Page 59 of Mistletoe, Mayhem & Mr. Grump
"Yes," she states directly at me, pulling out an actual binder that must weigh ten pounds.
"Page one," she reads, "synchronized walking."
"Synchronized walking?" Holden repeats slowly, like the words might make more sense if he says them differently.
"Your natural walking paces don't match. Wren takes approximately ninety-three steps per minute, while Holden averages seventy-eight. The discrepancy is noticeable," Delia explains.
"You counted our steps?" I ask.
"I count everything," she says simply. "Page two: meal sharing protocols."
"Protocols for sharing food?" Holden asks.
"Gerald Thompson will be watching," she repeats ominously.
"This feels like preparing for a military operation," I observe.
"It's more important than that," Delia says gravely. "This is about committee approval."
The door bursts open, and Finn stumbles in carrying what appears to be half of Giuseppe's restaurant.
"Food delivery!" he announces, dumping containers on the table. "Giuseppe made extra of everything."
"I stress-cook!" Giuseppe explains. "Today I stressed about love, so I made romantic pasta!"
"How is pasta romantic?" Holden asks, already reaching for a container.
"I whispered sweet nothings to it while it boiled," Giuseppe says earnestly.
"That's... disturbing," I say, but grab a fork anyway. Stress makes me hungry and committee meetings are basically concentrated stress.
"Now we can practice meal sharing!" Delia announces. "Holden, offer Wren a bite of your pasta."
"Seriously?" he asks.
"Gerald Thompson," Teddy warns darkly, wiggling his eyebrows for emphasis.
Holden sighs and twirls some pasta on his fork, then offers it to me. The pasta, however, has other plans. It slides off the fork and lands directly in my lap.
"Zero points," Delia announces.
"The pasta betrayed us!" I protest, dabbing at the sauce on my dress.
"Try again," she commands.
This time Holden successfully navigates the pasta to my mouth, but I somehow manage to bite his fork in a way that makes a sound like a garbage disposal meeting its nemesis.
"That was audible from here," June notes, scribbling furiously.
"My teeth are enthusiastic," I defend.
"One more time," Delia insists. "With feeling this time."
"Feeling?" Holden asks. "It's pasta, not Shakespeare."
"I once made pasta perform Hamlet," Giuseppe announces proudly. "Very moving death scene."
"Can we please focus on our pasta performance?" I interrupt stress-eating directly from the container now.
