Page 36 of Grump Hard
He laughs, a little uncomfortably. “No, no Fiji for me. Unfortunately. I went to Tahiti once, however. For Christmas, actually. It was lovely. Hot, but lovely.”
“I imagine,” I say. “I’ve never been farther than Montreal. And that was years ago for a photography conference.”
“Do you want to travel?”
I shrug. “Yes and no. I mean, the adventure part sounds fun, but I also enjoy being home with people I love in a place I love. Especially this time of year. I know some of it is kind of cheesy, but I love all the festivals and special events. And family stuff, too.”
“What do you and your family usually do for the holidays?” he asks, actually seeming interested.
“Oh, nothing too special. We make cookies and watch holiday movies. Then, we play board games on Christmas Eve before opening our book present. My grandmother is from Iceland. It’s traditional there to give everyone in the family something to read on the night before Christmas. So, it became tradition for us, too.” I sip my drink before adding with a smile, “And Dad makes this incredible goat cheese fondue for New Year’s Eve, and we dip things in it all night. It’s silly, but I look forward to it all year. What about you?”
He’s quiet for a moment, watching me over the rim of his glass as he drinks, and I worry I’ve said the wrong thing.
I mean, I know his mom is out of the picture and his dad’s a jerk.
It could be that the Ratcliffes don’t have any family traditions.
“My father hated Christmas,” he says, confirming my suspicion. Before I can apologize, he adds, “But my grandfather made the season special. He would take us sledding and skating and had the cook make ten types of cookies and gingerbread houses for us to decorate.”
“So, you were a ringer all along,” I tease. “I should have known it wasn’t your first time at the gingerbread table.”
He laughs, a soft rumble I want to wrap around me, just like his smell. “And on Christmas Eve, after dinner, he would take us up to the widow’s walk on the roof. It was always freezing, but we didn’t care. We’d bundle up in our coats and search the stars, looking for Santa’s sleigh, while Grandfather told stories. He swore he used to know Santa Claus back in college and made up the silliest things. We all knew he was lying by the time we were five or six, but we kept playing along. It was too much fun not to.”
“That’s adorable,” I say, charmed. “Are you guys going to do it again this year? Go look for Santa?”
He looks up, clearly surprised. Then confused. Then hopeful. “I don’t know. I hadn’t thought of it, but maybe we should.”
“You should,” I agree, holding his gaze as I lift my Old Fashioned for another toast. “To keeping beautiful traditions alive.”
“And to making new ones with good friends,” he says, clinking his drink to mine.
Our food arrives, and we order another round. As the conversation flows and the whiskey warms my blood, I can’t help but hope he wants to be more than “good friends.”
Even a week ago, “good friends” would have felt like a wonderful win, but now…
Now, I’m greedy for more of Luke Ratcliffe, a fact I prove by sliding out of my booth halfway through our cobbler and reaching for his hand. “Dance with me? This is my favorite Christmas song.”
His brows lift as a smile hooks his lips. “I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas?”
I nod, fighting a smile, “Yes, it’s just so romantic. And not the slightest bit annoying.”
Eyes crinkling as he laughs, he eases off his stool, wrapping my fingers up in his big hand just the way I’d hoped he would. “Well, in that case, how could I refuse?”
He leads me to the now nearly deserted dancefloor. Apparently, most people don’t find the hippo song easy to dance to, but Luke doesn’t miss a beat. He simply pulls me into his arms, holding me close as he begins to sway.
“I’m assuming you consider this a slow song?” he asks. “Seeing as it’s so romantic?”
I nod, tilting my head back to meet his gaze as I assure him, “Absolutely. Slow dancing is the only way to go.”
His lips quirk again. “Everyone is staring.”
“Everyone is jealous that we’re so good at grooving to the hippopotamus song.”
“Ridiculous,” he says, hugging me closer, until every inch of his strong body is pressed tight to mine and my blood is pumping faster.
I would blame the whiskey, but that’s not it. It’s just him, Luke, and the way he’s so fearlessly dropping all those grumpy walls.
“Thanks for letting me in,” I whisper, hoping it isn’t too soon. “I know the holidays are rough for a lot of people, and we cheery fools can be obnoxious to put up with sometimes, so… Thank you.”
