Chapter 5
How to Make Friends as an Adult
The drive to Cranberry Hollow is a one-way street flanked by miles of fresh snow from the blizzard last night. The ice glints in the early morning sun like crushed diamonds, and I’m trying very hard not to notice how good Jamie looks in natural lighting.
He has one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the clutch. His cowboy hat is dipped low, and his pajamas from this morning were replaced with an outfit identical to the one he wore yesterday. While organizing my mess, I found some practical jeans, a pullover, and a pair of Blundstones.
“You sure she’s going to be okay?” I ask, eyes glued to the baby camera that Jamie rigged in a free barn stall. Jubilee hasn’t moved since I left. She’s just staring at the wall like she’s possessed. At least the barn is heated.
“She’s fine,” Jamie says. “What do you do with her when you go to work?”
“She comes with me. On long days, she sleeps under my desk. At home, she sleeps in my shoe closet.”
Jamie’s mouth curves into a smile, and whatever part of me was braced for sarcasm or judgment softens like butter left on the counter.
“Your bunny sleeps in your closet?”
“She has anxiety. I let her do whatever she wants.” I tap the screen. “Just go to the sweater, baby. It smells like me.”
“I remember the first day I dropped my girls off at school. Sat in the parking lot the whole morning trying not to cry. But don’t worry, your bunny’s in good hands. Arrietty’s watching over her.”
Oh, great. He’s a crier. Somehow, that makes him hotter.
What is wrong with me?
“Thanks,” I say, glancing back at the monitor. “She’s just really important to me.”
“I bet.” He shifts gears, and I watch his hand move. “But—”
“Ugh, don’t say it.”
“What?”
“‘You’ll never know real love until you have children of your own.’”
“I wasn’t going to say that.” His eyes cut to me, dancing with amusement. “I was going to say that if you keep staring at the baby monitor, you’re going to get carsick. And I just scrubbed some goop the girls made at school out of these seats.”
“You’re such a dad.”
“Wouldn’t trade it for the world.”
“A real Gandhi over here.”
“‘Where there is love, there is life.’”
“You know Gandhi?”
“Not all of us need a big-city education to know how to read.”
“That’s not what I—”
“Relax.” He glances at me again, and this time, his eyes linger just long enough to make my pulse skip. “I’m just messing with you.”
I switch from the baby cam to my notes app, where I’m already writing lists, priorities, goals, and supplies that aren’t covered in earwax that I need to order.
“This morning you said funds were a little tight?” I ask, acting like I’m not at all affected by the way his hands look on the steering wheel.
“I’ve got enough for the basics, but nothing too fancy. Definitely not able to pay myself enough to start saving for the girls’ education funds, though.”
“Are you asking for donations on social media?” I say, keeping my voice businesslike. “My clinic fundraises that way, and it’s highly successful.”
He turns, knotting his eyebrows at me. Two deep lines appear between his eyes, and I find them incredibly sexy. “Nah, kept things as my pop had everything. Just local donations and government programs.” He eyes me. “And the only social media I see is when my girls put on YouTube.”
“Jamie, listen. Get a picture of you shirtless, holding Arrietty’s baby in a few weeks, and you’ll go viral. Mark my words.”
“Am I going shirtless for views or just for you?”
My mouth opens and closes. He’s definitely flirting.
Meanwhile, my brain is offering me absolutely nothing in return.
Blank chart. Spinning wheel of death. Parker’s version of flirting was me clapping at reruns of his college basketball games and saying, Wow, nice shot, baby.
Not exactly a transferable skill set in this situation.
Maybe later I’ll read some articles on how to flirt without sounding like a middle schooler. For now, I have a job to focus on.
“I’m just kidding, Doc,” he says with that stupidly charming drawl.
Doc.
No man in the city ever said it like that. Most of them barely said it at all.
“Right, Cowboy.” I say it sarcastically, but he tips his hat. I guess I can buy supplies out of my charity budget this year. I have plenty of money.
“Now,” I pivot. “How long have these reindeer been sick?”
“Don’t you have enough stuff on that list for today?”
“No. This is a light day. Usually by this time, I’ve neutered three animals, met with six patients, and am prepping for my midmorning doggy dental cleaning.”
“That’s it?”
“I mean, some days I get in earlier.” I stare at the dashboard, which is covered in cartoon stickers.
“I was joking. You do more in a couple of hours than I do all day.”
“You have kids and a literal farm. I think your week counts for a lot.”
“I’m just volunteering at the girls’ school today.”
“Exactly. Most parents would love to do that.” At least I think so. I know I would eventually.
His expression softens. “Maybe. You focus on the pregnancy. We’ll talk reindeer stomachs tomorrow.”
“If I’m working for you—”
“With me.”
“—then you should know I’m a full-service provider.” I lift my chin. “I don’t do half-measures.”
“Can I ask you something?”
My stomach tightens. “Sure.”
“Is it normal for city clinics to shut down this long? Over the holidays?”
The half-truth forms before I can stop it. “Renovations.” I press my thumbnail into my palm. “The whole building. Real mess.”
“Lucky me, then.” He drums his fingers on the wheel. “Getting an overqualified city vet for my middle-of-nowhere operation.”
“Lucky you,” I echo flatly.
There is a beat of silence. My gaze drifts to the back seat. Two booster seats, pink and purple. A hairbrush wedged between the cushions. Barrettes shaped like butterflies scattered across the floor mats. A wicker basket tipped sideways, spilling Goldfish crackers and juice boxes with bendy straws.
The evidence of his whole life, casual and easy.
I face forward again and study my phone screen—three bars of service, no new messages—then lock it. Unlock it. Lock it again.
We turn onto Main Street, a single road lined with old Victorian-style buildings in every color imaginable: ruby red, electric blue, and that sickly green that looks like antifreeze.
The gingerbread-style trim on every house is buried under fat ropes of Christmas lights, and roofs are blanketed in last night’s snow.
Snowbanks rise along the sidewalks, four feet high where the plows shoved the drifts, still pristine white but littered with stray twigs and branches.
We pass a bakery, its windows fogged up, and a general store, both marked by fresh footprints leading up to their doors.
It’s aggressively quaint. I hate how much I don’t hate it.
“Gotta pick up the girls around three,” Jamie says, pulling me from my Hallmark-movie spiral. “I’ll introduce you to Winnie—that’s my sister—then swing back for you later.”
“You got a whole posse of siblings around here, or just the one?”
“Just Winn.” He glances over, and there’s something annoyingly perceptive in those green eyes. “What about you? Family? I’m guessing if you’re here for the whole holiday season, maybe…”
I furrow my eyebrows. “Are you saying I’m undesirable?”
“What? No—”
“Incapable of having plans?”
“I didn’t—” He actually looks flustered. Good. “I can see this is a touchy subject.”
“The people I’m close with are traveling.”
“Gotcha.” His voice softens. “Not attached, then?”
Wait. Wait. Is he asking for himself? My pulse kicks up in a way that feels dangerously close to hope, which is stupid because I’m basically emotional roadkill right now, and this man probably collects women’s phone numbers like his daughters collect hair accessories.
“Unattached,” I say, aiming for casual, but it comes out clipped.
“Noted.”
That’s it? Noted? What does that even mean?
“If the school’s not far, I can meet you there after I’m finished at the café,” I say quickly. “These feet were made for moving. Plus, after yesterday’s snowmobile adventure, I could use the exercise.”
“It’s two miles. And there’s more snow in the forecast.”
I wave him off. “I’m from the Northeast originally. I think I can handle it. What’s the worst that could happen? I get hauled out of a ditch by some reindeer cowboy?” I let a smile crack through. “Oh, wait.”
“Still safer if I pick you up.”
“Jamie. I need to move my body or I’ll explode.”
He sighs like he knows better. “It’s just down the road from the café. Can’t miss it.”
“See?” I smirk. “That wasn’t so hard.”
He parks the car and hesitates, one hand on the keys still in the ignition.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.” But he’s looking at me, and it doesn’t feel like nothing. “Just…thanks for doing this. Really.”
Something smoldering and unwelcome unfurls in my chest. I squash it immediately, jump out of his black Chevy truck, and take in the Carp-e Diem Café, which sits in a three-story blue house with fishing nets draped over the silver stair railing like cobwebs.
A wooden sign shaped like a bass above the door declares SEIZE THE FISH! in hand-painted letters.
I head inside with Jamie behind me. My first impression is that it’s like a Bass Pro Shop that’s owned and managed by hoarders.
Every inch of the honey-colored walls is covered in fish photos, fish sculptures, and fish trinkets.
There are carved catfish, knitted marlins, minnow wind chimes that spin from the wooden fan above, and at least three taxidermy fish.
“Wow,” I say under my breath.
“You impressed?” a woman behind the counter asks. She’s around my age, maybe a bit younger, and is sporting salmon-shaped earrings. Her curly, shoulder-length light-brown hair is pinned back with plaid bows, and her apron reads, Catch of the Day.
“I…” I search for something diplomatic. “I love a committed theme.”