Page 42 of Not Home Alone

I grunt. “Well, get ready to thoroughly despise the next couple of hours. I’m taking you out for dinner.”

“Where?”

“You tell me. Where can I simultaneously eat and win over the most townspeople at the same time? Preferably without having to talk to you too much.”

A truly joyful smile spreads across her face. So wide, that I’m almost looking forward to hearing what’s about to come out of her mouth. “You’ll want to go for dinner and beer at The Schnitzel Factory.”

That sounds like the exact opposite of what I usually want. “Okay. Let’s go.”

“Oh, but we can’t go like this.” She gestures at my suit. “Too fancy. The polka band is performing there tonight. We locals always wear ugly Christmas sweaters to The Schnitzel Factory when The Polka Bums are playing there. My dad and I always wear matching sweatshirts.”

“Shame we don’t have matching sweatshirts.”

“Oh, but we do…!” she exclaims, with an impish grin as she picks up a shopping bag from The Christmas Barn. She pulls out two bright red sweatshirts, handing the larger one to me. “I got my dad to buy a heat press machine for the store when I was thirteen. It’s the one machine Mrs. Murray isn’t afraid to use besides the old cash register.”

Holding it up, I see that she has taken my headshot from the company website, removed the background, and combined it with a selfie of her, so it looks like our faces are close together. It’s actually pretty impressive. But the image is framed with graphics of cheesy colored Christmas lights and pressed onto the front of the shirt. As expected, she went through a lot of trouble to annoy me. So I do what she doesn’t expect. I comply. “Great. Looks good.”

“You’re going to wear it? Tonight? To the restaurant?”

“Obviously.” I take off my coat and suit jacket, hanging them on the post at the bottom of the stairs. “I think it’s fantastic.” I start unbuttoning my shirt and then remember something. Reaching into the jacket pocket, I pull out a candy cane and hand it to Merrily.

Her mouth forms a little o. It’s cute how confused she looks. “For me?”

“Yep.” I continue unbuttoning my shirt.

“Did you just bring me a candy cane?”

“It’s not a big deal. I remembered you like to melt them in your hot chocolate. Or maybe that was someone else.” I pull off my shirt, staring at her.

“It was me,” she says, quietly. I watch as she swallows, scanning my pecs and abs. Then she clears her throat and marches down the hall to the powder room. “Be right back,” she mutters.

I know I can’t have Merrily—not really. But watching her have any kind of reaction to me aside from disdain and aggravation does make me feel… something. And after what I’ve been dealing with at work, something feels pretty damn good. Different from the numbing kind of distraction I’ve kept myself busy with over the years.

If I can make her truly speechless, I win.

Consider that your appetizer, Tucker.

* * *

The Schnitzel Factory is exactly the nightmare I pictured in my head when Merrily said the words. Big. Loud. Crowded. Cozy. Dim, amber-hued lighting. Dark-stained wood everywhere. Long, beer garden-style communal tables and benches through the center of the restaurant. Booths along the walls, with red and green vinyl upholstery—all of those are taken. It’s like a big, Bavarian cave that was redecorated by an immigrant Midwestern sports fan in the 1990s. Every square inch of wall space is decorated with beer steins, German and American flags, vintage signs, framed black-and-white photos, and merch from every Chicago team. There isn’t enough room for Christmas decorations on the walls, so there are strings of lights and greenery hanging from the beams overhead and traditional wooden carousels with little candles on every table. The air is saturated with the scent of sauerkraut and bratwurst, and everyone’s singing along with the middle-aged polka band that’s on stage.

But I don’t hate it. It’s exactly what I asked for. She did good.

“Merrily Tucker!” says a round-faced, gray-haired woman in a long, traditional Bavarian outfit with a bodice, puffed sleeves, apron—and a wool Santa hat. She has to shout to be heard. “Oh my goodness, where have you been?” She notices me, recognizes me, and I watch as a look of, let’s say, concern falls across her face. “Oh. Are you… are you okay?” she asks Merrily, as if she’s sensing this is a hostage situation.

“I’m great, Gretchen,” Merrily says, as she pats me on the back. “I’m here with my date! We’re dating now. He groveled, and I forgave him.”

I am literally biting my tongue to refrain from correcting her. I just smile and nod. Smile and nod.

Gretchen looks incredibly relieved to hear this, and I’m going to pretend it’s because she’s so glad Merrily came to her senses and forgave me. “Ohhhh, that’s wonderful! Wonderful!” Beaming up at me, Gretchen pulls Merrily aside and stage whispers, loud enough that I can hear. “I thought Grant Moody was dating the Russian heiress to a vodka empire who also acts in movies sometimes?”

Merrily’s tight jaw and bulging eyes suggest, despite her massive fake smile, that she is not pleased to hear this. “Nope! Not anymore. It’s me. He’s only dating me now.”

“Am I allowed to be happy about this?” Gretchen asks. “Because he’s so handsome and so tall! I want to be happy for you, but are we sure?”

“Yup!” Merrily pats her on the shoulder. “We’re sure. We’re happy about this.”

Gretchen looks genuinely delighted. “Wonderful! Welcome in, my dears.” She waves us toward her like she’s guiding an airplane on a runway. “Welcome in!”