Page 29 of The Holiday Games

“I was scrolling through the What’s On this Weekend listings last night, and there’s a huge craft fair on Governors Island today. Handmade goods and vintage finds and food trucks featuring ethnic holiday food from all over the globe. I mean, maybe I’m kidding myself, but I think an Icelandic mulled wine, a German schnitzel, and the perfect pair of handcrafted earrings might make all my troubles disappear.”

I nod, relieved that easing her pain is going to be so relatively easy. “I’ll order a car and book a ferry ticket for you.”

“How about…two ferry tickets?” she says, with a hint of shyness. “I mean, a craft fair is always more fun with a friend, and itisSunday. Do you have to work more, or can you slip away?”

“I can slip away,” I say, the eagerness in my tone embarrassing.

Or, it would be, if Caroline didn’t sound every bit as eager when she cheers, “Oh yay! Good. We’ll have fun! And we can talk about the logistics of moving Greg to Vermont while we’re at it. I talked to my business partner, Kayla, last night about it, and she’s over the moon. She’s always wanted an inn cat, but her kitten isn’t litter trained yet.”

“Greg is good at using his litter box. He isn’t good at much else, but if you’re still up for giving him a new home, I’ll happily drive him up to Reindeer Corners for you. I could deliver him the day after we finish filming, even, if that works.”

“But that’s Christmas Eve Day.”

I shrug. “That’s all right. I don’t have any plans. I’m Jewish.”

“Oh. Congratulations.”

I laugh. “Thanks. Just culturally, on my mom’s side, I’m not religious. But I like it, and my dad was a lapsed Catholic turned hippie solstice celebrator. As a kid, I got the best of all worlds. Hanukkah gifts, Christmas presents under the tree, and a big bonfire in the backyard on the longest night of the year.”

“Sounds awesome,” Caroline says. “Won’t your parents want you home for the holidays, then? I don’t want to keep you from your family.”

“My parents passed away in a car accident when I was a freshman in college,” I say, the words not hitting as hard as they usually do.

Maybe it’s the door between us that makes it easy to talk to Caroline. Or maybe it’s just…her. From the moment I met her, she’s felt like someone I could confide in.

“Oh, Leo.” She cracks the door and peers out at me, the one blue eye visible through the space filled with empathy. “I’m so sorry. What a hard time to lose your parents. I mean, not thatany time would have been easy, but that’s such a rough stage of life. There’s so much change and upheaval going on already.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “It was rough. But I’m okay now, I promise.” I smile. “And I would love to spend Christmas Eve Day driving my demon cat to Vermont. It would be a holiday present for both of us. He’ll get a new home, and I’ll get to go back to living my life without fear of my pet slicing me open while I’m sleeping and selling one of my kidneys on the black market. We all win.”

Her eye crinkles at the edges. “Sounds like it. Though you can’t blame Greg for trying. I hear kidneys fetch a pretty penny these days.”

“Especially prime, middle-aged kidneys like mine.”

“You don’t look middle-aged,” she says.

“No?” I arch a brow. “Could I pass for thirty-five?”

“Absolutely,” she says. “Maybe even thirty-two if the room was dark and a person had a glaucoma in at least one eye.”

I laugh, enjoying her gentle roasting more than I probably should. But then, teasing and jokes are my love language. “Thanks. I think.”

“You’re welcome.” She sighs and taps her chin. “Now, there’s just one problem.”

“What’s that?” I ask.

She opens the door, revealing her soaked form. She looks like she jumped into a pool fully clothed. Her dark hair is slicked down on either side of her face and her coveralls stick to what looks like a sweater and leggings underneath. A small puddle has formed beneath her on the tile and her shoes make a squishing sound as she shifts from one foot to the other. “I have to go back to the hotel to change before we can go have fun. I accidentally jumped into the shower with all my clothes on and couldn’t find a towel after. Apparently, I have trouble thinking clearly with a moist turd on my head.”

I pull a face. “Never use that phrase again.”

Her eyes light up. “Which one? Moist turd?”

I gag and clutch a dramatic hand to my throat.

She laughs, wickedly, wonderfully. “Which one bothers you more? Moist? Or turd?”

I shudder. “Both. All. Stop. Seriously. Or you aren’t getting dry clothes at the Brookfield Place mall on our way to the ferry, courtesy of the Innkeeping with You emergency fund.”

She mimes zipping her lips, but unzips them a second later to ask, “Can I stop by the makeup counter, too? I have red lipstick in my purse, but my lashes are sad without mascara.”

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