Ben follows me back into the kitchen. I dip my finger into the bowl of white chocolate and lick it. “You were wrong. You are magic. But people don’t need to remember how it felt to be happy and safe in the past. They need to have hope that they can get there again in the future. And sometimes the only thing to make that happen is, say, enough money to get away.”

His thick eyebrows lift. “You gave her your savings.”

“Turns out I didn’t need to leave so soon, after all.”

His whole face—eyes, mouth, eyebrows, even his crooked nose—is one big smile as he says, “You’re not leaving?”

“Not until this fall when I go to college. I guess I like Christmas, after all. Lately it’s been feeling extra … magical.”

He leans forward, and I tip my head up—waiting, waiting—when we’re interrupted by Santa. Ho freaking ho.

I might be okay with Christmas, but Santa is still the worst.

*   *   *

The rest of the day flies by, with a bunch of road warriors and even more locals than normal. They all want to double check Ben’s posted Christmas dinner menu, as though there’s any doubt they’ll be here. It used to be the most depressing day of the year to work, but tomorrow promises to be a party. My mom and Rick will be off in time to come to dinner. My mom is even making the tamales.

Ben and I don’t have a chance to talk again. He’s extra busy with today’s orders, plus prep for tomorrow. But his eyes follow me everywhere, and we keep sharing smiles that feel like secrets. By the time the last customer leaves, we’re both slaphappy and exhausted. “I have so much more work to do.” He rubs his face, leaving a streak of flour on his cheek. I lean into him and wipe it away with my thumb.

He tips his head down, closer.

I put my fingers on his lips, squashing the moment. And his very soft lips. “I’ve got some work to do, too.” I laugh as I dart away. I finish my cleaning in record time, and then sneak out the front door. The logistics of what I’m planning next will be tricky. The likelihood of second-degree burns is high.

*   *   *

Forty-five minutes later—and with only one minor scalding—I knock on the back door to the diner. Ben opens it, a rolling pin clutched over his head.

He lowers it sheepishly. “Thought maybe you were Candy’s boyfriend.”

“Ha! No. Follow me.”

“Where are we—”

“Just follow me!” I climb up. When I’m safely on the roof, the ladder squeaks its metal protests against Ben’s weight. Then his head—his adorable goofy smile of a face—pokes up over the edge. I hold out a hand and help him up.

I don’t let go of it as we walk to the edge of the roof and stare down at Christmas. The beauty I always had to look up to the sky to see has transported itself down to this ramshackle town. As we watch, Angel and a few other guys from the mine finish setting up a huge Christmas tree in the middle of the gas-station parking lot. It gleams and twinkles in the night. Lorna comes out of the station and screams about trespassing—before breaking into peals of shockingly sweet laughter and handing out free beers. More people join them, and from up here, it doesn’t look like a throwaway freeway exit. It looks like a warm, happy community. It looks like, well, Christmas.

I tug Ben away from the edge and over to a cardboard box that I’ve set up in front of the lawn chairs. The box is covered by a red-and-white-checkered tablecloth. On top of it are two mugs, two candy canes, a kettle, and a canister of whipped cream.

We sit. Still holding hands. “Christmas Eve is my favorite,” I say. “I think the anticipation is more fun than anything else. I kind of lost that. The idea that something—food, traditions, an arbitrary date on the calendar—can be special because we decide it should be. Because we make it special. Not just for ourselves, but for others. I’ve had people around my whole life to make things special for me, even when I didn’t notice it. And you’ve been working so hard to make life special for everyone who walks into this ridiculous diner. So … who is making it special for you?”

He looks down. The bashful sweep of his eyelashes against his cheek makes my heart burst with something that is probably not the Christmas spirit, but which feels every bit as Joy-to-the-World.

“What food would you make for yourself?” I nudge him with my elbow as an excuse to snuggle closer. All of those practice nudges are finally paying off.

“I don’t know. I don’t have a lot of happy memories to fall back on.”

“Well. I’m creating a happy moment for you. Tonight. Right now. Keep in mind I’m not magic.” I pour water into the mugs, already filled with hot cocoa mix.

He laughs as he unwraps his candy cane to stir with. I take the whipped cream and swirl it, towering, over the tops of both mugs.

“If I’m a gingerbread cookie, you’re a mug of hot cocoa. Makes you glad for cold nights like tonight. We can call this drink a ‘Hot Cocoa Benji.’”

“Not Benji.”

“Tell me!”

He smiles, licking cream from the corner of his mouth. “It’s a family name. There’s this famous story? About someone who was mean in his past, but then woke up to the horrors he was creating for himself. And he vows to go forward, being kind and doing good, and keeping Christmas in his heart year round…”

“Díos mío. Ben is short for the Grinch?”

“No! It’s Ebenezer. From the Dickens story? And … you knew what I was talking about all along, didn’t you?”

I laugh, and he joins me. “Sometimes you’re more spice than sugar,” he says.

“You’re a chef. You like spices. But I’ll stick with calling you Ben, if that’s okay. Otherwise you sound like an old man.”

“By all means. Also, this cocoa is the best I’ve ever had.”

“Liar.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to go to culinary school with me?”

I snort, raising my mug to toast him. “Totally sure. But maybe we can find a college and a culinary school close by each other.” I smile into my mug and take a deep drink to quell my nerves. “Because, you know, once a girl has had your gingerbread, how can she ever accept anything else?”

“Is that some sort of waitress pickup line?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

And then, as Christmas Eve turns into Christmas, anticipation becomes reality. We share a cocoa-and-whipped-cream kiss. It’s hopeful and happy and exciting. Exactly how kissing Ben should be, our mouths smiling together.