Page 46 of Not Home Alone

I nod.

“Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

I shrug. “We didn’t really have that much time to talk about this kind of thing.”

She nods slowly. “True.” Merrily taps her fingers against the edge of the table, blowing out a breath as she awkwardly looks around the room. At everyone except me.

And like an angel of mercy, Gretchen arrives with a massive tray and delivers the Jägermeister and Jim Beam, a flight of local beer samples on a wooden paddle, a serving of soft pretzels with mustard on the side, and a big board covered with sausages. “For the O Holy Flight tonight, we have samples of Main Street Stout, ’Tis the Saison, The Porter Express, and Do You Beer What Altbier.” With a flourish, she sings, “Guten Appetit!” as she leaves us.

We both reach for the alcohol immediately, relieved to have something to focus our attention on besides each other.

“Prost!” she calls out, as we clink glasses, and knock ’em back.

Really didn’t expect her to be a Jäger girl, but I shouldn’t be surprised that she’s full of surprises by now. My Jim Beam is straightforward with a hot finish, and it hits the spot anyway. The spot is a big gaping hole in my cold, dead heart where a love for Christmas should be, so it’s easy to hit.

“Woooo!” Merrily shouts, slamming the glass down and smacking her lips. “That’s what I’m talking about!”

The polka band finishes a song, and she stands up to clap and cheer like we’re at a stadium. I’d tell her to calm down, but seventy-five percent of the other diners are doing this too. The other twenty-five percent are probably tourists. I guess The Polka Bums are a big schtinking deal around here. I guess anyone who didn’t humiliate Merrily Tucker ten years ago deserves enthusiastic applause. I guess all those people who are side-eyeing me right now or flat-out giving me the death stare are evidence that my instincts were right. I do need to work on my public persona. I do need to win the locals over. And Merrily Tucker is the key to opening the door to every heart in Holly Grove. Except Quinn Whitmore’s.

“Good stuff,” I say, as I reach for a tasting glass of some craft beer or other.

“Try the pretzel,” she suggests. “I’m confident in declaring that these are the best soft pretzels in America.” She dips a big piece of warm pretzel into mustard. I watch, mesmerized, as she feeds herself that long piece of baked dough, how she smiles and dances around in her seat as she chews, as she licks the corner of her mouth and then wipes at the mustard there with her thumb and sucks it off while watching me watch her.

Merrily Tucker is hot and mean, and my only recourse is to demolish another tiny glass of beer. And another. And the last one. They’re really small, and Merrily doesn’t seem to care that I didn’t leave one for her.

She dips another piece of pretzel in mustard and holds it out to me. I accept it and, mein Gott, it is the best soft pretzel I have ever had. Now Merrily’s waving a large sausage at me, as if that’s something people do. She is quite a lightweight. “This is also the best wurst in the Midwest,” she declares. And then she takes a bite out of it while tilting her head from side to side as she watches the polka band.

“Anyone here tonight that you can introduce me to besides Gretchen?” I ask. “To make this worth my while?”

She frowns at me.

“Not that the pleasure of your company isn’t the greatest gift anyone could give me.”

Suddenly, an evil grin spreads across her face as she looks back at the stage. “I can think of a great way to introduce you to everyone here, actually, but I don’t think you’d be up for it…”

“Try me.”

The Polka Bums finish making loud noises again and the entire restaurant erupts in applause. I think they were playing “Deck the Halls,” but they played it so loud and fast, it was like the music was frantically running away from something.

“Ohhh, thank you so much,” the large, jovial bandleader says into the mic. “Gosh, you’re the best crowd! We just love coming to Holly Grove. Hey, you know what time it is?”

“What time is it, Garry?” Merrily calls out. And everyone laughs, because everyone loves Merrily Tucker.

“It’s time to bring one of you fine, fun-lovin’ folks up here to sing a song with us. Now let’s see, who’d like to⁠—”

“My date, Grant Moody, would love to sing with you, Garry!” my sadistic fake girlfriend calls out, waving her hand at him.

“Ohhh, that’s okay,” I say. “Let’s let someone else go first, maybe.”

“Awww, he’s shy!” Merrily stands up and says, “You guys, let’s give him some encouragement!” She claps and hoots and hollers, gesturing for everyone to join her. And only a few of them do. “Come on! They want to hear you sing, honey!” she says, snickering.

I fold my napkin and calmly place it on the table as I rise to the occasion. “Okay, let’s do this.” I’ll just get up on stage in this ridiculous sweatshirt and sing with a polka band to win over the crowd. “Thanks, babe!”

“Well, if it isn’t Mister Mistletoe himself!” Garry announces. “Let’s hear it for—what’s your name again, son?”

“Good evening, happy holidays!” I lean in to say into his mic. “I’m Grant Moody, yes, that Grant Moody, and my date tonight is Merrily Tucker, yes that Merrily Tucker. Stand up again and wave to everyone, babe!”

Merrily, probably thanks to her theater training, stands up again, blows me a kiss, and then does a charming 360-degree wave to everyone in the restaurant. “I’m so excited to hear you sing for us, honey!” she hollers.