Better Lait Than Never (February in Sleighbell Springs #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter one

Noelle

The worst thing about owning a café? Having to listen to your patrons talk about fucking your best friend.

Like yeah, he’s hot. This man is sculpted like a fucking Greek god, with a smile that could thaw the permafrost and a bone structure that would be a blessing to any bloodline. I get it. But I don’t need to hear about him fucking randoms—I have enough trouble trying not to imagine him naked as-is.

Suds soak my candy-cane striped nails as I scrub the counter, trying to get the sticky soda spill off the surface. I should really stop giving soda to kids; it only ever leads to more work.

At the other end of the counter, the hushed tones of two young women I don’t recognize carry enough for me to hear every word of their conversation.

One of them spotted a cute guy at the hardware store, and she’s pretty certain he’s a hockey player.

The other girl counters that his name is Marvel something, and that he slept with her twin once.

Yeah, right. She’s far from his type.

I know, because she looks like me. And I’m far from his type, as evidenced by the last supermodel he dated.

The milky sun streams in through the large windows to land on the checkered tile beneath my feet, shining from the fresh polishing I did this morning.

I turn my back on the girls and their mindless gossip to fix one of the picture frames that hangs crooked on the light-pink wall.

It won’t stay in place, always swaying one end or the other, and it pisses me off more every day.

But what did I expect? I’m a café owner, not a handyman.

And it’s not like I have anyone to ask for help.

As if she were summoned by the thought, the bell at the door rings to reveal my mother in all her flighty and immature glory, the latest boyfriend-of-the-week hanging on her arm.

“No-No!” she exclaims, and I can barely keep the grimace off my face. As childhood nicknames go, I’m sure it’s not the worst. But it gets really irritating when she still calls you that when you’re twenty-four and more of an adult than your mother ever was.

I force a smile to my face. “Mom, what brings you here?” And more importantly, how can I get you to leave?

I’m sure most people would be thrilled to see their mother, especially to have them there to support their business. I wouldn’t know. I’ve been the owner of the Candy Cane Café for three years now, and this is only the second time she’s ever stepped foot in it.

My mother glances around her, taking in every chip in the paint and tear in fabric.

I’m sure she disapproves, but she thankfully doesn’t say.

“I heard about that terrible storm heading our way, and I just wanted to make sure my baby was okay. You know, Harry and I would love to host you for the weekend at his house. He has a spare bedroom.”

I stare at her for a long moment, biting back a laugh.

There’s a vast list of things I would rather do than take her up on her offer; sleep outside and freeze to death in the snow, drink a milkshake made from the sludge in my gutters.

But even after all she’s put me through, she doesn’t need to know that.

“No, thank you. I’ll be fine.”

My mother cocks her head, scanning my face. “Baby, I don’t think I can leave here knowing you’ll be going through this all alone in that tiny apartment. Did I see a crack in that window just now? Is that even safe?”

Of course she had to see that. She didn’t notice when her boyfriends barely let me eat or drink or even speak when I was a kid, but a flaw on my end? That’s something she’ll never not notice.

“I won’t be alone, nor will I be here,” I say. It’s a total lie, of course, but I’m desperate for her to leave. Never mind the memories, her energy alone pisses me off. “I’ll be at Cole’s. He is picking me up after closing.”

Surprise passes through my mother’s expression for only a moment, a bright smile taking its place. You can’t tell me it’s not fake. “Oh, that’s still going on?”

I’m not sure what she means by that, but I’m not about to ask.

“Sure is. Hope you guys stay safe!” I smile. It looks like she wants to say more, but I don’t give her the chance. Instead, I rush into the kitchen and press my back against the door, blowing out a breath. My chef, Manny, shakes his head with a smile.

“That woman never learns, does she?” he smirks, one grey eyebrow jutting up when he shakes his head. There is only one thing Manny loves more than food, and that’s gossip. It’s one of the things I love most about him.

“Can’t learn something you don’t want to hear,” I sigh. “Status?”

Manny glances through the window into the café, eyes narrowing slightly. “A few more seconds and she’s gone.”

“And we’ll all be better for it.”

I can’t believe she’s pulling this shit again. After all those years of living in uncertainty, of being homeless the moment her boyfriend is done with her…I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. If you make your kid go through that, you’re beyond saving.

My heart tightens at the thought of spending the weekend with them, to be forced to rely on someone for the basics again.

I worked too hard for too long to let myself slide back into that arrangement again.

You can’t expect anyone to provide for you, in any department.

You have to do that for yourself. No one is going to save you if things go sideways.

My lungs burn and I draw a deep breath to push the panic down, but all it does is give oxygen to the fire.

Pull yourself together. I glance around the kitchen, dodging Manny’s worried glance.

I don’t feel like explaining my fucked up childhood even more; he knows the basics, which are bad enough all on their own.

There’s a pot on the stove holding soup, so I go over and slap my hand to the side, leaving it just long enough to snap me out of my panic but not long enough to leave a burn.

Manny clears his throat. “Want some ice for that?”

“All good, my friend.” My heart rate slows and I can breathe again, my thoughts no longer racing. It’s a terrible coping technique, but I can’t argue with the results.

I trade the kitchen for the dining room, shooting a quick glance at the clock hanging above the door.

Quarter to twelve—any minute now my best friend, Cole Martin, will be striding through that door like he owns the place and will take a seat on one of the stools to hang out with me during lunch.

He’s done this every single day since he moved back to Sleighbell Springs, even back when he could hardly walk from his injuries.

A flutter passes through my chest at the thought, though I push it down. Cole is my best friend, nothing more.

We first met at seven years old when his family moved in next door.

He was already the quiet, broody, hockey-obsessed man he is now, landing him in trouble more often than not.

But anyone who takes the time to get to know him can see the teddy bear underneath the mask of disinterest, and within days we became inseparable.

Even when puberty hit him like a truck and all the girls in school fell at his feet he stuck with me, barely casting them a glance in favor of talking to me.

He went on no dates, never flirted. Hell, out of all the girls he could have asked out, I was the one he asked to prom—as friends, of course.

After all these years, I’m still not sure why; I guess he was too focused on hockey to waste his time with girls and dating, knowing high school flings don’t last.

For years I didn’t understand why those girls seemed to fall for him with a single glance shot their way—to me, Cole was still the nerdy, sweet and funny guy he had always been, just taller and with more muscle.

Even when he became a rookie in the NHL, with his impossible schedule and all these rules to follow and the hundreds of miles between us, he was still my best friend, calling me every single night to talk and laugh until we fell asleep.

It was only when my grandmother passed away and Cole risked his career to get on the first plane home to me that I realized his arms were the only thing that could comfort me.

That he was my person, my home. Anything else was unthinkable.

For the first time, I saw exactly what those girls saw all along, but perhaps even more.

Because I knew the incredible heart hidden in that gorgeous body, knew exactly the way one could be loved by him.

Needless to say, I fell hard.

Still, nothing could ever happen between us.

He is my best friend, and I would never want to risk losing him over something as silly as an unrequited crush.

Besides, our lives are too different to ever make it work, even if we tried.

Cole is one of the biggest names in pro hockey, the star player of the Vancouver Vultures.

Dating him would be like dating a popstar—which, to be fair, he has done before.

Because that’s someone more on his level.

Someone like him would never go for a small-town waitress.

Behind me, the old creaky radio cuts off the music for an emergency broadcast. The storm of the year is expected to hit tonight, with winds upwards of 63 miles per hour and a minimum of three feet of snow.

All residents of the area are advised to prepare and shelter in their homes until the storm passes, which can take up to four days.

Yeah, right. They say this every time, and usually it means less than a foot of snow with howling winds lasting exactly one night.

We get the occasional outlier, of course; Nor’easters are far from unheard of in these parts.

But after a few years you stop buying into the fear-mongering.

Even with a hole the size of a hockey puck in my roof and another in my window, I can’t bring myself to get too nervous. We will be fine.

We always are.