Page 39 of The Holiday Honeymoon Switch
Back at the bar top, Ivy takes a bite of one of the faux char siu dumplings. It’s delicious, the filling a silky fermented bean curd bathed in sweet-salty sauce. “Mmmm.” She finishes it in two bites.
“I take it you like them?”
“Love them,” Ivy says, eating her way through the rest of the box and starting on the baked veggie. During a lull in bar patrons, Larry takes a break and eats with them, and says, “Okay, as a thank-you for dinner, I will put on a Christmas album for you, Ollie.”
His face lights up like one of the light-strung palms outside. “Really?” He turns to Ivy. “This is huge. She never lets me listen to Christmas music. I don’t even know what to pick, but think I have to go with the festive classic Bing Crosby’sMerry Christmas, right?”
Ivy laughs and shrugs. Larry puts on the album and goes to serve some new customers as Bing Crosby begins to gently croon “Silent Night.”
“I’m almost sure I’ve never met anyone as into Christmas as you are,” Ivy says. “Why is that? Did you have the most excellent celebrations when you were a kid?”
All the joy suddenly leaves his expression, as if she’s snuffed out a candle. “Not exactly,” he says. “But I alwaysknew what I wanted my Christmases to look like when I got older. I’m more about making my own traditions than looking back at the past.”
She can tell she’s inadvertently hit a nerve. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I touched something raw there.”
“No, no, it’s really okay. I didn’t have the best childhood, but I’ve moved past it. My dad was kind of the worst. But I’m okay. Really. I have the therapy receipts to prove it.”
Larry approaches with a tray of shot glasses. “Those women in the corner asked for snowballs and I accidentally made polar bears. You two game?”
“Sure,” Ivy says, accepting a shot and clinking her glass against Larry’s and Oliver’s before downing the chocolaty-minty concoction. “Honestly, Larry, you are the best bartender ever.”
“Hey,” Oliver says, feigning hurt feelings.
“Come on, Ollie, you can’t have everything. You get to be the best photographer, let me keep my class A bartending skills,” Larry says. She also pours them pints of water, and crosses the room to serve a new table.
Oliver is staring at Ivy again—intently, at her lips. “Hey,” Ivy says, swatting at him.
“You have some crushed candy cane on your lips, from the side of the glass. That’s all.” He points to her cupid’s bow.
She licks the bit of candy cane off and hops down from her stool. Her resolve is wavering. She needs to put some spacebetween them again. “You know what? This album is actually pretty catchy.” Bing is now singing about Santa Claus coming to town, and Ivy shakes her hips. “Makes me want to dance.”
He watches her for a moment, his expression inscrutable, before hopping off his chair, too. “Finally,” he says. “It just took festive cocktails to get you in the spirit. But I’ll take it.” He grabs her hips, sending a shower of sparks up and down her skin, and they dance together for a moment while she tells herself she can handle this—she can have fun with a guy she’s this attracted to, be friends with him. It doesn’t have to go any further.
His one-dimpled smile is full of mischief now. “Come on, let’s see how mad Larry gets if we dance on the bar. She should know better anyway—Christmas music always gets mewaytoo excited.” Ivy laughs and follows him as he shimmies onto the bar top, while Larry shrieks at them good-naturedly from across the room and fake threatens to kick them out. No harm is being done here, Ivy tells herself. She’s having a great time. She’ll get back to work tomorrow. For now, it’s perfectly okay to be in the moment, dancing on a bar, laughing up at the light-strung ceiling.
10
Holly
December 22
Hudson Valley, New York
Holly uses the code Aiden gave her—“SNOWY”—to open up the shed, finding several pairs of skates, including one in her size. She loads them into her car and drives into town, following Aiden’s directions to the winter sports shop. She’s early and he’s not there yet, so she gives the skates to the tall, curly-haired older man behind the counter, who tells her with a smile that his name is Martin McLaren, he’s been sharpening skates his entire life, and they’ll be ready “in a jiffy”—which in Krimbo speak, he says, is about twenty minutes.
She decides to go to Seventh Heaven to get a coffee while she waits. Bells tinkle merrily above her head as she entersthe café. She’s greeted by the aroma of fresh bread, and something sweet and spicy baking.
Just as she approaches the counter, Aiden’s sister-in-law, Sidra, today in a crimson apron, her dark hair swept up in a tousled topknot, pushes open the green swinging doors leading from an industrial kitchen. She’s carrying a tray of cocoa-brown cookies with crinkled edges and a glossy chocolate coating.
“Holly,” she says with a smile, blowing tendrils of hair out of her face as she puts the tray down. “So glad to see you back. What can I get you?”
“Just a coffee today, thanks.”
“Are you sure? I’ve got fresh Lebkuchen: a ginger-cookie base, heavy on the spices, with a thick buttercream filling and a cinnamon-chocolate glaze.”
“That sounds incredible,” says Holly. “Okay, I’ll take one, please.”
Sidra’s smile widens as she uses the rose gold tongs to choose two fresh cookies for Holly. Then she pauses, tongs aloft, and adds another cookie. “You seem very enthusiastic about our cookie-of-the-day program. So I’m throwing in one extra on the house.”
