Page 223 of Pucking Strong

I click off my seat belt as she says the words, sitting frozen in the front seat. My god, she’s right. We haven’t been here together since our first date. How is that even possible? I think I’ve been here a few times in the passing years. A birthday, maybe. And a work lunch.But never with Karolina and Henrik. It’s just far enough down the A1A that we never think to go here.

I slip out of the SUV as Henrik hands the keys to the valet. Karolina steps in behind Henrik, taking one of our hands in each of hers. She leads the way up the ramp, bouncing ahead to open the front door for us.

“Remember the photographer?” I say, pointing over to the patch of bushes.

Henrik smirks. “And the lady who was affronted at seeing two men holding hands.”

I laugh. “Denise. God, how do I still remember her name?”

We step inside, and Karolina is already at the hostess stand. “We have a reservation for Karlsson,” she says in her doll voice. “Three people.”

The hostess smiles down at her. “Yep, I have it here.”

We follow her through the first dining room into the far corner, where we’re shown a table by the windows. During the day, this looks out on a gorgeous view of the Atlantic Ocean. The sun has long set, so now the view is now just a dark abyss. A candle lit on the table provides a warm glow that reflects off the large windows.

“Your server will be right with you,” the hostess says, handing us our menus.

Henrik and Karro open theirs as if nothing fishy is happening. They both bury their faces behind the folds, leaving me to gape at them, my own menu ignored. “Guys, seriously? You have to tell me what’s going on. It’s not fair that you both know.”

Before either of them can speak, the waiter comes over and takes our drink order. “He’ll have an amaretto sour,” Henrik tells him. “I’ll have a pale ale, whatever’s on tap. And we’re ready to order. We’d like to start with an order of the mussels. Then we’ll all split a branzino and a plate of the lobster and scallop risotto.”

“Very good, sir.”

The waiter takes the menus, and I’m left speechless. “You—but that—we ordered that on our first date,” I finally blurt.

He smiles, sipping his water. “I know.”

Snatching up my napkin, I stuff it under the table onto my lap.“Okay, someone better start talking.” I point across the table at Karolina, my eyes narrowed. “You. You’re gonna tell me, aren’t you?”

She glances up at Henrik. “Can we?”

He nods, and I sigh with relief, knowing my suffering is at an end. “We wanted to do something special for you for Christmas this year,” he begins. “Karolina and I coordinated our gifts.”

“But you both always get me such wonderful gifts.” It’s true. Last year they got me a lovely watch and a spa package. The year before, it was a family trip to Canada to go skiing.

“It’s not so much something we can get for you,” Karro explains. “More like … something we each want to ask you.”

I glance between them. “Something to ask me?”

They both nod.

“Well, why are we doing this now? Why not wait until actual Christmas?”

“Because we wanted it to be just us,” she replies. “Morbror goes out of town this week for games, then we’ll all be busy with the trip to Montana. And we won’t really be alone there …”

The Prices invited us to spend Christmas in Montana again this year. One week with twenty-five people trapped in one big ranch house. It’s chaotic and fun, and she’s right—we’ll get no alone time.

The waiter delivers our drinks, and I take a sip of my amaretto sour. “Okay, so you say you have something to ask me?”

Henrik glances down at Karro. “You first, lamm.”

Taking a deep breath, she reaches into the pocket of her purple sweatshirt and pulls out a folded piece of paper. Then she holds it out to me. “This is for you. I wrote it down.”

At the look of nervous excitement on her face, I already know I’m about to freaking lose it. I take the paper from her, holding back my tears. She colored the front to look like a winter forest. In a scripty red font, it says, “Merry Christmas.” Smiling, I open the handmade card. Inside, there’s one line written in her slanted handwriting: “Can I call you Dad?”

I stare down at the words, heart racing. Slowly, I look up to see tears in her eyes, Henrik’s hand on her shoulder. “You really mean it?” I say through my own tears.

She nods, sniffling. “Henrik will always be my morbror. It’s all I’ve ever known, and we’re happy. But I don’t like calling you Uncle Teddy.”

---