“Don’t ask.” She looks wistfully at the tree and the fake presents tucked underneath. “I grew up above a Chinese restaurant that was open Christmas Day. I waited tables while my stepfather cooked. My mother would rather play mahjong and gamble, and my sperm supplier’s idea of Christmas is to send me a check. How about you?”
Me? I hate talking about myself, and I grudgingly give out information only to obtain more. I shrug and peruse the menu. “You want Christmas comfort food; this is the place. Homemade chicken pot pie, salt-roasted prime roast, oh, look, they have crusty macaroni and cheese with cranberry sprinkles.”
“I’m actually interested in steak, remember?” Sammie tugs the menu from my face. “What did you guys eat for Christmas dinner?”
Sweat prickles my forehead, and my heart rate stutters. When my mother was alive, she had extra special recipes named for each one of us. She loved Christmas and spent the entire month of December decorating and singing Christmas carols modified with our names. All of this is too special to share with a stranger—no matter what temporary sparks are firing between us.
I tug at my collar and swallow, then glance up with gratitude at the friendly smile of the head chef.
“Hey, Braden,” she greets me and hooks her friendly smile at Sammie. “Welcome. I’m Sherelle, and you’re?”
“This is my friend, Samantha Reed,” I finish for her. “She’s eager to try one of your Christmas dishes.”
“You can call me Sammie,” Sammie says, while kicking me under the table—not sure why.
“Are you into seafood?” Sherelle asks. “May I recommend the Christmas gumbo? My family usually has it on Christmas Eve.”
“That sounds fascinating,” I encourage her to keep talking. “What in it makes it Christmas?”
“Secret ingredient.” She waggles her eyebrows. “If it’s something more traditional you want, we have Santa’s steak au jus.”
“Oh, I like the sound of that,” Sammie says. “How many ounces?”
“We have eight-ounce, twelve, and the jumbo sixteen-ounce,” Sherelle replies. “It’s basically a bourbon brown sugar steak with a dash of Tabasco.”
“And that’s the way Santa likes it, hot?” Sammie giggles. “I’ll have the jumbo size, medium-rare.”
I hand over the menu. “And I’ll have the reindeer schnitzel with sloe gin and roasted chestnuts.”
“I can’t believe you’re eating Rudolph,” Sammie says after Sherelle departs.
“At least, I’m not swallowing Santa.” I give her a playful tap on the knee.
She rolls her eyes. “Better Santa than you.”
“Let’s see how you do after all sixteen ounces of meat. Seriously, how do you fit it all into that little packet of you?”
She at least has the decency to blush. “Good things come in small packages. I’ve lost weight in prison. Nothing but skin and bones.”
I hope to be the judge of that, but I know better than to comment on a woman’s body, especially since it’s shrouded underneath a baggy sweatshirt and saggy jeans.
We enjoy our meal. I’m feeling pretty good about this first date with Sammie and wondering what my next step is when my phone rings.
I let it go to voicemail, since I’m not the rude sort of guy. Instead, I ply Sammie with a Christmas Mule cocktail and Christmas Coal fudge cake.
“Why aren’t you picking up the phone?” Sammie asks in between slurps of dark chocolate fudge chased by the warm ginger beer and vodka mix. “Maybe it’s Mitch checking up on how well you’re treating me.”
“I can always check in with him later. What’s important is celebrating your first night free.”
She rolls her eyes. “As if Mitch cares. He’s just worried I’ll talk, that’s all.”
“If he knew you better, he’d know you’re too smart to really give him away. After all, as long as you have a hold over him, no matter how tenuous, he has to jump when you say jump.”
Sure, I’m dishing on the flattery, hoping for a little reverse psychology to mix in with the alcohol she’s imbibing.
She twirls the cinnamon stick in her drink and sighs. “It’s far from tenuous. Maybe Mitch didn’t tell you exactly how precarious his position is.”
“I’m listening.” My ears perk, and I put my phone on record mode under the table. “Precarious in what way?”
