Page 62 of Wrapped with a Beau

He twists at the hip to point it out to her, grinning like they were playing the world’s easiest game of Where’s Waldo?, if Waldo were a brown bear hidden in plain sight. She rolls her eyes, unimpressed with his not-so-subtle sleuthing. Poke, poke. He sighs and lets her shepherd him into the kitchen.

While Anita runs the tap to fill a vase, Elisha’s dad pulls a roast chicken from the oven. Their kitchen counter is covered in dishes that look like Le Creuset, which he only recognizes because of Cade, but he’s far more interested in what’s inside them. It’s enough to feed the whole street, he’s sure.

“Hello,” says Ves, letting his hand drop when he sees Jamie’s oven-mittened hands, patterned with red roosters. He settles for a polite smile instead. “Everything smells delicious.”

Jamie grins back. “I should hope so, I’ve been at it for hours.”

Anita lightly swats her husband’s shoulder with the dish towel she just used to dry her hands. “Don’t listen to him, Ves. He loves cooking.”

“I’m hopeless in the kitchen,” Ves offers, because all three of them are looking at him with expectation, and he doesn’t want to let them down. “There’s so much choice in New York and I pick up a lot of prepared meals at Union Market or Whole Foods, so...”

Suddenly, he wonders if he shouldn’t have mentioned that. What if they think he’s a spoiled rich kid who’s too lazy to learn to cook? That he throws money away? That he lives on two-minute noodles?

Four years ago, at the last holiday he’d ever spent with a girlfriend’s family, his ex Nora’s dad had apparently been a bit miffed that Ves hadn’t offered to help him fry the Christmas turkey. It wasn’t rudeness, though; Ves simply had no idea what a raw bird, a metal trash can, and five gallons of peanut oil were doing on the driveway, or that Nora’s past boyfriends had usually used fry time as a way to bond with her dad. End result: Ves had not impressed the patriarch.

“Then you should start joining us for dinner,” Jamie says easily, tossing the rooster mitts on the counter. “We’re not usually this fancy, but we always make enough for extras. Comes in handy after a long day. Sometimes even with something you love, like me and cooking, it’s the last thing you want to do.”

Ves smiles uncomfortably. He knows he’s definitely not going to show up at mealtime just to eat like a moocher, but the offer is a kind one. “Can I help with anything?”

“Oh, that’s so sweet.” Anita hands him five shiny knives and forks. “I’ve already set the plates, but if you want to just place the silverware—Oh, Elisha, can you check the dessert? Grandpa will be here in a minute and then we’ll be ready to eat.”

As Ves distributes the cutlery, Elisha heads to the fridge, peeking inside.

“How are you finding Piney Peaks so far?” asks Jamie, bringing over one of the covered dishes.

It isn’t the backwater Ves’s dad described it as, that’s for sure. But it’s also not a place Ves can imagine staying for longer than a few weeks. It’s a quaint little town, especially all dressed up for the holidays, but a guy like him—content with his city life—doesn’t fit in here.

“It’s... different,” he says, opting for the diplomatic answer.

“It grows on you,” Anita chimes in. “Honestly, when I met Jamie in college—why yes, that is his ancient NYU sweatshirt I told him to change out of—I never thought I’d leave the city, but here we are!”

“Ancient?” Jamie indignantly points down at the faded purple sweatshirt. “It’s my favorite!”

Elisha catches Ves’s eye and good-naturedly rolls her eyes as if to say Yeah, they’re always like this.

He eyes her own sweatshirt and hopes his expression conveys Like father, like daughter.

She gets it at once, huffing at him.

While Anita and Jamie continue to squabble as they bring all the dishes to the table, Elisha grabs a chilled bottle of wine from the fridge and pours out five glasses on the countertop.

“See? Told you it was casual,” says Elisha, slipping to his side.

“I’ll believe you next time,” he promises, taking the drink she offers.

Mirth flickers on her expressive face. “Even if I tell you it’s an Ugly Christmas Sweater party and you have to wear one to get in the door?”

He’s amused at the thought. “Your dress code is that discriminating, is it?”

“Well,” Elisha says in an exaggerated, gossipy voice, “my guest list is the crème de la crème of Piney Peaks society.”

“In that case, how could I resist donning a Rudolph sweater?”

Her eyes glimmer. “Even if his nose lights up with a red bulb?”

With the utmost seriousness, he responds, “Well, if it doesn’t, is it even worthy of being an Ugly Sweater?”

The soft clatter of a lid being removed reminds him they’re not alone. He looks up to see fond expressions on both Jamie’s and Anita’s faces, quickly masked as though they didn’t want to be caught. Anita grabs the other two wineglasses.

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