Page 45 of Babies for the Christmas Grump

“Okay, okay,” I say, practically bouncing as we step out of the bakery, as if I’ve just crossed some magical threshold. “Next stop: the Faneuil Hall Holiday Market. It’s a Christmas miracle waiting to happen.”

He’s still got that suspicious squint on his face. He seems to think I’m trying to sell him a product I made in my basement, but I can tell he’s intrigued.

I mean, who wouldn’t be? Christmas markets are undeniably charming.

We make our way down the cobblestone streets, heading toward the market. The evening is crisp, the lights twinkling above us like stars.

There are rows of wooden stalls, each one overflowing with artisanal holiday goodies. Handmade candles, knitted scarves, and tiny trinkets that probably don’t do anything useful but look adorable on a shelf. The breeze smells of cinnamon, pine, and a little bit of magic.

Okay, I’ll admit that last one might be just the spiked cider, but still…

Ryder’s been mostly silent, but I catch him glancing at the lights, the people, the decorations. He’s not saying anything, but something’s shifting in the way he walks. Maybe he’s starting to enjoy it.

I can’t resist. “You must try the spiced nuts. They’re, like, candy-coated perfection.”

“Spiced nuts,” Ryder repeats with a deadpan expression. “Really setting the bar high here, huh?”

“Oh, I’m not just setting the bar high, my friend,” I say, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “I’m setting the bar and then tossing it into a pile of fairy lights and festive nonsense.”

I drag him to a stall piled high with bags of warm, cinnamon-sweetened almonds, cashews, and pecans. I don’t even let him look at the price tag before I toss a bag at him.

He grumbles but takes it. He’s handling all of this with an air of reluctant acceptance. Maybe it’s a sign of progress? I’ll take it.

As we walk past more stalls, I find myself humming along to the Christmas carols playing in the background. We come across a street performer standing on a rickety crate, belting out “O Holy Night” as if he’s got a choir behind him.

Honestly, he’s not bad. I mean, he’s no Mariah Carey, but the guy’s trying.

“I love this song,” I announce to no one in particular, probably a little too loudly.

Ryder shoots me a sideways glance, but I’m already in my own little world, and I don’t care. Before I know it, I’m singing along to the music. Off-key, of course.

“Oh niiiiii-iiiiiight,” I belt out dramatically, making a show of holding a pretend microphone in one hand and gesturing like I’m about to launch into a full-on performance.

I hear a stifled cough from Ryder.

I keep going, though. “Diviiiiiiiiiiiiine.”

I’msooff-key it’s embarrassing, but it’s also so much fun. I grin as we walk through the crowd, all bundled up in our coats and scarves, my voice warbly in the chilly air.

Ryder’s face is a picture of conflict. His lips twitch. He’s doing everything in his power not to crack a smile.

I glance at him, noticing the tiny flicker of emotion in the corner of his mouth. “You’re grinning. You can’t fool me, Ryder Hale. I saw that.”

He clears his throat, his eyes narrowing in the most unconvincing attempt at a scowl. “I wasn’t grinning. I had something in my throat.”

I giggle. “Sure, you did. Keep telling yourself that.”

For a second, I think he’s going to snap back with one of his usual deadpan retorts, but he gives me a look. A look that’s somewhere between disbelief and reluctant amusement.

The performer reaches the big finish, and I can’t help myself. I have to belt out the last line.

“Ohhhh niiiii-iiiiight diviiiiiiine!

As I finish, I do an exaggerated bow, dropping my scarf dramatically, and when I look up, I find that he’s smiling.

Like, full-on, not just lip-twitch smiling. A real, almost soft smile that makes my heart do a little flip.

It’s brief, so quick that it almost doesn’t even register. But I see it.