civilized conversation and he’s offering to help me. Should I pinch myself, am I dreaming?
By the time we leave the orchard, I can’t help but feel like something has shifted between us. Sure, he’s still grumpy, still Jacob. But maybe, just maybe, there’s more to him than scowls and sarcastic remarks.