“Why? What happened?”
“Some clumsy man practically knocked me over at The Phoxes Den and I broke all of my damn jars.”
“What! On purpose?”
“No but still. My shit broke and I was pissed.”
“Oh no. Did you hurt the man with your mean ass?”
“No. I didn’t but I cursed his ass out. And he had the nerve to be smiling and shit, trying to be charming,” I say and roll my eyes.
“Bitch,” she utters.
“What?”
“Don’t what me. Smiling and charming? Was he fine?”
And although I hate to admit it out loud, I answer her truthfully. “Very. Oh God! Very fine and sexy as fuck.”
“I knew it,” she says, then laughs.
“Did you at least smile and give him your number?”
“Why the hell would I give a man that knocked me over my damn number?”
“Because he was fine and you haven’t had a man in a long ass time. So long, I’ve lost count.”
“Bitch, fuck you!” I scoff playfully.
“Not me, him, and soon too. You need to smile and relax before Christmas.”
“I’m just going to ignore you and hang up. I need to cook these sandwiches anyway.”
“Before you hang up, let’s get a drink tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes. You’ve had a day. I’ve had a day. We deserve a drink. We can go around seven and be back before it’s too late. One hour, Forty Acres,” she says. “We both can take an iDrive so we can be irresponsible for once, and don’t say no.”
Because I have had a long ass day, I agree. A drink can never hurt. “Okay. I’ll be there. I’ll text you when I leave.”
“Yes. Now let me finish these steaks.”
I end the call with her then place the sandwiches on the grill pan. Amara walks in right when I’m flipping them. She walks over to the Instant Pot.
“Is it done?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Did you release the steam? I hate doing that.”
“Yes. I opened it already. You can lift the top. And these are almost done. Grab the plates and bowls please.”
“The Santa bowls?” she asks with a smile.
“Yes, Mrs. Kringle, the Santa bowls are fine. I already took down the Ho-Ho-Ho mugs.”
“You made more hot cocoa?”
