He grinned. Lasagna was a favorite, especially on a cold, damp night. “Home-cooked? Or the Lean Cuisine version?”
“Damn,” she said, and snapped her fingers. “I wish I’d remembered the Lean Cuisines. This is the home-cooked version. Are you hungry?”
“Are you offering? Because I suddenly feel like I could eat this house.”
“Please don’t,” she said with a laugh.
Harrison could already feel his mood lightening at the mere mention of a home-cooked meal—he’d not realized how much he missed that until he was presented with the opportunity.
“I’ve got wine, and the lasagna has another thirty minutes in the oven.”
“Shall I build a fire?” he asked. “It seems to have gotten colder.”
“Way ahead of you,” she said, and just like that, “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” piped into the hall. Amy laughed.
This was shaping up to be the best ending to a grim day.
While they waited for the lasagna to finish baking, he poured wine, and they pulled chairs up before the fire, sticking their socked feet as close to the flames as they could get. Through the massive windows in the back of the house, they could see Christmas lights twinkling across the water while the Christmas tunes wafted overhead. He was suddenly very relaxed and content. This—the two of them together in front of the fire—had a romantic feel to it. It was nice to be somewhere other than a golf course, and with a woman instead of a bunch of bros drinking Jägermeister.
When the oven beeped, they both got up. Amy noticed his knee buckle slightly. “Are you okay?” she asked as he followed her into the kitchen. “Did those boots do that to you?”
He laughed. “Old guy problems,” he said, too quickly, because he was beginning to wonder. “It gets a little achy with damp weather,” he added, and refreshed their glasses. “I’m starting to sound like a grandpa.”
“You sound like an athlete.” Amy heaped lasagna on plates along with a salad. She’d bought a loaf of garlic bread today, too.
“So, did you make any progress today?” he asked.
“Progress?” She paused and stared at the tree a moment. “The whole thing is such a weird process.” She glanced at the salad and shook her head. “I made a sketch, then jotted down some notes. But then I couldn’t find my readers, and I can’t make out what my notes say because my handwriting has gotten atrocious.” She winked at him. “Old lady problems.”
“You’re not an old lady. And I have the same problem. I can’t read a scorecard without them now. Not to mention, remember anyone’s name.”
“Me too!” she said, clearly delighted by the revelation. “Tell me your dog’s name, and I’ll never forget it. Oh, there goes Harold the hound. But the owner? It is guaranteed that I will never be able to recall the name, no matter how many times I see them. Why is that? Why can someone tell me their name and I can’t hold on to it for even a minute?”
“Harrison,” Harrison said, patting himself on the chest. “Just in case.”
“See? I could have sworn it was Harry.”
Harrison laughed and slid onto a barstool. “How many calls from your family today?”
She grinned. “You’re keeping track, too, huh? I had one from my ex, and two from my oldest son. We had an issue last night when a Minecraft world went missing, and he was defending himself.”
Harrison stared at her a moment. “I have no idea what you just said.”
“It’s not even worth explaining.” She slid a plate in front of him, then took a seat on the other side of the bar and picked up a fork. “I miss them, though.”
“I can imagine.” But he didn’t know if he could, really.
“It’s so weird, having kids,” she said. “Sometimes, I look at them and can’t believe Ryan and I created two perfect beings. Jonah is so compassionate. He worries about the environment and the tone of political discourse in the country, and genuinely wants to help people. Except maybe his little brother.” She laughed. “And Ethan, he is so creative. He’s a little ball of anxiety, but his imagination is wild. He builds entire cities andempires in his games. Very intricate creations. Both of my kids are so smart and inventive, and I can’t even imagine what things they might achieve. But at the same time, they need me so much. Sometimes, I feel suffocated by how much they need me.”
“I guess love in general can be suffocating in certain circumstances. We all need space from time to time.”
“True,” she said. “But I miss them.” She glanced away, apparently lost in thought. But then she turned back. “Do you really think it’s going to snow?”
They chatted about the weather, of course, and somehow moved from there to holiday memories. Harrison confessed he didn’t remember a lot from his childhood. “My parents threw a big holiday party every year. I remember the house was filled with adults. Usually in formal attire. I had to wear a little-boy tuxedo every year.”
“How fancy,” she mused. “Howcute.”
“My best friend and I would sip the dregs of martinis left around. That’s probably where I learned to like them. What about you?”
