Page 20 of Mistletoe, Mayhem & Mr. Grump
"Two lunch specials for the lovebirds! Made with amoré!" Giuseppe practically skips back to the kitchen.
"Does he add love to everything?" Holden asks.
"Last week it was confidence. The week before that, destiny. We don't question Giuseppe's special ingredients," I explain.
We sit in awkward silence for a moment, both hyperaware that we're supposed to be a couple in love, or at least a couple in like, or at minimum a couple who can maintain eye contact without looking physically pained.
"So," I start, then stop because I have no idea what comes next.
"So," he agrees unhelpfully.
"We should probably practice," I suggest.
"Practice what exactly?" he asks.
"Being a couple. Talking like people who actually know each other," I explain.
"Okay. What's your favorite color?" he asks dutifully.
"Seriously? That's your opening?"
"You said practice talking," he defends himself.
"Like a couple, not like we're filling out a dating app from 2003," I say.
"Fine. What's your deepest fear?" he tries again.
"That's worse!" I exclaim.
"You're very critical for someone who wanted to practice," he points out.
"And you're terrible at this for someone who agreed to it," I counter.
"Fair point." He leans back in his chair, studying me with those storm-cloud eyes. "Okay, real question. Why the toy shop?"
I wasn't expecting an actual question. "It was Helena's. My grandmother. She raised me after my parents died."
"How old were you?" he asks gently.
"Eight. Old enough to remember them but young enough that the memories feel more like stories I've been told," I explain, surprised by my own honesty.
"I'm sorry," he says simply.
"It was a long time ago. Twenty years. God, that makes me feel ancient," I laugh weakly.
"You're twenty-eight. That's not ancient," he says.
"Tell that to seven-year-old Tommy Martinez. He thinks I probably invented dirt."
"Kids have no concept of age. When I was seven, I thought anyone over twenty was basically deceased," he shares.
"And now?" I ask.
"Now I'm thirty-two and basically deceased," he deadpans.
"Thirty-two?" I'm genuinely surprised. "I thought you were older."
"Ah, thanks?"
