Chapter One Lauren Fox had the most boring job at the coolest place. Literally, the coolest-it said it on the website and everything. If you felt the sudden urge to build a snowman or ice skate in Central Florida, Cold World was the place to do it. Lauren was Cold World's bookkeeper, meaning that she was mostly holed up in her office, which was kept just as frigid as the rest of the place, reconciling bank records and paying vendor invoices and making sure the Zamboni didn't get repossessed. She loved her job, though. There was something so satisfying about entering numbers into spreadsheets, sorting the data into different permutations, and keeping her filing cabinet like a finely manicured garden of color-coded folders. And there was something just a little magic about stepping into a blast of winter every Monday through Friday, no matter how humid and gross the Florida air was outside. Like today, the first day of December, clocking in at a muggy eighty-three degrees. Lauren had dressed in her usual uniform of skirt, tights, button-up, and cardigan, holding her arms slightly away from her body in hopes of staving off the sweat until she could reach the relief of a central air-conditioning system that set Cold World back four figures a month in the dead of summer. It hit her in a wave as she walked through the front door, the air frigid with the slight whiff of cinnamon. They'd been decorating for Christmas since before Thanksgiving, because it was obviously their biggest holiday. The front ticket counter was draped with garlands, and giant ornaments hung from the ceiling. Life-sized reindeer statues, spray-painted with glittery silver and gold, stood watch in one corner, and the finishing touches had almost been put on the twelve-foot tree they put out in front of the gift shop every year. The converted warehouse building opened up to the right of the ticket counter, holding the Snow Globe, an enclosed area kept even colder with real, actual snow on the ground. (It was a little icier than people expected, and not the best for snow angels, but hey, it felt miraculous when you could drive an hour away and be at the beach.) Then there was the small ice skating rink, and Wonderland Walk, a lane flanked by stands selling hot chocolate, warm cookies, and various artisanal goods. Lauren didn't have much reason to go right. The administrative space was to the left-the Chalet, as they called it for the decorative faux ski cottage front that hid the entrance to the offices, the break room, and the storage space. That was where she spent most of her day, and thank god because it was at least moderately warmer than the rest of Cold World. It could never get too warm, though, or it threw the whole balance of the building off, hence Lauren's ubiquitous cardigan. Even thinking about it made Lauren superstitious that the unit would fail, and as she entered the break room she kissed her fingers and pointed at the ceiling, a tribute to the air-conditioning gods. "You find Jesus last night?" Lauren startled in the act of reaching for coffee, dropping the K-cup on the floor. Normally, she had a couple hours to herself before most of her co-workers showed up to begin their shifts. But from the low, sardonic voice behind her, at least one person had decided to make an early morning of it. "If Jesus is certified for commercial HVAC work," she said, bending to pick up the small container filled with lifesaving coffee grounds. "Then yes." She liked the people she worked with. She genuinely did. Except . . . Asa Williamson just got under her skin for some reason. Like now, he was leaning casually against the supply closet door, his eyes crinkle-smiling at her over his coffee mug, and she knew, she just knew that he was laughing at her. He was tall and lean, lanky in a way that should make him seem awkward. But instead he always seemed easy, effortless, and comfortable in his own skin. His arms were covered in tattoos, which she couldn't help but notice because he wore short-sleeved shirts even when everyone else on the floor layered long sleeves under their baby blue Cold World polos. He was always doing something different with his hair-it had been long when she'd started two years before, down to his shoulders, and now it was short and dyed a bright aqua blue. He'd been there ten years, longer than anyone else who wasn't the owner, Dolores, or her son Daniel. Maybe that was why he always felt like the Cool Kid around the place, or maybe it was because he was genuinely friendly with everyone. He was even housemates with Kiki, one of Lauren's closest friends at Cold World. Not that Lauren had ever gone to their place, which they shared with another couple of people she'd only heard about. It was important to have boundaries at work, she thought. Of course, that was probably one reason why Lauren had never been one of the Cool Kids. Not back in school, not anywhere she'd worked, and definitely not here. She resented that about Asa, just like she resented that little pinch he got at the corner of his mouth, like he was always thinking about some inside joke. He didn't take anything seriously, and that was something Lauren couldn't stand. She took everything seriously. "Why are you here?" she asked now, the question coming out more churlish than she'd intended as she slammed the top of the Keurig over the K-cup. "The meeting?" he said. His eyebrows shot up at her confused frown. "The first of December. Holiday season. The planning meeting. Did you forget?" She had actually forgotten. Which was totally unlike her. Lauren lived her life with lists and systems and plans. Three months ago, she'd Googled "best skincare routine" and clicked through the results until she found one that was numbered and affordable and easy to follow, and now she did it every morning and night. She updated her Goodreads page religiously, not to leave reviews but just to ensure that she had some kind of record of every book she'd ever read. It annoyed her to get the biannual postcards from the dentist's office about her next cleaning, because she'd already put a reminder on her Outlook calendar at work to follow up. "Shit," Asa said, squinting at her. "Is there a problem with your programming? I knew we'd see the effects of Y2K eventually." "I didn't forget," Lauren muttered, even though by now it was obvious she had. She'd already hit the button to brew a cup of coffee, but it wasn't lighting up, so she hit it again. She could hear the churn of the machine as it started to heat the water, but still no coffee. If she was actually a robot like Asa loved to tease her about, shouldn't she have more proficiency with the stupid thing? "And you saw all the extra cars in the parking lot and thought, what?" he continued, ignoring her denial. "Maybe it's overflow from the Waffle House?" She hadn't even noticed the extra cars. She'd been on autopilot, lost in her own thoughts. Scarily, she only had vague impressions of the twenty minutes it took her to get from her apartment to Cold World. She had a volunteer engagement after work, and even though she'd been preparing for it for months, planning for it, now that it was here it still tied her stomach in knots. "I have-" A lot on my mind, she almost finished, but she didn't have that kind of relationship with anyone at work. And if she was going to start confiding in someone, it certainly wouldn't be Asa Williamson. She stabbed the Keurig button again with her finger, mentally urging the machine to start already so she could extricate herself from the awkwardness of this moment. He set down his own mug on the counter, reaching over her to fiddle with the machine. Not for the first time, Lauren couldn't help but notice that he smelled good. Like, really good. It was one of life's true mysteries, because she felt like she'd know his scent anywhere, but she couldn't quite place what it was. Some mixture of cedar and citrus, not overpowering, never burning her nose like some colognes did. But always present whenever he was nearby, and sometimes she'd catch the tail end of it when she entered a room he'd just been in. She lived in fear that one day he'd catch her inhaling a big whiff whenever he was close, and she'd have to quit her job and move to North Dakota. "There," he said as the Keurig whirred to life, dispensing a steady stream of coffee into her mug. As far as she could tell, all he'd done was lift the top and place it back down again. Of course he'd make it look easy. "Thanks," she said grudgingly. He settled back with his coffee. "No problem." This might be the longest Lauren had ever spent one-on-one with Asa. They hadn't exactly hit it off right away, despite his ability to charm his way into friendship with everyone else. Lauren wasn't even sure of his technical job title-he seemed to do a little bit of everything. She'd seen him working the gift shop with Kiki, serving hot chocolate wearing an apron the same color as his hair, even skating circuits around the rink, making sure everyone was traveling in the right direction and no newer skaters needed help. And it was Florida, so they often needed help. She'd started at Cold World only days before the staff holiday party two years ago, which was an awkward time to be the new person. She'd still been reeling from her job interview. It had been pretty standard until Dolores mentioned the need to get Cold World's books more organized. Somehow, that had set Lauren off into an impassioned speech that, embarrassingly, had brought actual tears to her eyes. When she'd finally come up for air, she thought she'd blown it. She must have seemed unhinged. Instead, to her surprise, Dolores had told her on the spot that the job was hers if she wanted it. Since she hadn't been there long enough to know anyone at the holiday party, she'd spent most of it taking note of ways to cut costs at the next shindig. It was part of what Dolores had hired her to do, after all. Lauren thought they could dial back the sandwich platters since there were tons of leftovers, she figured a closed bar would be more money-saving and probably more responsible, and if there was already a Secret Santa she saw no reason for Dolores to separately give gift cards to each employee. "Those come out of my own pocket, dear," Dolores had said when she brought it up, patting her hand kindly. But one of Lauren's best-or worst, as in this case-qualities was her tenacity. For some reason, she had a hard time letting it go. She'd turned to the person next to her, who was piling his plate high with two each of the five different types of cookies. She hadn't learned his name, and normally someone with that many tattoos would've intimidated her, but there was something about his eyes that had seemed kind. "It makes no sense," she said. "If you think about it, if everyone buys a twenty-dollar Secret Santa gift, and then they get a twenty-dollar gift card, doesn't it all come out a wash? If the gift cards are going to mean something, why not cancel Secret Santa?" "Bold move," he said. "Running on a platform of cancel Secret Santa. How long have you worked here again?" She'd felt her face heat. "Three days." He'd pointed a cookie at her. "Love your initiative, though," he said. "Keep at it and by March we can get all the toilet paper down to one ply." He held the cookie in his mouth and walked away, still facing her, one hand holding his plate and the other holding up crossed fingers as though he were actually hopeful. The most infuriating thing was that his tone hadn't even sounded sarcastic. It wasn't until a full minute after he'd walked away that it hit Lauren that there'd been a spark in his eyes as he'd left, and it hadn't been kindness. And a week later, she'd received her generous hundred-dollar gift card from Dolores along with everyone else, and a token coffee mug from Kiki as a belated Secret Santa present. "This is a regift because my aunt gets me a new one every year," Kiki had said. "So don't feel bad that you didn't get anything for anyone." "The holidays are kinda . . . intense around here, huh?" Kiki shrugged. "Dolores thinks that we work so hard to make all our guests' holidays special, so we deserve something special, too. She's a little eccentric, but she's a sweet boss. You'll get used to it." "Ah." Lauren ran one finger along the rim of the mug. It was white, printed with a rainbow and flowers and an aspirational quote that encouraged her to BLOOM WHERE YOU ARE PLANTED! "It's nice," she said hesitantly. "That she arranges the Secret Santa thing and goes out of her way to get everyone in on it." "Oh, that's all Asa," Kiki had said. At Lauren's questioning expression, she gestured to her shoulders, as if telling a stylist where to cut her own bleached strands. "Long hair? Tall? Tattoos? When it comes to Christmas, he doesn't play. Secret Santa was totally his idea." The guy she'd vented to at the party. Great. From that moment on, Lauren had always felt on the wrong foot with Asa, especially during the holiday season. Especially during the holiday parties. She didn't even want to think about what had happened at last year's. Now, he was still watching her as she took her first sip of coffee from that same BLOOM WHERE YOU ARE PLANTED! mug. There was a slight aftertaste to it that made her grimace, and she could've sworn she saw that corner of his mouth twitch. She'd been wondering why he seemed intent to hang around, why he was paying her such close attention. As the aftertaste crystallized on her tongue-definitely something with vanilla-the pieces fell into place. "You made your coffee before mine, didn't you." He held up his mug in a cheers. "Not just a prop," he said. She took another tentative sip, her mouth turning down with the full impact of the flavor. "French vanilla." He'd done it on purpose. She didn't know how she knew, but she did-the flavor from the K-cup before always bled into the next one, and Lauren couldn't stand flavored coffee. This whole time he'd been helping her with the machine, he'd really just been setting her up. Excerpted from With Love, from Cold World by Alicia Thompson All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
