Page 54 of Take Me Home for Christmas

“Mmm, now you’re talking,” he said. “More kisses, please.”

“Focus on the curd,” I said. “For now.”

He chewed, his skeptical frown dissolving into a look of pure pleasure. “This is incredible. What is a cheese curd anyway?”

A magical thing. But I wanted him to discover that for himself, so I started from the beginning. “Did you ever learn the nursery rhyme,Little Miss Muffet, sat on a tuffet…”

“…eating her curds and whey?”

“Exactly,” I confirmed. “The curds separate from the whey, which is the watery part.”

His mouth curved upward. “Interesting, but can I have another one?”

I frowned. “A curd or a kiss?”

Before I could answer, he reached over and kissed me breathless, right there on the bench, in the middle of the Christmas shopping crowd. He even remembered to take the little cardboard carton of curds from my hand and set it down. When we finally came up for air, I had no idea how long we’d been kissing or what we’d been talking about beforehand. I did vaguely remember, in retrospect, a couple of whistles, claps, and cheers from passersby.

“Wisconsin has the only master cheesemaker program outside Switzerland,” I said as I recovered.

He shot me a giant grin. “Good to remember if being a doctor doesn’t work out.” He popped another fried curd into his mouth. “These are almost as addictive as you.”

We devoured the rest of the cheese and, energy restored, were window shopping our way back to Brax’s car, when he suddenly halted in front of the most chichi shop on the street,a women’s clothing boutique that I’d never even step foot in. La Petite Poussine, The Baby Chick, was like a James Beard-rated restaurant that made you salivate over its entrées even as your wallet forced you to head down the street to settle for a drive-through burger. But burgers were good too, right? And they didn’t break the bank. Until recently, anyway.

Brax was staring at the mannequin in the window, who wore a red sequined dress with a plunging neckline that fit her unrealistic form like a second skin.

He turned to me, all earnestness. “You need this.”

Was he joking? “I am not going to wear Revenge Red to my ex’s party.”

“But your English teacher said.” He literally held up his face so close to the window that his nose touched the glass. “How about that one?” I did the same, to find him pointing to another dress that hung jauntily on a headless mannequin above a round dress rack. It was formfitting, made of a shimmery maroon material, with a scooped neckline and little straps. I gave a little gasp. It was love at first sight.

The dress was…stunning. Satiny, clingy, but classy. It was something you’d wear to a fancy office Christmas party or a wedding or a dinner and feel amazing in. Plus, it happened to be my favorite color, deep, intense, but not wildly bright.

I guess I hesitated, but Brax took that for ayes,and next thing I knew, he was towing me through the door, straight up to the dress. I dared to touch the butter-soft material. “Pretty.” I immediately searched for the price tag, but this time, Brax steered me off to the side. Before he could make a case for the dress, I dropped my voice. “This place is out of my price range.”

What he said next shocked me. With a look of total assurance, he said, “This is an out-of-your-comfort-zone event. You need a one-of-a-kind dress.”

The man was not a spendthrift. I happened to know that he bought his dress shirts at TJ Maxx. He made his lunch at home every single day and brought it to work in a vintage Spiderman lunch box from the nineties. And of course, there was his eight-year-old CR-V. So, this was completely out of character.

“May I help you?” A woman who looked to be in her thirties with jet-black hair, red lipstick, and a French accent walked over to us, smiling.

A woman in a bright orange jumpsuit waved to her and left out the door. Either she was an escaped con or at the height of fashion, I wasn’t sure which.

I was wearing soft old jeans and a Fair Isle sweater. A fashionista I was not. What was I even doing here?

“No, thanks,” I said, “we were just…”

I didn’t even get out the “looking” before Brax asked, “Would you happen to have this dress in my girlfriend’s size?”

“Ah, but this is the only one.” She reached up to touch the hem so that the silky material caught all the rays of light from a nearby Christmas tree. “A beauty, isn’t it?”

I tugged on Brax’s arm. I happened to get a feel of his biceps in the process, which was actually not unpleasant. “There, you see?” I said with an oh-well smile. “Wasn’t meant to be. Time to go.”

Claudia, our salesperson, according to her name tag, proceeded to take the dress off the headless mannequin and then hold it up next to me. “You have a coat on, of course, but I believe this might be your size. When do you need it for?”

“Tonight,” Brax said.

“Would you like to try it on?” she asked pleasantly.

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