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“This is Wallace Wittman. Local newspaper-reporter extraordinaire,” Beth goes on.

Wallace pumps my hand. “Greetings.”

“Beth was telling us about the Christmas Dash,” Malcom says.

“And I was telling them that I plan to win,” Wallace interrupts with a grin.

“You’ll have to get a team together. It’s not a solo event,” Beth says. “And actually, we need to figure out the event.” She glances at me. “We should get to it.”

I step back and let her lead the way to a table across the dining room. I nod at the three men before following her.

Just before I’m out of earshot, I hear Wallace mumble, “So that’s the competition.”

I resist the urge to turn around and ask him what he means.

I stop at the table Beth has claimed for us. Her purse is hanging over the back of the chair that she plops into. I hesitate, bracing for the next hour or so where I’ll have to sit directly across from her and pretend I don’t want to haul her across the table and into my arms.

She looks up at me expectantly. “You can sit. I won’t bite.”

“You sure? Because—”

“Here you go, Bethy.” My mom’s oldest and original employee, Patrice, sets down a mug in front of Beth. “Gingerbread latte with extra whip, piping hot.”

Beth rubs her hands together. “Just how I like it. Thanks, Patrice.”

Patrice beams. “And if it isn’t Gabriel McKenzie.” She pulls me down to her level for a long, firm hug. “Good to see you, though not for this reason. Your poor mother. You still drinking your coffee black these days?”

“Yes, ma’am. Good to see you too.”

She beams at me. “I’ll bring that right out for ya. You two need to get to work. The whole town’s buzzin’ about the Christmas Dash.”

I shoot a glance to Beth, whose face is slightly pale. “The whole town?”

“How do they even know about it?” I ask. My mom just broached the idea of the Dash to Beth on Friday afternoon. It’s Tuesday.

Patrice just laughs. “You know how word spreads around here, Gaber. You haven’t been gone for that long.”

“Sometimes it feels like forever,” I mutter.

She pats me on the arm. “Be right back with your drink. You kids have fun!”

I pull out the chair across from Beth and take a seat, dropping my cell phone onto the table. Who’s going to tell Patrice fun isn’t the right word for this?

Beth takes a dainty sip of her latte and rests her elbows on the table. “Before we get started on the Dash, I have something else I want to talk to you about.”

“Okay.” I brace myself.

“It’s about you and me, and this whole arrangement.” She points between us. “I can’t handle working with you if it’s going to be so, so—”

“Uncomfortable? Hostile?” I supply.

“I was going to say awkward, but yeah, that works too.” Beth takes a deep breath. “I jumped down your throat on Black Friday, and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have. We have a history, and things didn’t work out for us. Life happens,” she adds. “But we’re two grown adults, and we were friends once. I say we should try to be friends again.”

Friends with Beth again? That’s all I’ve wanted for the past five years. Well, not all I’ve wanted. There is the whole issue of wanting to be more than friends, but at this point, I’ll take what I can get.

“You want to be my friend?” I gaze at her, and she shifts in her seat. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and my heart wobbles. I hate that she’s nervous to talk to me—nervous to ask me to be her friend when I used to be her best friend.

“Yeah.” Beth twists her mouth to the side. “We can do that, right?”