“So, you’re not…”
“No, we’redefinitelynot.” I reach for the bottle of bourbon, tipping my chin toward her empty glass to check if she wants it filled. She nods, and I fill it as I continue. “As for what I like, I don’t care what I’m having for dinner if I get you as company.”
Averting her eyes, she tries to hide a smile while taking a thoughtful sip that relaxes something in her shoulders. And for a few moments, we sit together in comfortable silence.
Finally, she opens her mouth to speak. “You’ll be happy to know I managed to keep the wood stove going all day.”
Actually, I’d love to know she needed to sleep in my bed again.
Even still, I can’t help but smile at how proud she is of herself. “Very impressive.”
She flourishes a French fry as she speaks. “I basically roleplayed as Laura Ingalls Wilder all day, trying to romanticize the idea of being alone in a cabin waiting for Almanzo to comehome. That’s where the idea to make soup came from. And it was going great until I got too distracted with a commission I’m working on.”
“I’m way more of a Charles than an Almanzo. Rugged, handsome, good with my hands. Charles would come home and have a good laugh when Caroline’s frazzled over the soup. You need to change it so I’m Charles Ingalls, and you can be Caroline.” I bite a piece of breaded chicken matter-of-factly.
“You don’t get to barge in and make demands duringmydaydream.”
“Caroline’s hotter than Laura. You should be happy about the switch.”
“All this bossing around, you’re starting to sound like Nellie.” She shakes her head, throwing back the rest of her bourbon with a small wince.
“Doubt I could pull off her curls.”
That makes her laugh. Damn if that’s not a sound I want to hear every minute of every day.
“Normally, I wouldn’t entertain another second of somebody desecrating my girl, Laura, but I’m very curious why you know so much aboutLittle House on the Prairie.”
“Three sisters and a mother. I didn’t even know shows about superheroes and dinosaurs existed until middle school.” I chuckle. “Plus, my mom read us the entire series as bedtime stories.”
“Why aren’t you spending Christmas with them?” Eira nudges her empty glass toward me, and I happily pour a couple ounces. “I mean, I know Holly’s with Daniel’s family, but what about the rest of your family?”
I shrug. “My other sisters have families, so my parents are busy jumping between their houses to see grandkids. And no matter how many times Holly hints at it, I’m never doing Christmas with Daniel’s family.”
Eira smacks her palm against the table edge. “Do you know they gorunningas a family on Christmas day? I’m not evenwalkingon a food holiday unless there’s a serial killer after me—even then…” Her hands tip like two sides of a scale, weighing out invisible choices.
“A food holiday?”
“You know”—the liquid in her lowball glass swirls with a slow roll of her wrist—“the holidays where all you do is eat. Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter. Also known asno pantsholidays.”
I cough into my fist, liquor burning a path into my lungs. “Are you related to Winnie the Pooh? Why is your family pantsless on Christmas?”
Eira’s laugh makes the tapered candle between us flicker and sway. If it weren’t for that open flame, I’d leap across and kiss her. Taste the bourbon on her lips while I imagine spending this Christmas with her, without pants.
“If you wear a big enough shirt, it’s like a dress. And I can eat as much as I want without feeling uncomfortable.”
“Whatever this weird Christmas of yours is, sign me up. I’ll even lend you a T-shirt to wear as a dress.”
Eira and I both take a small gulp of liquor, letting the flirtation in my voice hang like dead air between us.
“Honestly, there should be a law against exercise on Christmas Day. I don’t know how Holly deals with her in-laws,” she says with a grimace. “If I accidentally marry into a marathon-running family, the only running I’m doing is to the divorce attorney’s office.”
“It would be a holiday though, so they’re closed. Now what do you do?”
“Fake my own death,” she deadpans. “It’s the only way.”
Our hands brush when we reach for the same French fry, creating lightning bolts between us. This feels silly—I’ve fuckedher against a wall before. A finger graze over a plate of food shouldn’t make my heart rate run rampant. But it does.
“Why aren’t you with your family?” I ask.
