Beau hunches his shoulders by his ears to ward off the cold and refuses to take the garment. “Mee-maw Patsy would appear out of nowhere and beat me if I let a lady freeze.” He moves away from me as I try to hand the coat back to him.
“Sure. Right. Mee-maw Patsy.” I nod like that’s a reasonable thing to say. “But I’m from this city, and you’re from a subtropical humid climate, so I think you might need this more than me.” I chase him (at a walk), trying to give him back the coat.
Shoulders still around his ears, he ignores me. “Mee-maw Patsy is a spitfire with a big wooden spoon.”
“Okay then. Wouldn’t want to piss off Mee-maw.” Even if I’m not 100 percent sure about who a Mee-maw is. I think it’s a grandma, but I’m not willing to bet any money on it.
I settle the coat back on my shoulders, happy to be back in the comfort of the garment even though I don’t need it.
The car comes before shivering, noble, stubborn Beau can freeze to death, and a short thirty-minute, two-and-a-half-mile ride later, we’re at the restaurant.
“Oh god,” Beau says as he walks in, and I smile as I remember what it felt like to see Rolf’s for the first time. It’s a German restaurant with a solid menu year-round, but it really shines at Christmas. Brightly colored Christmas ornaments, dripping garlands, and twinkling lights hang from the ceiling and wrap around every column, with Santas displayed at strategic locations.
Christmas covers every available space, like Santa went too hard on the ’nog and cookies and threw up Christmas in the restaurant.
It’s heaven.
“Isn’t it great?” I ask.
“It’s...something. Do you know where your friends are?” Beau uses his superior height to look over the crowd. I don’t know how he would recognize them, but I appreciate the effort.
“Just follow the loudest group and you should be good.” I hear some raucous laughter. “Never mind, just follow me.”
I lead the man through the festive restaurant, dodging happy-hour enthusiasts and long light icicles on my way to a wooden booth in the back.
“When did you start shopping in the men’s department? Are you just tried of not having pockets?” a voice booms at me when I get into yelling distance of the source of the noise.
Well, yelling distance if you’re Indian.
Chapter Three
“Hey, Priya. Good to know you didn’t wait for me to order the mulled wine.” I take the coat off and steal her glass to take a sip. She’s had enough; she’s far too happy.
She sticks her tongue out at me and looks around to catch our waiter’s attention. More mulled wine ordered, she turns back to me. “I think the man you stole the coat from is right behind you,” she stage-whispers at me.
“This kind man wholentme the coat is a client, Beau.” I indicate the man. “He’s a business-farmer who needs some art to redecorate his new offices.” I don’t mention that I’ve offered him a much more involved level of help in that endeavor.
Priya perks up, a sharp look chasing the wine-induced looseness away. “Priya. Nice to meet you.” She shakes his hand.
And then the process repeats with her twin, Ajay. We slide into the side of the booth not occupied by my cousins and they restart the argument they were apparently having before we got there. Usual.
“So what would you do if you were decorating our space?” Beau leans in a little to ask me the question while the twins bicker among themselves.
“Well, we usually like the buyer to have more of a say, so their personality can come through, but...” I have a feeling he doesn’t care enough to make up his mind. “I’d go classical for you. Traditional furniture with a mix of paintings about agriculture and antiquity. Maybe some fancy people from yesteryear looking out over their estates.”
“You don’t see us as cuttin’-edge contemporary?” He drops thegfor extra emphasis.
“Cuttin’-edge tractor technology maybe,” I mumble, drinking my stolen mulled wine. The warm liquid goes a long way to battling the winter chill. And to making me a lot sassier with a client than I usually would be.
“You been sittin’ on that one long?” he drawls.
“I’ve beensittingon it since you said you hail from a farm... Old MacDonald.”
He stares at me, unamused. Mouth not even twitching to hide a smile. Okay, he doesn’t love that nickname.
“Traditional.” I change the subject back to what we were discussing. “There’s a reason it’s so well-liked. And it seems like it would suit you, and the building you’re in, best.”
Because Old MacDonald and his farm cannot pull off contemporary. His clothes are business casual but now that I’ve spent the afternoon with him, I can see him fidgeting in the tight slacks, tugging at the shirtsleeves, and flinching every time someone honks a horn. He’s not entirely comfortable in the concrete jungle.
