Page 31 of Not Home Alone

Holding the door open, I wait as Merrily says goodbye to each of the women by name and slowly walks through the door, past me. I shut the door behind her. “You smell like rum.”

“You smell like misery.”

“Only when you’re near, my darling.”

She places the plastic storage bin at the foot of the stairs and removes her boots. “That was a fun surprise, huh?”

“There better not be any more Christmas decorations in that box.”

She pulls off her coat and says, “Actually, that box contains items from The Notcracker production you and I starred in ten years ago. You probably don’t even remember anything about it, but⁠—”

“I remember. Why did you bring it here?”

“Because I’ve been hired to direct The Notcracker this year. And I will be reprising my role as Clara.” She slow-blinks at me, three times.

I have no idea how to respond to this news. I can’t even tell if she’s messing with me or not. “That is… interesting.”

“Isn’t it? The Christmas Barn is sponsoring the performance this year. If the production looks great, my dad’s store will look more relevant. Hopefully that turns into some free publicity and sales…” Her voice trails off as she stares at the floor, lost in thought.

It does not escape my notice that we’re both so concerned about helping our fathers’ businesses. Except the businesses and our fathers could not be more different. And she’s actually close to hers.

Merrily sighs and literally jumps up and down, flinging her arms around. “Shaking off those thoughts! How was your day, boo-boo?”

“Fine, let’s get down to business.” I take her coat from her and hang it up in the closet.

“What are you doing?”

“Hanging up your coat.”

“Why?”

I don’t know why. Suddenly, I’m aware of what a live-in boyfriend-y kind of thing it is to automatically hang up someone’s coat. If the live-in boyfriend is a grown-up gentleman who likes an orderly house. “Would you like to hang it up yourself?”

She shakes her head. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Would you like another bottle of Holly Grove’s finest craft beer, or are you already suitably tipsy for this meeting you were late for?”

She follows me to the kitchen. “I am nowhere near tipsy enough to spend an evening with you, and I wasn’t aware this was a formal meeting.”

“You said you wanted to discuss terms. Did you think this was a date?”

“I most certainly did not.”

Does Merrily Tucker talk like a Jane Austen character when she gets defensive about how attractive she finds me? Is that what’s going on here? I pull the remaining four bottles of microbrew from the fridge and place them on the island counter. “May I interest the lady in a bottle of Jingle Helles Bock?”

She forgets to frown for a second as she giggles. Then she reaches for The Little Dunkel Boy.

Good. I wanted the Jingle Helles Bock, and I knew she wouldn’t choose this one if I offered it to her. I’ve got this woman all figured out.

We twist off the caps, and she drinks from the bottle. If I’m glancing down at her neck as she knocks back her Bavarian dark lager, it’s only because I expect beer to dribble down it. I have no doubt the skin of that neck smells and tastes like sugar cookies and no thank you. This beer is the only carb I will be consuming tonight. I get a tall, tapered glass from the cupboard and pour my Helles Bock into it, admiring the gorgeous pale golden color.

She finishes gulping down the brew, sighs, and wipes her lips with the back of her hand. If I’m staring at her mouth, it’s only because I’m waiting for a magnificent belch to come out of it. After a few seconds, I can see that she’s going to disappoint me. Typical.

“Would you like to enjoy the rest of that Dunkel in a glass?” I ask. “It would be a shame not to open up those aromas and release the head.”

Looking me straight in the eye, she says, “There will be no head tonight. We must agree on terms first.”

I choke on my beer, but only because there’s more carbonation than I was expecting.