Page 37 of Dancing in Lake Mistletoe

“Hey, you okay over there?” I set my glass on the table and reach my hand out to him.

His eyes fall to our hands. “I’m sorry. I’m out of practice with this whole dating thing,” he says as he intertwines his finger with mine.

“I don’t know. You’ve knocked it out of the park so far,” I say.

His gaze flickers up to mine. “You think?”

“Well, you started the day with a sleigh ride in the snow, we just had a great meal, and now, I’m enjoying an excellent glass of wine in front of a fire with a cake on its way. I’d say it’s in the running for best first date I’ve ever had.”

“What would it take to push it over the top?” he asks.

I sit back and bring the glass to my lips without answering. Just then, a server places a board with a massive molten chocolate lava cake and two scoops of vanilla-bean ice cream on the table.

“Thank you,” Dutch says before releasing my fingers to hand me a small silver spoon.

I set my glass down, leaning in to inhale the aroma of the confection, and dip the spoon in it. A swell of warm, melted chocolate floats down the sides. I dip a chunk of cake in the wave and take a bite. I moan my approval. Licking away the bit of chocolate that ran down the spoon to the valley between my thumb and index finger.

My eyes flit to Dutch, who is watching me intently.

“Good?” he asks.

“Amazing. You should try it.”

“I’d rather watch you enjoy it,” he says, his voice a low rumble.

I shake my head. “Oh, no, we’re sharing this. I can’t eat it all.”

He relents and digs his spoon into the decadent dessert.

Giving him my full attention, I say, “So, tell me more about Dutch.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

He nods, but there’s a flicker of hesitation in his eyes. I can see him trying to find the right words, trying to decide how much to share and how much to hold back. He takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly, and then meets my gaze.

“My last name is Lowell.”

“That’s a good start,” I say on a laugh.

“I grew up here, but moved to Boston to attend MIT.”

I nod.

“That’s where I met my wife, Lexi,” he continues.

I can see the love in his eyes as he mentions her.

“We got married two years later, and Josie was born the following year,” he says.

I nod, staying quiet, giving him the space to tell the story in his own time. I know bits and pieces—how his wife died when Josie was just a baby, how he’s raised her on his own since then—but I don’t know any of the details. And I get the sense that this isn’t just about facts. This is about the weight of all those years, the struggle, the grief he’s carried.

“When Lexi died, it was sudden,” he says, his voice laced with emotion. “She was sick for a short while, but we thought … she and I thought she’d get better. It wasn’t until the very end that we realized how bad it was. And by then, it was too late.”

He pauses, looking down at his hands. I reach across the table, gently resting my hand on his. He glances up, his eyes glistening, and that makes my heart ache for him.

“I can’t even explain what it felt like,” he continues, his voice just above a whisper. “One day, she was there, and the next … she wasn’t. And I had this little girl, not even two years old, who had no idea what was happening. She didn’t understand why her mom wasn’t coming home.”

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