Page 25 of So This Is Christmas

She had no idea what that meant, but whatever.

“Then,” he went on, “it was going to be inherited by their lout of a cousin, and the sisters would be out on the street.”

“I am fairly certain you are a boy. And doesn’t Eldovia have absolute primogeniture? Or is that only for the royal family?”

“I’m not saying my situation is exactly the same as that of the Bennets, merely that it’s possible for a family to be genteel but poor.”

“Fine.” What were they even fighting about? Rich poor people? Who cared? More importantly, why couldn’t she seem to make herself take the high road here, as shealwaysdid with clients when things got sticky? Why was she letting this dude get to her? She took a fortifying breath. “The point is, I do not intend to go skiing, nor to visit a village other than Riems.”

“And I already told you that was perfectly acceptable, so I’m not sure why you persist in picking fights with me.”

“You know what? I know where I am now. Thank you for accompanying me this far. I can make it the rest of the way on my own.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

“Goodnight, Ms. Delaney.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Benz.”

He turned, and she watched the back of his head get smaller as he retreated. She was seized with the strangest urge to run after him, but for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out why.

Chapter Five

Twenty-seven days until Christmas

Cara pulled out a stool at the Owl and Spruce around seven o’clock on Thanksgiving Day—not that anyone here knew it was Thanksgiving—and ordered a giant dinner to go with her melancholy.

“Thanks,” she said, putting her phone down when Imogen appeared with her food.

“Working through dinner?” Imogen nodded at the phone.

“No. I’m staring at it wishing it would ring.”

“Ah.” Imogen’s eyes twinkled. “Waiting for a man to call, then? Have you got a fella at home?”

“Waiting for mymotherto call. How’s that for pathetic?”

“You should eat while everything’s hot,” Imogen said, but instead of leaving Cara to her food, she propped her elbows on the bar. “Missing your ma, are you?”

“It’s Thanksgiving at home, and . . .” What? She was a thirty-five-year-old woman who missed her mommy and daddy? Well,yes. That was exactly it. She shrugged. “I’m an only child, and we’re tight. My mom has an autoimmune disease that causes a lot of pain and she gets tired easily, and I know she’s going to be overdoing it today. Normally she’d be doing the bossing around, and I’d be doing the shopping and cooking and all that. I tried to get them to let me have dinner catered, but it’s like she’s trying extra hard to make everything the same as it always is.”

“Ah, but everything can’t be the same as it always was. It never can.”

“Yes. Exactly.”Change is the essential process of all existence. Imogen got it.

“In my experience, trying to hold on to something is the surest way to make sure it slips away.” She looked down the bar quickly but then back at Cara, who had to stop herself from looking over her shoulder to see what—or who—Imogen had been glancing at.

A woman Cara didn’t know appeared at the bar a few stools down, and Imogen excused herself to go serve her, so Cara did the covert look down the bar she’d refrained from earlier. Kai. Which meant Mr. Benz had probably been right about Imogen and Kai.

Even though she’d only known Mr. Benz for five days, she hated it when he was right about something.

Cara picked up a fry—or a chip, as it was called on the Irish-inspired menu—and almost groaned as she bit through the crispy exterior into a soft, creamy interior. Imogen, she’d learned, was famous for these thick-cut chips. Apparently the secret was that they were double fried in garlic-infused oil. Cara had come down to the pub for dinner after work the last two days, and these potatoes had become a favorite.

“I notice you didn’t answer my other question.” Imogen wasback with a mischievous look in her eyes that Cara was beginning to recognize as her default expression.

“What question?”

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