It’s freezing in here, spookily silent beside the shuffle of my legs as I tuck myself in, then the click of the door as I pull it shut to keep the biting wind out. Finally, I simply settle back in my seat and inhale the heavy scent of thick, warm cocoa.
I’ve bought a jar every single December for the last four, hoping each new year would be the one I make a batch at least half as delicious as how my dad used to do it. It shouldn’t be so difficult. It’s literally fucking cocoa—the instructions are on the label! But there’s some secret, I guess, a strictly kept code only the worthy know, because in the four years since Garreth Maxwell died, each attempt only drew me further away from the unique flavor I was terrified I’d never taste again.
And then Dean Warner crashed into my life, helped himself to my kitchen, and simultaneously shattered and soothed my heart with a single sip.
He’s one of the worthy.
My breath catches as, in my peripherals, the front door opens and Dean steps onto the porch in sweatpants and his thick black coat.
Tears make my vision blurry, and that annoying sheen of self-pity makes my stomach churn. Still, I swipe my eyes and draw a steadying breath, and for the entire thirty seconds he takes to decide where he’ll go, my brain vacillates betweenplease don’t leave, andplease God, run now while you still have a chance.
The universe was intent on destroying Christmas for me two decades ago, striking my mother down and fracturing the two hearts left behind. My dad and I picked up the pieces after she passed. We threw ourselves into our love for one another, and since Mom adored Christmas to the point of obsession, weblindly appointed ourselves the founders of our local Christmas festival and, most importantly, the tree lighting ceremony.
It was how we healed. How we grieved. How we honored the woman who knew the magic Dean speaks of.
Sixteen years later, in this very car, on the same stretch of road I met Dean on—rushing home from work, eager to make it to the festival on time—my father hit a patch of ice and another good life was lost.
That was my second warning.
Now, here I am, wallowing through another December, and just in case I forgot my lessons, the universe thought she’d send me a little reminder through Dean.
The poor unsuspecting bastard.
Sniffling, I swipe my cheeks and glance across as the passenger door cracks open, the ice breaks and falls away from the car, then Dean folds at the hips, ducking his head low.
Despite my abhorrent rudeness every second we’ve known each other, he still manages a wide, beautiful smile.
“Hey.” His eyes sparkle, white fog racing from between his lips. “Mind if I join you?”
I drop my chin, lowering my eyes to my lap. “Sure.”
I don’t know where the man gets his energy and good mood—God knows, being hit by a car would leave me bedridden for months—but he rubs his hands together and slides into the passenger seat. Happy grunts, noisy shivers. His jacket makes swoosh-swoosh-swoosh sounds as he folds himself in, then he drags the door shut, locking us in so the scent of him and cocoa mingle in the freezing air.
“Is it good?” He presses his back to the door, lifting his knee so it rests on the bench seat between us. “My mom used to make me cocoa every single morning in the winter. Didn’t always getmarshmallows though.” His lips curl into a crinkled, charming grin in my peripherals. “She said they were for special occasions only.”
“Like, Christmas morning?”
“Like, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday mornings.” Snickering, he cups his hands and breathes warmth between them. “She was a sucker for my puppy-dog eyes, especially nearing the end of the week.”
“So, you were always this…” I bring my gaze across and stop on his unabashed grin. “Persistent?”
“Always.”
“And you’re still in a good mood, even when the women in your life are mean and snappy and rude?”
His eyes glitter playfully. “Looks that way. My mom was never mean, though. Not sure she ever snapped at me once in her life.”
Shame, shame, brutal, cutting shame washes through my belly. “Just me, then.” I swipe my nose and pretend I’m not a complete mental case between December first and thirty-first every single year. “I swear I’m not always such a bitch.” I tilt my head back against the headrest and swallow the guilt pulsing in my blood. “From January through November, some might even say I’m the light of the party.”
“I don’t think you’re a bitch.” He surprises me, grabbing my hand and holding it between us.
My breath races because of the contact, my palm tingles because of the gentle stroke of his finger.
“I think every single human being on this planet comes with a story. We’re not thirteen anymore, we’ve had our hearts broken, we’ve seen the ugly shit life throws at us, which meanswhen we meet another human, one we might even secretly be attracted to?—”
I flatten my lips and meet his dancing eyes.
He chuckles. “We bring baggage, Anna. We all do. Even the most well-adjusted, least-traumatized, nuclear family types whose parents did nothing to screw them up.” He drags the tip of his finger along a deep line buried within my palm. “I know we only met a few days ago, and there was that brain-rattling episode we both participated in?—”
