Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Jacob
There’s nothing quite like coming home to your own personal hell.
I glare at the wall separating my apartment from hers. It hasn’t even been 24 hours, and I’m already regretting the sarcastic comment I threw at Noelle yesterday. Well, comment is a nice way of putting it. Then before bed time, I had to be a lot more assertive. It was past ten-thirty and her music was equally loud. I told her to fuck off, and she had the audacity to shoot back, telling me to duck off myself—or something equally ridiculous.
Who the hell says “duck off” anyway?
I rub a hand over my face, trying to shake the irritation that’s been simmering ever since our not-so-friendly exchange. I was expecting an apology, maybe a little remorse for subjecting me to that god-awful pumpkin spice-scented nightmare she calls “fall décor.”
Instead, I got Noelle Holiday, of all people, firing back with more sass than any human should be allowed to possess.
It’s infuriating.
And that’s the problem. The whole encounter with her has been rolling around in my head since it happened, like an itch I can’t scratch. The way she stood there beautiful with that annoyingly chipper smile, her eyes sparkling like she couldn’t wait to spread more holiday cheer in my general direction—it’s fucking worrisome.
Should I move, or make sure she moves out of here as soon as possible?
I’m not a complicated guy. I just want to come home, eat dinner, and be left alone. But no. Instead, I get the human embodiment of a Hallmark movie waltzing into my life with pumpkins, cinnamon, and enough enthusiasm to power the goddamn sun. And worst of all? She’s right next door with nothing but a thin wall separating us.
I sigh, sinking into the couch and running a hand through my hair. Why the fuck did she have to move in here? Of all the apartments in New York, why this one? Actually, no—the better question is, how could someone like her be related to Mrs. Holiday?
Mrs. Holiday, I could handle. The woman was quiet, unless you count the rare times we ran into each other in the hallway, and she’d chat my ear off about God knows what at a gazillion miles per minute.
But even then, it was . . . manageable. She wasn’t pushing an overwhelming amount of holiday cheer down my throat—just enough. The right balance of festive, if you ask me. Should I text her and ask her to tell her granddaughter to chill the fuck out?
I actually have her number for emergencies. When I pull my phone out, I groan as reality slaps me in the face. I can’t text her. The number I have is for her landline. That’s right—the woman still has one of those rotary phones attached to the wall like it’s 1975. Never understood why she pays for two phone services, but hey, to each their own.
So, if I can’t call her, how the hell am I supposed to handle this?
The wall separating us feels like it’s mocking me now. Every little sound from Noelle’s place makes my teeth grind—whether it’s a chair scraping, her music playing on repeat, or that soft humming she does like she’s auditioning for some Disney princess role. Every note of that cheerful tune feels like a spike to my blood pressure.
I lean back, glaring at the ceiling. Maybe I should move.
Hell no, I’m not going to let her push me out of my own space. I was here first. She’s the one invading my peaceful existence with her pumpkin spice-scented nightmares. It’s like she’s running a goddamn fall-themed assault on my sanity.
I close my eyes, but there’s no peace. All I can think about is Noelle, with her bubbly personality and the way she looks at me like I’m some kind of grumpy challenge she’s just itching to take on.
Fucking fantastic.
Who knew someone could make fall decorations feel like a personal attack? Cinnamon, pumpkins, and whatever that horrendous music was—I’m convinced her apartment’s trying to turn me into a walking Hallmark card.
Earplugs, I remind myself. I need earplugs.
She’s been here, what, a day? And already it feels like she’s setting up camp to spread holiday cheer like a virus. If I’m not careful, she’s going to turn the entire building into some kind of gingerbread-scented nightmare by Christmas.
I rub a hand over my face, releasing a groan. It’s bad enough the city’s loud and relentless, but now I’ve got a neighbor who’s determined to bring “joy” into my life. Joy.
Who has the middle name Joy, anyway?
If she thinks I’m going to get swept up in her over-the-top holiday spirit, she’s got another thing coming. I’ll make sure of it. Starting now.
I head to the kitchen, flipping the switch on the kettle because if I’m going to survive this, I’ll need caffeine. Lots of it. With the quiet hum of the water heating up, I glance out the window. Fall might be her season, but for me? It’s just a slow march to winter, and I hate winter. It’s cold, messy, and full of pointless holidays that require people to plaster on fake smiles and pretend they’re not miserable. Exactly what I try to avoid.
Why does she even care about all this festive crap? I pour water on the percolator, frustration bubbling up. It’s not like I have anything against fall per se, but the whole “autumnal cheer” thing? Completely unnecessary. Leave the pumpkins at the store, people.
And then there’s her—the human embodiment of every cheerful holiday special I’ve ever avoided. Noelle Joy Holiday. You can’t make this stuff up.
I should’ve known something was off when I saw her moving in. Too much smiling. Way too much energy for someone carrying boxes up three flights of stairs. And that cinnamon—fuck, that cinnamon—it’s like the air freshener equivalent of a punch in the face.
I slam the cabinet shut and sigh. The truth is, people like Noelle—people who love the holidays and think they can turn everything into a festive wonderland—are exhausting. It’s not like I’m anti-holiday, I just don’t need to be bombarded with it every time I open my door.
And now I’ve got her, right next door, determined to turn this building into a Hallmark movie set.
This is going to be a nightmare.
Tomorrow, I’ll have a talk with her. A polite, firm reminder that not everyone’s here for the never-ending holiday parade. And maybe, just maybe, she’ll dial it back a little. How hard can that be?
I’m halfway through convincing myself that tomorrow’s conversation will go smoothly—polite, firm, no cinnamon debates—when I hear a knock on my door.
Who the fuck is knocking on my door at seven o’clock? I’m ready to get rid of whoever it could be, but when I swing the door open, there she is—Noelle Joy Holiday, all bright-eyed and . . . holding a mixing bowl?
“Hey, there new neighbor,” she says, her voice cheerful enough to make my headache worse. “I’m so sorry to bother you, but I seem to be out of sugar, and I really need some for this butternut squash risotto I’m making. Do you, by any chance, have some to spare?”
I blink at her, processing. Risotto? The one dish I have an embarrassingly soft spot for? Figures. But of course, she has to be the one making it.
“You . . . need sugar?” I repeat, trying not to sound annoyed. “For risotto?”
She grins, like she’s just so pleased with herself. “Just a pinch. It helps balance the flavors, you know? The savory with the sweet.” She tilts her head, all casual, but there’s something in her expression that tells me she knows exactly what she’s doing.
I open my mouth, ready to say no, when my stomach betrays me with a low grumble. Okay, so I’m hungry. Sue me. It’s nothing that can’t get fixed with some takeout.
I glance down at the empty bowl in her hands, then back up at her, wondering why she’s carrying it if she only needs a pinch. Does it matter?
“Fine,” I mutter, stepping back and waving her inside. “Wait here. I’ll get the sugar.”
She beams. “Thank you. I promise I’ll return the favor. Maybe with a plate of the finished product?”
I freeze for a second, my grumpiness faltering. A plate of risotto? That’s not part of the plan, Jacob. But before I can reject the offer, she’s already eyeing the place like it’s some kind of fixer-upper project.
“You know,” she says, peeking around the corner into my kitchen, “you’ve got some decent space in here. A little bland, but with a few personal touches, maybe a couple of pumpkins and apples this could be really cozy. I could ask Dad to bring a hale bale from home.”
What the fuck, is she kidding me? “Keep your holiday shit out of my area.”
She shrugs, still smiling, her tone annoyingly light. “Sure, if you’re going for the ‘lone wolf who hates joy and all things happy’ aesthetic.”
I stop rummaging through the pantry and turn to glare at her, feeling the irritation flare in my chest. “I don’t hate joy. I just . . . don’t need it shoved in my face twenty-four seven.”
Her eyes sparkle with amusement, and she leans casually, like she’s enjoying every second of this. “You’re kind of proving my point.”
Of course I am. I bite back the urge to fire off something sarcastic and instead move toward the kitchen shelf, grabbing the sugar and practically shoving it in her direction. “Here. Sugar. Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” she chirps, her grin widening as she takes the whole bag from my hands. “But I only need a pinch.”
Take the whole fucking thing then, I think, but all I manage to say is, “Keep it.”
She’s still smiling, like she knows she’s winning this little exchange, and it grates on my nerves in the worst way. She gives me a quick, playful salute with the bag of sugar. “I’ll bring over some risotto in a bit. It’s the least I can do after you saved dinner.”
I open my mouth, ready to refuse—I don’t need her charity, or her food, or her relentless fucking cheeriness—but before I can say anything, she’s already turning toward the door, waving over her shoulder like we’re best friends. “Thanks again, Jacob. I’ll make sure it’s extra delicious.”
The door closes behind her with a soft click, leaving me standing there, still holding the pantry door open like an idiot.
Great. Now I’ve somehow signed up for dinner, and I didn’t even try. I rub a hand over my face, groaning at how quickly she dismantled my defenses with nothing but a smile and a bag of sugar. She’s infuriating. Too bright, too fucking happy, and way too comfortable barging into my space like she owns it.
I shut the pantry door with a little more force than necessary and stalk back to the couch. The silence is almost peaceful, but I can already hear her in my head—humming, probably, while she stirs that fucking risotto. And the worst part? I know she’s going to show up at my door soon, grinning like she’s done me some massive favor, holding out a plate of food like it’s a peace offering I never asked for.
Maybe I should leave my apartment before she comes back. Just vanish for the night, avoid the whole thing entirely. God, this is a nightmare. Like some twisted, holiday-themed version of The Nightmare Before Christmas—except instead of Jack Skellington, I’m stuck with Noelle Joy Holiday. The human embodiment of all things festive and insufferable.
I flop onto the couch, crossing my arms and glaring at the ceiling. The only solution to this ordeal is to figure out a way to get rid of her. Because if there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s this: I’m not getting sucked into whatever holiday hell she’s planning. Not without a fight.