Page 18 of I’ll Be Home for Christmas

He turned toward the sound of his name, a smile spreading over his face when he saw her.

He was wearing a red-and-black checked lumberjack coat over a hoody and olive-green cargo pants that bunched where they met the tops of his beaten-up work boots.

He was grunge to Warren’s preppy, but it suited him, it matched his relaxed easy manner.

“Hey, you,” he said when he reached them. “Nice to meet you again, Warren. Are you enjoying the Christmas market?”

“It’s even better than I remember,” said Fred, at the same time as Warren said, “It’s not bad at all.”

“Are Cocoa Me selling your coffee?” she asked.

“Kind of. They do a hot chocolate with a shot of espresso—like a mocha, but heavier on the chocolate.”

“That’s nice—independent businesses supporting each other,” she said.

“That’s what it’s all about.”

“More grist to the mill,” said Warren thoughtfully, and then clarified, “for my write-up about the market. People love a bit of the old community spirit. Have you ever thought about franchising? You’ve clearly built a successful business; I reckon you could make a killing if you expanded, got yourself an investor, strike while the coffee pot’s hot. ” Warren gave Ryan a friendly nudge.

“Well,” he answered carefully, clearing his throat. “It’s an option. But I like being my own boss, and making ethical decisions about my products is important to me. I think it gets harder to monitor, once you start farming out control.”

Warren’s face was a picture of interest. “I hear you. The indie-pride badge of honor. Good for you. If enough business owners share your ideology, there could be hope for the high streets of small towns yet.”

“Thank you? I think?” said Ryan, chuckling. “But I don’t think mine is an uncommon philosophy.”

“Maybe not.” Warren smiled in a way that momentarily reminded Fred of a shark. “But I’ll bet a lot of small businesses would hand over their pride and joy, no questions asked, for a fat check from a big fish, eh, eh?” He seemed to be trying to goad Ryan, and Fred had no idea why.

Ryan’s expression was all amiability as he replied.

“People have all sorts of different reasons for making the decisions they do. It’s not my place to judge anyone else’s choices, I can only be accountable for myself.

If I can sleep at night, knowing that I didn’t screw anyone over to make a buck, that’s good enough for me. ”

Warren nodded. “Fair play. I looked you up—occupational compulsion.” He winked. “You’re the real deal. Coast Roast is a five-star success. Long may it continue.”

Ryan gave a polite smile. “Thank you. I’ve got to get going. I’ll leave you to your hot chocolates.”

They had almost reached the top of the queue, and were next in line to be served.

“It was good seeing you again,” said Warren.

“You too,” Ryan replied. “See you around, Fred.”

Ryan moved quickly away and by the time they’d given their orders to a woman wearing antlers, he was out of sight.

“You have a touch of the antagonist about you,” Fred observed as they waited for their drinks.

Warren shrugged. “Sorry. Incurable nosiness comes with the territory. I’m always looking for the angle to a story.”

Another woman, this one wearing a Santa hat, handed over their drinks.

“Well, you’re wasting your time with Ryan. What you see is what you get.”

Warren licked his lips and rolled his shoulders like he was building himself up for something.

“Listen, I…What I said about looking for an angle, that’s only partially true.

I know I can come on a bit strong.” There was a beat before he continued.

“An unfortunate by-product of being a journalist with social anxiety is that when I feel under pressure, my pushy volume cranks up.”

Fred took this in. “You shout louder to drown out the nerves,” she hazarded.

She’d done a similar thing at parties with Tim when she’d felt out of her depth—which was most of the time—laughing the loudest at jokes, or being the most complimentary about the food; anything to smother the voices in her head telling her she wasn’t good enough to be there.

“Something like that, yeah,” he said, wanly. “It’s not ideal, I know, but it’s the way I’ve learned to overcome my shyness.”

“I get it. But if you have to make another person feel uneasy as a way to ease your own discomfort, then you might want to adopt a different coping mechanism.”

“Noted,” Warren said, nodding. All his earlier bluster seemed to have dissipated. “Did I blow it?” he asked, looking at her and then down at his shoes.

God forgive her, she was a sucker for Bambi eyes. “No. You didn’t blow it. Just don’t give Ryan a hard time if you bump into him again, he’s my friend.”

Warren huffed out a self-conscious laugh. “Copy that.” And then added, “I hope he appreciates how lucky he is to have a friend who has his back.” She noted a tinge of something in his voice, wistfulness maybe?

“Isn’t that standard practice for friends?” she asked. “Otherwise, they’re not really friends.”

Warren smiled at her. “You are a nice person, Fredricka Hallow-Hart. I am increasingly grateful to that courier for getting our envelopes mixed up.”

Fred’s insides warmed with the praise. How strange that a thing as simple as being told that you were a nice person could make you stand taller, feel braver, make you smile, inside as well as out.

Yes, she thought to herself, after being made to feel for the longest time that she wasn’t worth much at all, she’d take being called a nice person gladly.