“Tomorrow. Promise. Now, let me tell you how my blind date went last week.”
I groan but let it go. “Is this the one your neighbor set you up with?”
“No, but that guy turned out to be a fruitarian.”
“A what?”
“A fructivore? Someone who only eats fruit. You should have seen the restaurant he took me to…”
A smile creeps across my face as I lean against the workbench, settling in. On the list of things I’m grateful for, Zoe trying to cheer me up—while pretending that isn’t what she’s doing at all—is pretty damn high.
DECEMBER 18
CHAPTER 3
GEORGE
“I’ve solvedyour writer’s block problem,” Zoe announces as she blows past me into my apartment. “You’re welcome.”
It’s still early enough that I’m in my robe and haven’t had a full cup of coffee yet, and I’m really not ready for whatever it is that’s coming next. She makes a beeline for the bedroom closet.
“Please tell me I don’t need to hide you from the police. I told you, Anabel isn’t the problem.”
“Ha, ha, ha.” She pulls her head back out of my dress shirts. “Where are your suitcases?”
“Hall closet.” And she’s off again. I follow.
“I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but if you could tell me what the hell is going on, I’d really appreciate it.”
“I told you. I solved your problem.” She hoists my largest bag out of the closet, pulls out the handle, and wheels it back toward the bedroom. Over her shoulder, she says, “You’re going on a writer’s retreat.”
“What? No, I’m not. I hate those things. They’re all kumbaya and coffee socials and people trying to hook up. Not to mention, I’m always by far the most well-known person, and everyone seems to view me as a networking Holy Grail.”
We’re back in the bedroom again, and Zoe is digging through my drawers, throwing socks, underwear, and pajamas into the open bag on the bed.
“Iknow,” she says with a Cheshire Cat grin, “Which is why I’m sending you on your own personalprivatewriting retreat.”
“Ugh, Zoe,” I plunk myself onto the bed, “I don’t want to just sit in a sterile hotel room all by myself over the holidays. That would be even more depressing than, well, this.”
“Which iswhyyou’re not going to a sterile hotel. You’re going to my cousin’s lovely, homey, cozy cabin in Vermont, andhe’scoming here.” She moves to the closet and begins rifling through my shirts. “Do you have any flannel?”
“Zoe!”
“Hmm?” She throws me an innocent look.
“You told your cousin that he and I could,” I make a sort of back-and-forth gesture with my hands, “swaphomes?”
“No!” It seems like await for itmoment, so I wait for it. “I haven’t talked to him yet. I needed to check with you first.”
Oh, good God.
“Is this supposed to be you checking with me?”
She comes and sits down next to me on the bed. “Georgie, sweetie, think about it. Do you really want to stay in the city and mope?”
“I’m not moping.”
“Oh, good. So you’ll be happy to come out and see all the out-of-town guests while they’re here for Luca’s wedding?”
