Page 58 of Lighting Up Christmas

“What’s with the olive pillows?” she asked picking one up and moving it to the other side of the low, white, nubby couch.

“Martinis.” He continued to whisk, his focus absolute.

Maybe she could cook if she paid attention like that. She usually had several things going on at once when she cooked—mopping the floor, laundry, emptying the dishwasher, working on a light, or updating her accounting program.

“Huh?”

“Jackson and I, when we sold our first company and made some serious bank, celebrated with martinis. We went to a famous martini bar in San Francisco and overindulged and got on a martini kick for six months or so. It would be our Friday cocktail hour, only it was usually around midnight before we’d call it a day, so we’d take turns coming up with new martini names and ingredients. Jackson bartended his way through school, so he had experience, but I hate to lose.”

Riley noted the ghost of a smile on Zhang’s face. It pleased her that he had a business partner who was a friend as well as a coworker. She’d worried he was too alone.

“So Jackson bought you olive pillows?”

Zhang looked up at her. “He often grumbled about my color scheme. I bought the pillows for me to show him I could. And I bought a set for him.”

“That’s so sweet,” she murmured.

“I’ve been called many things over the years. Never sweet.”

“Really.” Riley sat down on a wrought iron barstool—with, of course, white upholstery. “I would imagine a lot of women swoon over you,” Riley said honestly.

“Not a one.”

“Why?” She palmed her coffee and looked up at him.

He put down the bowl and counted out the paper muffin liners—white—into the muffin pan.

“That’s self-explanatory.”

“No, it’s not,” Riley said.

“I’m driven. Focused on my work. Jackson’s learned to put up with me. We have different roles in the company, so it works.”

“What an odd way to view yourself,” Riley mused, not really thinking he’d hear with his efficiently deft mixing of the muffin ingredients.

“But then I am odd.”

Riley opened her mouth to object. The pained smile looked like it hurt as much as his words.

“Zhang…”

“Odd is the nicest way to put it.”

“Not really.” Riley glared, hands on hips like she was back in elementary school facing down another bully.

“I’ve heard much worse. I’m smart. Ambitious. Arrogant. When I lived with my grandfather, I didn’t interact with other children or many other people. Growing up we moved so much I had no idea how to fit in and didn’t try. I didn’t go to a regular high school, so I didn’t get many chances to interact with my peers until college, and there I was two years younger thaneveryone. I was always in my head and turned my ideas into a lot of money. I didn’t bother trying to change.”

Riley could picture that, but the way he stated it, so dispassionately, made her insides squeeze and her heart feel like lead.

“It’s hard not to fit in even if you think you don’t want to,” she said.

Zhang didn’t respond. He spooned some batter into each of the cups, shredded some Parmigiana cheese, flicked that in with his long, deft fingers and then spooned in more batter. He finished each of the muffins with what looked like purplish crystalized sugar.

“I attended Stanford when I was sixteen. It was one of my first experiences interacting with my so-called peers, and I was rather feral, Jackson claims, so, no. Women didn’t think I was cute or sweet. And a triple major in computer science, physics, and computational mathematical sciences didn’t give me time to care.”

So he was really, really smart, and judging by the house and the fixtures and the appliances, really, really rich. That made him seem further away. Zhang living in the foothills of Mount Ashland and her living on the valley floor seemed like an apt metaphor for their relationship. Their non-relationship.

“Have you spoken to your grandfather about moving to the farmhouse?” She changed the subject to one she hoped was less fraught.

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