Scrooge and the Girls Next Door: A Holiday Rom-Com by Melanie Jacobson

Author:Melanie Jacobson [Jacobson, Melanie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Four Petal Press
Published: 2022-11-07T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nineteen

Henry

I walk over to Mulberry Street and scan the house numbers until I find the Winters residence halfway down. The driveway is full, so it’s for the best I live close enough to walk.

I didn’t see Paige at all yesterday; the only evidence she was even home was the house lights flipping on after 8:00. She’s been keeping the Christmas lights off, whether to avoid fuse problems or for other reasons, I’m not sure.

That’s a relief. I may have come to find the Redmonds less annoying—kind of enjoy them, even—but I still hate their gaudy yard. It truly doesn’t fit on Orchard, and the less I have to live next to the neon North Pole, the happier I’ll be, even if today is the last day of aesthetic peace and quiet.

I walk to the front door. There are only seven adults and Evie, but I can hear the hum of conversation, punctuated by high laughs and . . . was that a grunt? I haven’t even knocked, and this is already a much different Thanksgiving than I normally share with my parents.

They’d invited me to join them as usual for their country club Thanksgiving feast, but even before Mrs. Winters had invited me over, I’d already turned my parents down. That’s partially why I’d driven up a couple of weekends ago: to spend time with them so they wouldn’t mind me skipping Thanksgiving.

But I’m tired of country club holidays; the only conversations I can have there are small talk because the only familiar faces there are people I’ve met at previous Thanksgivings. We could do this for the rest of our lives, all the same people, and we still wouldn’t progress past surface chatter.

I shift the platter I brought, take a deep breath, and knock.

The door flies open to reveal a grinning Evie. “Hey, Mr. Henry. My sea monkeys are swimming all over everywhere. Will you come see them soon?”

“Um, sure, if it’s okay with your mom.”

“It will be,” she says with a confidence I’m learning is specific to seven-year-olds. “Anyway, glad you’re here,” she continues. “I wanted to come get you, but Mom said give you some peace, for gosh’s sake.”

I fight to keep my smile at friendly instead of a full grin; I don’t want her to think I’m laughing at her.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting.”

“It’s fine. Mama!” she calls and runs off.

Paige appears around a doorway and looks confused to find me standing by myself in an open door with a plate of food and some wine tucked under my arm. Probably not as confused as I am though. I’ve seen Paige in every variation of jeans, Dickies, and overalls with T-shirts and flannel imaginable, and that one memorable morning, in her pajamas. Her short pajamas. But this is not that Paige.

She’s in a soft-looking sweater and tight pants and boots. And she’s wearing makeup. Not a ton, but her eyes are brighter, and her lips look slightly different. I hate to use the word moist, but yes.

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