Page 26 of Home for Christmas in July

I hesitate. I don’t want to frighten her, but I also don’t want her tromping around near the woods alone. Not tonight, and not even in the light of day. “There was a break-in at the lodge.”

Her green eyes go wide. “What?”

“Enrique flagged me down out on the road. Someone broke a window to get into the ski lodge. Doesn’t look like they took anything, but between that and the fact that therewasa person running through the woods, it’s not a good idea. Stay here tonight, and we can look for your third clue together tomorrow.”

Yes, I want her to stay because I’m not sure what’s going on out in the woods and I want her to be safe. But it’s more than that. I don’t want to be alone. This realization sets me back on my metaphorical heels. My therapist is going to lose it when he hears this. Dane has been urging me to acknowledgewhat I want for months now. At first, right after Carol died, I was numb. Then after the heaviest grief eased a bit, I just felt flat. Colorless. Dane keeps probing me, pushing me to acknowledge that wanting Carol not to have died isn’t a real answer. Well, this is. I want Noelle to stay. I’m not entirely sure how I feel about wanting this, but I can’t deny that I want it.

She scrunches up her face. “Oh, Nick, I don’t really think?—”

“Please.” My voice is gruffer than usual. “I’ll make up the girls’ bedroom for you. Then we can look for your clue together in the morning.”

Her face goes still, and she studies me. After a pause that stretches out way too long, she says. “Sure, why not? I don’t go into the library until the afternoon on Thursdays.”

“Great. I’ll get dinner started.”

“Did you catch it?” Her smile is knowing.

What can I say, my fake fisherman status is an open secret around town. I lean into her amusement.

“That depends. By did I catch it, do you mean did I have the foresight to bring along a box of pasta and the fixings for a red sauce? If so, then, yep, I caught it.”

When she’s done giggling, I gesture for her to follow me into the kitchen.

CHAPTER 11

Noelle

Idress baby salad greens and some tomatoes from Nick’s garden in a balsamic vinaigrette then uncork a dusty bottle of chianti and leave it to breathe. I lean against the counter and watch him whip up a quick sauce while the pasta boils. The smell of garlic sizzling in olive oil fills the small kitchen and my stomach growls appreciatively. He tosses a handful of basil into the pan, followed by salt and pepper. Then he opens a can of crushed tomatoes and dumps them on top.

I hand him the red pepper flakes. “Homemade sauce. I’m impressed.”

“Don’t be. My Italian grandma would never pay for jarred sauce. She made hers the right way, simmered her Sunday gravy all day long. My sister still uses her recipe. This quickversion can’t compare, but it’s better than the stuff in the supermarket.”

He shakes the flakes into the sauce and gives it a stir. Watching him cook is disturbingly sexy. This thought pops unbidden into my brain. I give myself a horrified, silent scolding and distract myself from the way his rolled-up sleeves show off his tanned forearms by pouring the wine.

“Cin cin.”The Italian toast emerges from the recesses of my mind.

I hand him a glass and he clinks it against mine. “Cheers. I forgot about your time in Italy. Don’t judge my sauce too harshly, please.”

I sip the smooth wine and smile. “Noted. Since Idouse the grocery store stuff, you’re safe.”

The timer dings, and he jerks his chin. “Can you drain the pasta?”

I grab a potholder, carry the pot over to the colander he’s set up in the sink, and dump the pasta. I give the colander a shake, return the pasta to the pot, and drizzle some olive oil on top. He nods approvingly and switches off the stove. We plate and sauce the pasta, wordlessly anticipating each other’s movements in the cramped space. It’s an oddly intimate silent dance and I’m hyperaware of his body in relation to mine as we work. His thigh grazes mine as he slides behind me to open the refrigerator, and heat surges to the surface of my skin. I freeze, not moving. Barely breathing, for that matter.

Maybe ease off the wine,I tell myself. Immediately ignoring myself, I take a big gulp.

He digs around in a kitchen drawer to find a cheese grater then shaves some fresh hard Parmesan on top of the pasta. Itake my plate and the salad bowl and follow him to the tiny table. Once we’re seated and have portioned out our salads, he gives me an unreadable look.

“What?”

“I almost said ‘three things.’”

I furrow my brow. He says it like I should know what he’s talking about, but I’m lost. “Three things?” I parrot.

He huffs out a quiet laugh and picks up his glass. “Sorry. Force of habit. When the girls were little, Carol started this nightly tradition at the dinner table. We’d go around the table and list three things from our day—one thing we were grateful for, one thing we regretted, and one thing we planned to do to make the next day a better day. We kept it up even after the girls moved out.”

Three things sounds like a quintessentially Carol ritual. She was always finding ways to be present, be thankful, bebetter.I bite back the conflicting emotions stirred up and warring inside me—guilt, gratitude, uncertainty—and raise my glass.

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