*****
This whole ‘being friends’ thing is harder than I anticipated. For the most part, I’m able to compartmentalize, similar to how I do with work and life. Spencer thinks it’s best if we’re just friends? Fine, we’re just friends. That’s the sensible part of me. The other part—the one that’s ruled by my heart and perhaps even my hormones—romanticizes this night and longs for more. I get butterflies when Spencer accidentally brushes my hand as we walk. I find myself staring at his mouth as we eat warm cinnamon donuts. I wonder what the low rumble of his voice and sexy accent would sound like speaking intimate words in the dark.
That last one makes me contemplate taking a dip in the nearby Bellevue River in the hopes of getting my errant thoughts under control.
“Hollie?”
The way Spencer says my name makes me think it’s not the first time he’s said it.
“Sorry, Spencer.”
“No need to apologize.” Spencer stops me with a gentle hand on my arm. We’ve just come from watching a band that played acoustic covers of popular songs, and are back in Market Square. “Have you had enough for one evening? After your busy day, you must be knackered.”
Knackered. I love when he uses Brit speak. “Iamtired, but I’m enjoying myself so much, I hate to leave.”
“This doesn’t have to be our only time visiting,” Spencer says. “The festival is on until January, so we could come again some night if you like.”
My heart swells at the offer. Spencer is serious about being in my life, even if it’s not in a romantic sense. Maybe…no. No, I can’t let myself go into maybe territory.
“That food stall up there has pies and tarts,” Spencer says, pointing. “And if I’m not mistaken, I believe they have a particular British holiday favorite. Does your love of all things British extend to mince pies?”
“Ilovemince pies. My Grams used to make them every Christmas. She recruited Louisa and me to be her little kitchen helpers when we were old enough. I haven’t made them since she died, but I always buy some around the holidays.”
“Christmas is a few weeks off yet, but may I buy you your first mince pie of the season?”
“I’d love that.”
We approach the stall and take in the array of pies and tarts in a variety of sizes. Spencer speaks to the couple running the stall, who also have British accents. The three of them get chatting about where they’re from, where they went to school, and what they’re doing in Canada while I peruse the pies.
The woman separates from the guys and comes to join me. “Having trouble deciding, dear?”
I’m lingering in front of the cherry bakewells. They’re a favorite of mine, but I’d better stick to the mince tarts since I’ve already had cinnamon donuts, a peppermint brownie, and a few free samples, including something called Winter Wonderland Fudge, and a small slice of fruit cake.
“Everything looks so good,” I tell her. “Will you be here every weekend throughout the festival?”
“We will. Every weekend, plus Tuesday and Thursday evenings.”
“Then I’ll be back, and I’ll make it my mission to try every kind of pie,” I say, and she laughs. “For now, I’ll have—”
“Mince pies,” Spencer says, stepping up beside me and flashing a smile at the woman. He’s holding a large bakery-style box with one lone mince tart nestled in a napkin on top. We say good night to the couple and I reiterate my promise to be back soon.
Once we’re a few feet away from the stall, Spencer pulls me aside to a quiet spot under a street lamp. He hands me the bakery box and takes the mince pie off the top. “This is for me andthatis for you.” My expression must be uncertain because he jerks his chin toward the box. “Go on.”
I open the lid to find four mince pies with holly leaves made of pastry pressed on top—just like Grams used to make—plus two cherry bakewells. I had no idea Spencer was even paying attention when I was looking at the bakewells. A lump forms in my throat. I willnotcry over pies. I won’t,I won’t. “This is so sweet, Spencer. Thank you.”
“It’s my pleasure.” He’s studying my face intently. We’re standing so close, I can feel the heat from his body. For a moment, I think he’s going to kiss me. In the next second, his gaze swings in the direction of the parking lot. “Ready to call it a night?”
I reluctantly say yes, and we make our way to the parking lot. We head for my car without a word, stopping to face each other when we reach the driver’s side. I had thought since we weren’t on a date, there would be no awkward moment of wondering how to part ways and whether we should kiss or not. The ease we experienced most of the night is gone, replaced by an undercurrent of tension between us.
Spencer shifts from foot to foot. He appears to steel himself as he draws in a sharp breath and says, “Well.” He holds out his arms and, after a moment’s hesitation, I set the bakery box on the roof of my car and step into his embrace. Our arms lock around each other, and I press my face into the slightly scratchy material of Spencer’s coat. I can feel his warm breath on my ear, and the shift in his breathing makes me think he’s smelling my hair. His face remains close to mine as he eases away from me. Our eyes meet and, once again, I think he might kiss me. My breath hitches when he leans in and…kisses my cheek.
The sigh that passes my lips is completely involuntary and sounds loud to my own ears. Spencer’s wince tells me he heard it.
His movements are jerky as he steps away to open my car door. “Thank you for meeting me tonight, Hollie. I had a wonderful time.”
“I did too, Spencer. Thanks for asking me.”
I practically dive into my car, desperate for this awkward goodbye to be over with. He hands me the bakery box and I set it carefully on the passenger seat. With the car door still open, Spencer waits while I buckle my seatbelt and start the car. He’s back to shifting from foot to foot, and now his brows are drawn together in a deep V. He ducks down to my eye level, his mouth opening and closing several times as if he’s searching for the right words and can’t find them. I know that feeling.
