Christmas on 4th Street (Fool's Gold #12.5)

Chapter 6

Noelle pushed open her front door and flipped on the lights. The place was small—a two-bedroom starter home with a single bathroom. A classic ranch style, built in the fifties.

Gabriel walked in behind her. “Nice,” he said, glancing at the black leather sofa. “That looks comfortable.”

“Throw yourself on it. Seriously, I plan to do the same as soon as I order the pizza.”

She waited until he’d moved into the living room before sinking onto the bench by the door. She unzipped her boots and tugged them off, then stretched her aching feet. She hadn’t been kidding before—every part of her hurt. Even her hair. She couldn’t remember ever being this exhausted. And the thrill of it was she got to do the same thing tomorrow. At least she didn’t have to open until her regular time.

She stood and limped into the small kitchen. Once there, she pulled the pizza menu free of the magnet on the refrigerator door.

“All meat?” she asked.

Gabriel stood in the doorway of the kitchen. “You like that?”

“No, but I’ll get it on half.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “You can eat half a large pizza?”

“Yes.”

“That I want to see.”

“You will.”

She placed the order, adding a pint of Ben and Jerry’s, then put the phone back on the counter. She opened the refrigerator and pulled out two bottles of beer.

Gabriel’s expression of surprise returned. “I would have said you drink red wine.”

“I have mysterious depths.”

“I can see that.”

They headed back to the living room.

Her sectional sofa took up most of the floor space, but she didn’t care. There was a chaise that was perfect for stretching out to watch movies and she had a great reading light. She’d bought a nice big television because she wanted to see all the period details in Downton Abbey. Maybe an apartment would have made more sense, but she liked having a yard. Her landlord, local retired cyclist Josh Golden, had told her she could plant whatever she wanted. This past summer she’d gone crazy with berries. Next year she was going to experiment with a few vegetables. If her cash flow improved, she would buy a place, but for now, the tiny house was plenty.

Gabriel sat at one end of the sofa while she collapsed on the chaise. She wiggled her toes, wondering when her feet would go from seminumb and sore to seriously throbbing. She pointed to the coffee table.

“Feel free to put your feet up. I bought that at a garage sale for twenty bucks. It’s indestructible.”

He hesitated for a second, then bent down to unlace his boots. He pulled them off and then raised his stocking-clad feet on the battered wooden surface.

“Thanks. I’m used to standing all day, but for some reason this was different. Harder.”

“I know. I’m used to running around, too, but I’m completely exhausted. I think it’s the intensity.” She picked up her bottle of beer and took a sip. “You remember the gift bazaar is coming up, right?”

He leaned back his head and closed his eyes. “Don’t remind me. What is it with this town?”

“We love to celebrate.”

“You need a twelve-step program. Hi, I’m Fool’s Gold and I’m addicted to festivals.”

She smiled. “I’m actually really excited about the bazaar next weekend. I stocked it with some really interesting items. Now you remember you can simply direct people to the store, right?”

“Yes, my goal is to sell as little as possible.”

“I need something to throw at you,” she grumbled. “Of course you can sell things, but you don’t have to. If they want it in a different color or whatever, tell them to come to the store. But that’s for next weekend. Tomorrow we only have to get through the post–Black Friday what-if-I-didn’t-get-everything-I-want shopping frenzy.”

She shook her head. “I should have taken part-time jobs in retail while I was in college.”

“What did you do?”

“Internships when I could get them. I was a nanny for a couple of summers and I temped in offices. I was a waitress. The usual. What about you?”

“I didn’t have summers off. I got through college quickly. Once I was in the army and they were paying for medical school, there weren’t any breaks.”

She angled toward him, taking in the strong profile and determined set of his jaw. “Did you really want to be an English professor?”

He glanced at her. “I don’t know. I didn’t want to be a soldier.”

“Yet you are one.”

He shrugged. “Not really. Being a doctor was a way to honor the family legacy and still do something I wanted to do. Hard to do that while writing a thesis on great American writers of the twentieth century.”

“Your dad pressured you.”