Page 20 of Must Love Christmas

Garen chuckled. “Until I see your sticky note. Then it’ll all come rushing back.”

* * *

57 Days UntilChristmas

“Did you lads know that plastic is meant to go on the top rack of the dishwasher?” Garen asked his teammates gathered in the warm room of the Edinburgh ice rink Saturday night.

“Of course.” Luca shook pepper over his steaming plate of pasta. “It might melt if you put it in the bottom. That’s where the heating elements are.”

“Apparently so. Why did you never tell me this when we lived together?”

“I did tell you, several times.” Luca shrugged. “Then I gave up and just started moving it myself.”

Garen joined the others’ laughter. It was easy to pretend his “issues” amused him, because most of the time they did. Only since Simon had arrived had it occurred to him to get defensive.

All week, Garen had walked on eggshells, making every effort to be clean and quiet, never to forget things or say anything stupid in front of Simon. Life at home had become exhausting.

So it was a relief to be here in Edinburgh for this weekend’s tournament. Out on the curling ice, Garen was rarely a disappointment.

“Such posh pals of ours,” said David Moffat, the Team Riley lead curler. “The only dishwasher I’ve ever owned are these magnificent hands.” He stretched out his meaty freckled fingers for display.

“You washing dishes? That’d be news to your wife,” said Ross Buchanan. The rest of the table erupted in hoots, and Ross’s fair skin blushed up into his blond hairline. Usually it was David having a go at Ross, but lately the Team Riley second had started giving as good as he got.

“How’s the love nest?” Garen asked Luca and Oliver. “Is it pure exhilarating having sex in every room without me walking in?”

“No comment.” Luca rubbed his cheek, where his dark beard couldn’t hide the flush of embarrassment. “You’re one to talk, anyway. How many of your lads paraded through our flat in various states of undress?”

“Dunno.”

“Nine,” Luca said.

Only nine in five years? It seemed like more.

“How’s your new flatmate?” Oliver asked Garen.

“Simon is…” Garen sliced his remaining meatball in half, searching for a kind but accurate word. “Tidy.” He described the cleaning-versus-disinfecting issue, acting out the minor stooshie with his flatmate. “For a minute, I thought he might actually move out to escape the squalor.”

“You said you didn’t want to live with a ‘neat freak.’” Luca twirled his linguine around his fork. “Weren’t you trying to screen out people like that with your ad?”

“Aye, but when we met, we got on all right.” Garen thought wistfully of the night they’d spent in his bed. “More than all right, in fact.”

“Ah.” Oliver’s bright green eyes gave a knowing twinkle.

“And now you’re not getting on?” Luca asked, oblivious to Garen’s hint.

“It’s a bit awkward.”

“Of course it is at first,” Luca said. “You’re two strangers living under the same roof.”

“Is your flatmate a curler?” David asked Garen, motioning to the bread basket in front of him.

Garen handed him the basket. “He runs marathons.”

“Too bad,” David said. “We could use some new faces at the rink.”

This was true. Public interest in curling tended to swing in four-year cycles, peaking after every Winter Olympic Games, the next one of which was more than a year hence.

“Bring him on a Saturday,” said Ross. “To one of the try-curling events.”

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