Christmas Falls: Season 2 #2
It's beginning to taste a lot like Christmas . . .
When Rocco Moretti gets the chance to buy a coffee shop in a small Illinois town, it feels like a miracle. And in true Christmas Falls tradition, Jolly Java is a holiday-flavored one.
He sets up shop and starts experimenting with recipes. The only problem? His changes go over like a piece of coal on Christmas morning. Instead of serving up cups of holiday cheer, he's getting a solid "bah humbug" vibe from the town.
He needs another miracle, stat.
Enter Deputy Mayor Taylor Hall.
With the town’s city manager retiring, Taylor is looking to make a leadership move, but his dream is melting because the city council still sees him as an outsider. He needs to prove he's in Christmas Falls to stay, and what better way than by getting a boyfriend?
Even a fake one.
Rocco needs the town's acceptance, so why not date the deputy mayor? Faking it till they make it will be a means to an end. That's all.
But sharing the holiday season wins over more than the town's hearts. With each date, each mistletoe kiss, and every steamy night in front of the fire, it wins over theirs as well.
Come Christmas morning, there's really only one miracle Rocco wants under his tree.
For the love they've been faking to become real.
Christmas Falls: Season 2 revisits a small town that thrives on enough holiday charm to rival any Hallmark movie. It's a multi-author M/M romance series.
Chapter 1
“I can’t believe this,” Rocco said incredulously, partly to Rebecca, the employee he’d inherited from Holly and Joelle, who’d owned Jolly Java before he’d bought it from them, and partly to himself.
Rebecca shot him a frank look. “It’s been this empty in the afternoons for a week,” she said. The one thing he could say about Rebecca was she could make a mean latte and she was unflinchingly honest. Okay, that was two things. Two whole things! Rocco gave a weak cheer, and she sent him another one of those questioning looks as she cleaned the tables scattered through the little coffee shop. It was quaint. It was old-fashioned.
When Rocco had taken it over maybe it had been a little too quaint, maybe a little too old-fashioned. He’d spruced up the interior. Painted the walls a modern coffee-with-a-hint-of-cream brown, with darker espresso trim. New tables and chairs.
He’d modernized the equipment. The logo. He’d changed out the beans the owners had been buying for years for a higher quality Italian brand. Stopped buying baked goods from Joel at Ginger’s Breads Bakery, putting out a full gourmet spread of pastries that he baked in the back kitchen. He’d put his stamp on it, the Rocco Moretti stamp. And since Morettis were scattered across the whole US now, spreading their culinary magic, he’d thought that would be a welcome stamp.
His first realization that maybe he’d made a misstep was when four customers complained the day he debuted his special fall drink. Not the pumpkin spice latte, like the original Jolly Java had been famous for, but a new creation he’d come up with, a marzipan latte that apparently nobody wanted. Pumpkin spice! Like Rocco would ever be that freaking basic.
It was disappointing and frustrating, but Rocco had still been sure these were just growing pains.
Everyone said the tourist season, when Christmas Falls hosted its huge holiday themed festival, was crazy, and he’d be packed.
And he did have customers. A steady enough stream of tourists in the mornings, but most locals had abandoned him and Jolly Java. After ten AM, the place was deader than a doornail. He’d never even gotten a chance to implement his new lunch menu.
Instead of a cozy cafe full of regulars whom Rocco knew by name and by order, he had a lot of tourists he saw maybe once or twice, and a few Christmas Falls residents who didn’t visit with the regularity Holly and Joelle had described.
It was not the community-forward, familial atmosphere he’d hoped for when he’d taken every penny he’d earned from fourteen to twenty-eight and bought this place.
Rocco slumped down to the front counter.
He’d been so sure he’d win over the town with good Italian cappuccino and his delicious pastries.
But instead, the majority of them had started going to Ginger’s Breads, even being willing to trade his high-quality espresso for the free self-service coffee Joel served with his baked goods.
Rocco had been in the line in the grocery store just the other day and had gotten to listen to one woman complaining to the other about the changes—and how she’d started saving a bundle by not getting her oat milk latte every morning.
“I told you,” Rebecca said as she approached the counter, where Rocco was gently banging his head against the reclaimed wood. That he hadn’t needed to replace, because the coffee bar itself, stretching across one side of Jolly Java, was gorgeous.
“I took the turmeric and goat cheese scone off the menu! I added pumpkin spice back on,” Rocco argued. The scone had been a stretch, and he’d known it, but he’d also envisioned a future where the townspeople of Christmas Falls had been willing to have Rocco expand their palates.
“Yeah, you gotta win them back somehow,” Rebecca said, sympathetically.
Her empathy, while kind, felt like poison in his gut.
What if he failed . . .no, that was not even an option. Morettis didn’t fail. Especially not in any kind of food-related business.
His grandmother, whom everyone called Nonna, had started a famous chain of Italian restaurants in the Napa Valley, restaurants that his cousin Luca now ran with an expert hand, along with his six other siblings. Luca also owned a gourmet bistro in the tiny town of Indigo Bay, South Carolina, with his husband, Oliver, and tourists came to town just to eat there. Dante and Beatrice, his parents, ran their own little jewel of an Italian restaurant in the hills of San Francisco, and it regularly made lists of “Best Italian in the City” and “Best Neighborhood Spot.” Some of his parents’ clients had celebrated twenty anniversaries at the same goddamn table.
And here was Rocco.
Three months here and already a has-been.
“I’ve tried to spread the word that pumpkin spice is back and god help us, gingerbread, too,” Rocco said, motioning to the artistic chalkboard sign sitting just outside the door.
Rebecca leaned against the counter. Lifting Rocco’s head so he’d stop thwacking it against the counter.
“Stop that. You’re gonna give yourself a concussion, and then what are you going to do? Listen, these people are creatures of habit. Most of them were born here and grew up here and never left. Jolly Java is a part of that tradition. Give them that tradition back.”
It was hard to give something back to someone when he’d been so eager to change it it felt like he’d barely given the original a second glance. Sure, he had Rebecca as a resource, but every time he suggested making a change back to what they’d had before, she’d given him one of those looks that said, but that isn’t going to fix it.
Well, he had to fix it.
“I’m trying,” Rocco said. “I gave them goddamn pumpkin spice back, didn’t I?” He shuddered.
“It’s not about flavors, though that certainly isn’t going to hurt you.” Rebecca’s mouth quirked into a little smile. “You know that.”
“I spent the last two weeks trying to get the festival committee to consider letting me supply the cookies for the tree lighting, thinking maybe I could convince the town to try me again.” When Rebecca shot him another one of those looks, he kept going. “I was even going to serve goddamn normal things, I swear. Chocolate chip and sugar and snickerdoodle and peanut butter. I showed up more than once with baskets of cookies. Fresh baked! And you know what they said?”
Rebecca sighed. “I can only imagine.”
“Joel’s handling it. Joel knows what he’s doing. Like I don’t know what I’m doing!”
“You did take pumpkin spice off the menu.” She was smiling again, and yes, it sounded very stupid when she said it now.
His head had just been building castles in the sky.
“Holly and Joelle supplied cookies every year to the tree lighting before last year. Joel does it one year and he ‘knows what he’s doing’!” Rocco made a frustrated noise and re-started banging his head, before Rebecca stopped him again, grabbing him by a handful of dark curls.
“You’ll figure something out,” Rebecca promised. “You’re a smart guy. You’re good at this, when you get out of your own way.”
“Thanks,” Rocco said dryly. “But we Morettis aren’t just ‘good at this’! We’re spectacular! We’re fabulous! We’re fucking synonymous with flavor and experience.”
“No? Are y’all as dramatic as that, too?”
Rocco laughed, because otherwise he was going to cry. “Believe it or not, I’m from the undramatic branch of the family.”
Rebecca joined him, downright cackling with delight at this impossibility. “Would one of your cousins be on his knees by now, rending his garments and banging his fists on the floor?”
It was easier to keep laughing, and even easier still when Rocco considered this. “Absolutely,” he said. “Gabe, yes. He’d be beside himself. He’s so fucking emotional. And Lorenzo? Yeah. He’d be right alongside there with him, unless it messed up his perfect hair. Luca? He’d have issued an edict ordering everyone to return, or else.”
“Or else?”
“There’d be a town coup if Luca was in charge. Governmental change number one would be a law requiring everyone to visit Jolly Java once a day.”
“Well, there’s always that,” Rebecca said lightly.
“There’s always that,” Rocco retorted morosely.
“Well, one positive about being slow today is that we can close early, for the tree lighting,” Rebecca said. “You gonna head over?”
“So I can eat perfect Joel’s perfect cookies? No fucking thank you,” Rocco said.
“Rocco,” Rebecca chided.
He sighed. “No,” he murmured. “I’m not in the mood. Maybe I’ll take up that whole tray of pastries and gorge myself on the couch, watching the worst TV I can find.”
“I think Real Housewives has a Duluth edition, these days,” Rebecca teased.
“Ugh, that might actually be better than thinking about how I’ve messed this up,” Rocco said.
Rebecca whacked him on the shoulder before turning and heading to the front door, flicking off the open sign, grabbing the chalkboard sign, and tucking it behind a row of barstools that stood on the new tall bar that ran alongside the big picture window.
Rocco had imagined people sitting there, working on their laptops and enjoying the beautifully decorated streets of downtown Christmas Falls.
That had not happened.
“Come on,” she said, “you’re gonna come with me to the tree lighting. It’s your first one here, you can’t miss it because you’re throwing yourself a big pity party.”
“I’m not exactly in a festive mood,” Rocco argued.
“Doesn’t matter.” Rebecca shot him another look, but this one was softer, affectionate. “In Christmas Falls, everyone’s welcome. Even grinches.”
“I’m not a grinch.” In fact, Rocco had actually kind of looked forward to living in a town with this much affection for and attention to the holidays. It felt like when he’d been a kid, he’d never gotten much of that kind of season-long revelry. Other than the celebration on Christmas Day itself, when the restaurant was closed, in December it always had been packed with revelers and holiday parties and office celebrations. His parents certainly hadn’t ignored him, but that was one of their busiest times of year. In fact, starting at a young age, Rocco had often been drafted to help.
He’d been excited about being part of this community expression of pure holiday joy.
That was before he’d lost all sense of community and joy.
“I’d hope not.” Rebecca reached over and brushed one of his curls back from his forehead. “Seriously, you can’t just sit at home on the couch and feel sorry for yourself. It’s not healthy.”
“In this mood, sulking feels great,” Rocco said.
“Yep, you’re definitely tapping into that overdramatic Moretti side,” Rebecca said, chuckling. “I’ll let you sulk for approximately two point five hours, but then you’re gonna come with me to the tree lighting.”
“Fine,” Rocco said. “I’ll do it. Then I can sulk in peace?”
Rebecca laughed. “All you want to, Moretti.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
He’d just made it upstairs to his little apartment over the coffee shop when he got a text.
Hey, call me when you have a sec, it read, from his cousin Luca’s husband, Oliver.
Rocco had spent the last year in Indigo Bay, soaking up every little thing Oliver, a master baker who owned a charming and popular bakery and cafe in town, had to teach him.
He’d originally gone out to the east coast to save up additional money for his nest egg, but the bonus had been that Oliver had been willing to show him just about anything he asked about, and more. During the ten months he’d spent in Indigo Bay, he’d learned more about how to be a business owner and a baker than he had in the last few years before that.
It was one of the reasons why when the opportunity to purchase Jolly Java had come up, he’d jumped at it. He’d felt ready.
Now, he just felt like a failure.
His first foray into ownership and he hadn’t just not brought in new customers, he’d alienated the ones he’d inherited.
Rocco debated just not answering him, but Oliver had given him so much, it felt wrong to return that with silence.
Besides, he was family, now, and Rocco had learned from an early age that you didn’t just ignore family.
He dialed Oliver’s number and set it to speaker as he flopped down onto the couch.
The owners of Jolly Java had just put in the second floor when they’d decided—when their daughter moved with their granddaughter to Florida—to sell. They told Rocco they’d intended to rent it out to tourists during the holiday season and to use it for storage the rest of the year. Along with some of his other changes to the main space, he’d expanded the bathroom and even put in a little kitchenette, but for the rest of his cooking, he went downstairs and used the big kitchen.
“Hey, I thought you’d be busy,” Oliver said.
Rocco made a face. If he didn’t want Oliver to know the truth, he should’ve waited to call him.
“Slow one today. It’s the big tree lighting tonight,” Rocco said. Like the tree lighting would have normally kept anyone away from Jolly Java. In fact Holly and Joelle had specifically told him that festival afternoons were always some of their busiest.
Ha.
Not today.
“Oh, that sounds so fun,” Oliver said. “You gonna go? You made any friends yet?”
“You sound like my mother,” Rocco complained. “Actually—a cross between my mother and your husband.”
Oliver chuckled. “That’s a terrifying thought.”
“Yeah. Seriously.” He paused. “So, what’s up?”
“That marzipan syrup you did for that new latte on your menu? I wondered if you’d send me the recipe.”
Rocco winced. “You really want that?”
“Sure, I do. It sounds delicious. I think the customers would love it,” Oliver said and the confusion in his voice made it clear he had no idea why Rocco wasn’t eager to give it to him.
“Well, at least someone might,” Rocco said under his breath. Then louder, “I’ll email it to you.”
“Great. Thanks.” Oliver paused, and Rocco could practically hear the wheels turning in his head. Don’t ask, don’t ask, just don’t ask. “Everything alright?”
Dang it. He’d asked.
“Fine,” Rocco said, but he could hear the high, false note in his own voice.
“Rocco, you know running a business is hard. But then I don’t have to tell you that. You want to talk about it? Everyone has a bad day, every once in awhile.”
“How about a bad month?”
There was only silence on the other end. Rocco wished he hadn’t said it. Wished he’d kept his failure a secret.
“Is it going that badly?” Oliver sounded cautious. Careful.
“I fucked it up.” Rocco rubbed a hand over his face. Knew the moment the words were out of his mouth this time that it actually felt good to tell Oliver and stop trying to grind it out alone.
He had Rebecca, sure, but he hadn’t made any other friends in town. In fact, it felt like the exact goddamn opposite.
He’d been lucky they hadn’t run him out of town already for refusing to make a pumpkin spice latte.
“What?” Oliver sounded shocked. “How could you? Rocco, you’re great at this. The place looked awesome. Just perfect for you.”
“That’s the worst of it,” Rocco said glumly. “It was perfect.”
“Well, what happened? Tell me about it,” Oliver coaxed.
“Ugh, so you know the marzipan latte? That’s the problem. That’s the whole problem.”
“Huh.”
“I changed too many things, too fast,” Rocco admitted. “And I took a bunch of stuff people loved off the menu.” He made a groan. “Including fucking pumpkin spice.”
Oliver chuckled. “You didn’t.”
“I know.” Rocco groaned again. “I know. It’s back on the menu, but the thing is it pissed off some people, most of the regulars, and now they won’t come back. I get some tourist business, but it’s not the same. It’s not Sweetie Pie’s.”
Oliver sighed when Rocco brought up his bakery. “Sweetie Pie’s didn’t start like you saw it, you know that.”
“Yeah, but it still got there,” Rocco said despondently. “I’m not sure Jolly Java is gonna get there.”
Just saying it out loud made Rocco want to cry. He’d poured so much into this business. Every penny he’d saved starting back when he’d been only a gangly teenager, every time he’d put in a twelve or fourteen or sixteen hour day, doing what he loved, but that was still fucking hard work. He’d done it because of this day. But now this day had come, and it wasn’t anything like he’d expected—and honestly, some of that was his own damn fault, and that made it even worse.
“You’re gonna fix it,” Oliver soothed. “You put pumpkin spice back on the menu, right?”
“Yes,” Rocco said, laughing because it was better than crying. “And gingerbread, too.”
“Good,” Oliver said. “I’ve read about Christmas Falls. The community there is so fantastic. You can win them back. I know you can, Rocco. You won me over, didn’t you?”
“You were easy,” Rocco scoffed. “You were predisposed to like me. I’m a Moretti, and you’re married to a Moretti.”
Oliver laughed. “True. But you’re still a good-natured, charming guy. Maybe you’re not Ren, but you’re no slouch.”
“Nobody is Ren except for Ren,” Rocco retorted, referring to his cousin Lorenzo, who had cut a swath through the eligible bachelors of Los Angeles with breathtaking ease.
“What I’m saying is deploy some of that infamous Moretti charm,” Oliver said. “People like you. If they like you, they’ll figure out they made a mistake.”
“Does that mean I can’t hide in my apartment, drowning my sorrows with Cherry Garcia?” Rocco asked. Even though he already knew that Rebecca wouldn’t let him tonight, anyway.
“Absolutely not. Doesn’t that festival thing start soon?” Oliver asked.
“Yep. Tonight, actually.”
“There you go,” Oliver said. “Go. Participate. Be part of the community. I know small towns. You’re a stranger. Once you’re not a stranger, you’ll be part of them, and they won’t hold the pumpkin spice thing against you.”
“I don’t know,” Rocco said with faux gravity, “people take their pumpkin spice pretty goddamn seriously.”
“Exactly. And now you know that. You’ve learned your lesson, and you won’t make that mistake again.” Oliver paused, and Rocco knew him well enough to know he was smiling. “Listen, being a business owner? Honestly, it’s just making one mistake after another. The difference between successful businesses and the ones who don’t make it? The owner’s ability to learn from their mistakes and not make them again. And you’re smart and you’re flexible. You’ll get there.”
For the first time since things had started to go badly, Rocco felt like this situation could actually be salvaged. Like he might really turn this whole thing around.
“Really?” he asked.
“Yeah. Absolutely. I wouldn’t lie to you,” Oliver said seriously. “And, if all else fails, I’ll send Luca out there to fix you up.”
“No!” Rocco yelped. He did not want Luca Moretti, the now de facto head of the Morettis, Oliver’s husband, and the culinary business genius of the family to come fix him. He wouldn’t live through it—they both wouldn’t live through it, probably.
Oliver cackled in delight at his vehemence. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t.”
“Can you . . .” Rocco hesitated. He didn’t want to tell Oliver to keep a secret from his husband, but also . . .he wasn’t ready to tell Luca he’d screwed things up here. Maybe when they were already on their way to being fixed, he’d be willing to tell his ridiculously competent cousin about it.
“Don’t worry, I won’t breathe a word to him. This stays between us,” Oliver said. “You’ll tell him when you’re ready.”
“Thank you,” Rocco said.
“But don’t be a stranger, either. You need help, you call me, okay?” Oliver’s voice was kind, empathetic even, but there was the ring of steel beneath it.
“I will,” Rocco promised.
“Good,” Oliver said. “Now go out and mingle, okay? Charm the pants off some hot guy.”
“Oliver!” Rocco squeaked, but Oliver just laughed.
“You young kids didn’t invent sex, you know.”
“I’m not young, and you’re not old,” Rocco said.
Oliver chuckled. “No, not even close. But still. Have fun, okay?”
“Okay,” Rocco said and flopped back on the couch after he’d hung up. He should get up, take a shower. Fix his hair, even though all he’d end up doing was shoving a hat on top of it, in deference to the cold Illinois weather.
But he would, in a minute. First though, he was gonna enjoy this warm feeling—the feeling that told him that this wasn’t over, not by a long shot.
A lifelong Pacific Northwester, Beth Bolden has just recently moved to North Carolina with her supportive husband. Beth still believes in Keeping Portland Weird, and intends to be just as weird in Raleigh.
Beth has been writing practically since she learned the alphabet. Unfortunately, her first foray into novel writing, titled Big Bear with Sparkly Earrings, wasn’t a bestseller, but hope springs eternal. She’s published twenty-three novels and seven novellas.
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Flake It Til You Make It #2
Christmas Falls Season 2
Christmas Falls Season 1
