Let It Snow: Three Holiday Romances

against his will into Big Bad Starbucks. Then I noticed his rising blush, and I realized something. Tobin
and Angie . . . their togetherness was new. New enough that being touched by her still came as a glorious,
blush-worthy surprise.
Another wave of loneliness flooded through me. I remembered that skin-tingling exhilaration.
“This is my first time in a Starbucks,” Tobin said. “Seriously. My first time ever, so be gentle with me.”
His hand fumbled for Angie’s, and their fingers locked. She blushed, too.
“So . . . just a muffin?” I asked. I slid back the glass door of the pastry case.
“Never mind, I no longer want your stinking muffin.” He pretend-pouted.
“Poor baby,” Angie teased.
Tobin gazed at her. Sleepiness, and something else, softened his features.
“Um, how about your biggest-size latte,” he said. “We can share.”
“Sure,” I said. “You want any syrup in that?”
He shifted his attention back to me. “Syrup?”

---

“Hazelnut, white chocolate, raspberry, vanilla, caramel . . . ” I said, ticking them off.
“Hash brown?”
For  a  second  I  thought  he  was  making  a  joke  at  my  expense,  but  then  Angie  laughed,  and  it  was  a
private-joke kind of laugh, but not in a mean way, and I realized maybe everything wasn’t always  about
me.
“Sorry, no hash-brown syrup.”
“Uh, okay,” he said. He scratched his head. “Then, um, how about—”
“A cinnamon dolce white mocha,” Angie told me.
“Excellent choice.” I rang it up, and Tobin paid with a five and then stuffed a bonus five in the “Feed
Your Barista” jar. Maybe he wasn’t such a tool after all.
Still,  when  they  went  to  the  front  of  the  store  to  sit  down,  I  couldn’t  help  thinking,  Not  the  purple
chairs! Those are Jeb’s and my chairs! But of course the purple chairs were the ones they chose. After
all, they were the softest and the best.
Angie dropped into the chair closest to the wall, and Tobin sank into its mate. In one hand, he held their
drink. With his other, he reclaimed Angie, lacing his fingers through hers and holding on tight.

---

Chapter Nine
B
y  six  thirty,  the  sun  was  officially  on  the  rise.  It  was  pretty,  I  suppose,  if  you  liked  that  sort  of  thing.
Fresh starts, new beginnings, the warming rays of hope . . .
Yeah. Not for me.
By seven, we had an actual morning rush, and the demands of cappuccinos and espressos took over and
made my brain shut up, at least for a while.
Scott swung by for his customary chai, and, as always, he or-dered a to-go cup of whipped cream for
Maggie, his black lab.
Diana,  who  worked  at  the  preschool  down  the  road,  stopped  in  for  her  skinny  latte,  and  as  she  dug
around  in  her  purse  for  her  Starbucks  card,  she  told  me  for  the  hundred-billionth  time  that  I  needed  to
change my picture on the “Meet Your Baristas” board.
“You know I hate that photo,” she said. “You look like a fish with your lips puckered like that.”
“I like that picture,” I said. Jeb had snapped it last New Year’s Eve, when Tegan and I were goofing
around pretending to be Angelina Jolie.
“Well, I don’t know why,” Diana replied. “You’re just such a pretty girl, even with this”—she waved
her hand to indicate my new hairstyle—“punk look you’ve got going on.”
Punk. Good Lord.
“It’s not punk,” I said. “It’s pink.”
She found her card and held it aloft. “Aha! Here you go.”
I swiped it and returned it, and she wagged it in my face before going to claim her drink.
“Change that picture!” she commanded.
The  Johns,  all  three  of  them,  came  in  at  eight  and  took  up  residence  at  their  customary  corner  table.
They were retired, and they liked to spend their mornings drinking tea and working through their Sudoku
books.
John Number One said my new hair made me look foxy, and John Number Two told him to stop flirting.
“She’s young enough to be your granddaughter,” John Number Two said.
“Don’t  worry,”  I  replied.  “Anyone  who  uses  the  word  foxy  has  pretty  much  taken  himself  out  of  the
running.”
“You mean I was in the running till then?” John Number One said. His Carolina Tar Heels baseball cap
perched high on his head like a bird’s nest.
“No,” I said, and John Number Three guffawed. He and John Number Two knocked their fists together,
and I shook my head. Boys.
At eight forty-five, I reached for the strings of my apron and announced that I was going on break.
“I have a quick errand to run,” I told Christina, “but I’ll be right back.”
“Wait,”  she  said.  She  grabbed  my  forearm  to  keep  me  with  her,  and  when  I  followed  her  gaze,  I
understood why. Entering the store was one of Gracetown’s finest, a tow truck driver named Travis who
wore nothing but tinfoil. Tinfoil pants, tinfoil jacket-shirt-thing, even a cone-shaped tinfoil hat.
“Why oh why does he dress like that?” I said, and not for the first time.
“Maybe he’s a knight,” Christina suggested.
“Maybe he’s a lightning rod.”
“Maybe he’s a weather vane, here to predict the winds of change.”
“Ooo, nice one,” I said, and sighed. “I could use a wind of change.”

---

Travis approached. His eyes were so pale they looked silver. He didn’t smile.
“Hey, Travis,” Christina said. “What can I get you?” Usually, Travis just asked for water, but every so
often he had enough change for a maple scone, his favorite pastry. Mine, too, actually. They looked dry,
but they weren’t, and the maple icing rocked.
“Can I have a sample?” he said gruffly.
“Of course,” she said, reaching for one of the sample cups. “What would you like a sample of?”
“Nothing,” he said. “Just the cup.”
Christina glanced at me, and I trained my eyes on Travis to keep from laughing, which would be mean.
If I looked closely, I could see lots of “me”s in his jacket-shirt-thingy. Or rather, fragments of me, broken
up by the crinkles in the foil.
“The eggnog latte is good,” Christina suggested. “It’s our seasonal special.”
“Just the cup,” Travis repeated. He shifted in agitation. “I just want the cup!”
“Fine, fine.” She handed him the cup.
I pulled my gaze away from the “me”s, which were mesmerizing.
“I can’t believe you’re dressed like that, especially today,” I said. “Please tell me you’ve got a sweater
on under that tinfoil.”
“What tinfoil?” he said.
“Ha-ha,” I said. “For real, Travis, aren’t you cold?”
“I’m not. Are you?”
“Um, nooo. Why would I be cold?”
“I don’t know. Why would you?”
I half laughed. Then stopped. Travis regarded me from beneath his craggy brows.
“I wouldn’t,” I said, flustered. “I’m not. I’m totally, completely comfortable, temperature-wise.”