I don’t answer him. Instead, I text Delia and tell her to make her sweet potato soufflé for Christmas Eve. I text Leona too, reminding her to come for dinner when she gets home on the twenty-sixth.
I do anything but text Reid. I make a grocery list for the holidays. I order slippers for James. Christmas is ten days away, and I’ve never been this prepared.
Swiping my glasses off, I rub my palm across my face. “Ugh,” I say to an empty room.
I stand up and pace. I hate grading. Oh, did I mention Tim couldn’t hack being a TA and liking a female in the class? So he quit, leaving all this damn end-of-semester grading to me.
Opening the mail app on my phone, I notice Andrea hasn’t written me back. I also stare at my text messages icon—no red dot with a number inside. No messages back from Andi.
Jeez, I’m hopeless. Either that, or showing up at her house unannounced, declaring myself worried over her sick daughter, was over the top.
Or both.
Making a deal with myself, I decide to finish grading this section’s assignments, and then go for a run. When I get back, I’m going to grill a brisket and slather it with some ginger-honey sauce, and call it a day. No more texting Andi; no more internet stalking and confiding in Andrea.
None of it.
Obviously, easier said than done when Andi replies to my text.
ANDI: That sounds great. Cocktails on Saturday. Gabby was invited to her first sleepover party.
The possibilities feel endless as my pulse refuses to settle following my run. I grab a water and answer Andi.
REID: She must be excited. Of course, it’s not as great as FunZone. :) Why don’t I pick you up and we try the new Bar Frenchman?
Part of me wants to invite her here and cook for her, but she deserves a date. I get the sense she doesn’t get out all that much—
ANDI: Perfect. 7:30?
Who am I to disagree? I tell her yes and find my second wind when it comes to grading. Time to plow through this shit.
We’re sitting in the corner of the bar at Bar Frenchman. Glass windows span the length of the building to our left, revealing snow drifting from the sky.
“Cheers!”
We clink glasses, Reid’s full of a rich amber liquid, mine a cabernet.
“To our first civilized date,” Reid says with a laugh.
“That’d be correct. Although I’m not sure which was more barbaric, FunZone or Lumberjax?” I answer before taking a sip.
“Or after Lumberjax.”
“Fishing for compliments, I see.”
“Not at all, but I must say, you look beautiful tonight.”
I look down at my black fitted sweater (a V-neck with a decent view of the tatas), skinny jeans, and ankle boots. Pretty much my leaving-the-house uniform.
“Thank you.” I bring my gaze back to Reid’s. “I’m not such a dressy person.”
“I like that about you. After all, I grill for a living. Well, not a living, but a part-time gig.”
“Bet you’re pretty glad not to be grilling tonight.”
We turn and catch the rapidly increasing snowfall.
“I do it in the snow,” he says with a wink, and I giggle like a schoolgirl. “It’s not bad, bundling up and standing in front of a warm grill, plus the end result is always a win-win. Last year, I did beef ribs on the grill for Christmas. Some of the guys from work came over.”
