Page 16 of The Grump Who Stole Christmas
“How old are you?” I asked, suddenly curious.
“How old are you?”
“I asked first,” I said.
“Hmm, that means you’re over thirty-five.”
I gasped. “Will you stop doing that! You don’t just announce a woman’s age or weight like that. Did your mother teach you nothing?”
“My mother left us when I was five. So I think you mean stepmother. I’ve had four of those, and, no, they didn’t spend a lot of time teaching me anything.”
“I’m sorry,” I said grudgingly, shifting a bit on the kitchen chair. I had the best mom ever so it always made me sad for people who didn’t have the same experience.
“Don’t be. I only pointed out your age because most women start to freak out about it after thirty-five.”
“I’m not freaking out about my age. I’m thirty-six,” I admitted, like it was no big deal.
He nodded. “Oh yeah. You’re freaking out.”
My eyes narrowed. “Why? Because of my biological clock? Because I’ve spent the last fifteen years focused on my career, instead of family? And now, in the last hour of my reproductive window, I’m panicking because it might be too late for me to fall in love and have a bunch of babies with someone? How stereotypical do you think I am?”
“Right. No, sorry. Clearly, you’renotfreaking out. Do you want me to make you some breakfast?”
“I can have a baby any time I want, pal. Once again, science. Look it up. Also, I’m considering having my eggs frozen.”
“Does that work?”
“Everybody does it,” I said, as if that was some kind of answer. “It has to work. If you were going to make me breakfast, what would it be?”
“How about an egg sandwich on a bagel?”
“With cheese?”
I knew it was wrong to give him any advantage, but darn it, I was hungry and he offered to cook.
“Cheddar or American?”
“American, please.” I smiled over the rim of my boss lady coffee mug and showed him all my teeth.
“You’re scaring the fuck out of me right now,” he told me.
I showed him fewer teeth.
Sitting down at the kitchen table, I watched as he pulled the ingredients from the refrigerator.
“I’m new here,” he said as he cut the bagel in half and popped it in the toaster oven. “The trees have obviously been my primary responsibility.”
“Obviously,” I said as I sipped my coffee and watched in some admiration as he cracked an egg one-handed into the frying pan. “What is your background, by the way? I mean, how do you get to be a guy who runs a Christmas tree farm?”
“I’m an agricultural scientist as well as an arborist.”
I blinked.
“Guy who studies trees,” he clarified.
“I knew that.” Or I might have after a few more sips of coffee.
The sound of the egg cooking filled the kitchen. He flipped it and added the cheese.
