Christmas By Design

9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Beckett

I ease the car off the highway somewhere in northern Indiana. Gemma has been uncharacteristically quiet again, and it’s killing me. So, I take an exit well before the one that would lead us to the Dash house without telling her about it.

It takes her a moment before she notices the detour and finally turns her emerald green eyes in my direction.

“Where are you going?” She sounds a little nervous, and I hate it.

“My buddy told me about a cool coffee shop in this area, and I’ve been promised some hot chocolate, so I figured we could stop.”

“Now?” she asks, her voice squeaky.

I glance sidelong at her. “Is that a problem?”

She drags her bottom lip into her mouth to suck on it as she shakes her head and turns back to her window.

Well, that didn’t go the way I thought it would.

As I drive through the streets dotted with wreaths on streetlights and colorful Christmas lights, I try very hard not to look in Gemma’s direction. I pull up to the curb and parallel park next to the shop my buddy told me about. The floor-to-ceiling windows reveal a warmly lit and cozy—if not a little old school—coffee shop inside. I exit the car and wait for Gemma to slowly make her way out and to the sidewalk. She looks up at the twinkling lights in the windows, and a ghost of a smile graces her lips.

There it is.

I open the door and motion for her to precede me into the shop. She sheds her gloves as soon as we enter the warm space, and I notice her fingernails are even more destroyed than they were the last time we talked.

People occupy about half the tables in the shop, and no one is behind the counter. But it doesn’t take long for a man who looks about my age—though is dressed like a hipster teenager complete with a festive, holiday beanie—to jump up from a table he’s sharing with a dark-haired woman and make his way toward us.

“Hi there. What can I get you?” he asks as he dons an apron.

I look at Gemma, who steps up to the counter. “Can I have a hot chocolate, please?”

“Sure thing. Would you like whipped cream on that?”

“Um…” she trails off.

The woman who the barista was sitting with pipes up, flashing a brilliant smile. “I recommend it.”

If I’m not mistaken, the man behind the counter flushes slightly as he glares at the woman playfully. I don’t know what that’s about, but I could guess.

Gemma must also sense the same thing, because she laughs and some of the tension visibly leaves her body. “Sure. Whipped cream would be great.”

“And for you?” the man asks, turning his attention to me.

“Same.”

Gemma offered me a hot chocolate, and I don’t want to disappoint her by ordering something different, even if it wouldn’t be my first choice. She smiles softly without looking at me as if she knows exactly why I ordered it, and that might be my favorite smile of hers so far.

She twists her face as she covers her stomach with her hand and looks at the case of pastries. “Maybe a muffin, too?” She looks at me apologetically. “I forgot to eat this morning.”

Forgot to eat? I don’t like the sound of that one bit. She’s going to need more than a muffin if that’s the case.

The man at the register nods and punches that in as another man in a crisp, white, button-up shirt and dark slacks comes in from a back room. He looks incredibly put together but is incongruously wearing a Santa hat cocked to the side. “The muffins are amazing,” he says as a little girl about Nova’s age toddles up to him and crushes his legs in a hug. He picks the girl up and tosses her in the air before setting her down. She squeals in delight and toddles off again. Gemma watches the whole exchange wistfully, hugging herself around her torso. The quiet, swishing sound her thumbs make as they drag back and forth across her jacket fills the air between us for a moment.

“Well, with that endorsement, I’d better get one, too,” I say. Gemma gives me a thankful glance, as if she had been embarrassed to eat. Which she should not be.

“I’d ask if you want this for here or to go, but with that storm rolling in, I imagine you want to get where you’re going pretty fast,” the man says as he puts a couple of muffins in a bag.

Gemma’s eyes go wide. “I thought that wasn’t supposed to hit us until tonight.”

The man shakes his head as he steams some milk. “Last I heard, it’s going to roll in about an hour from now. And that lake effect snow is no joke.” He eyes us over the retro-looking espresso machine he’s using as a steamer.

I vaguely wonder what it is with Indiana residents and their retro appliances before Gemma turns to me, still looking like a deer in headlights. “Do you think we could make it home?”

“Where’s home?” the man in the Santa hat asks.

“Chicago,” I say. “We were on our way to a home we’re renovating about thirty miles east of here.”

The barista laughs. “Going west would be a bad idea. You’d be driving right into it. I’d say get some supplies, drive to that house, and plan to spend the night. We’re actually closing up here in a few minutes to head out before it starts.”

Gemma has gone still. I can almost feel the panic radiating off of her.

I really, really hope that panic isn’t because she’s going to have to spend the night in the same house as me.

She stiffly hands over her card to pay for the drinks and muffins, then takes her hot chocolate and walks out of the shop as if she’s in a daze.

The barista tracks her movements and shakes his head as he hands me the rest of our order. “Good luck, man.”