Page 37

The room. Goes. Wild.

I laugh while James untwirls me from my microphone and helps me put it back on its stand.

His eyes are sparkling. James looks like he truly had the time of his life.

And . . . I did too.

Peter, one of those rare openhearted men, keeps clapping long after we’ve finished. In fact, everyone in the room seems bolstered by our humorous approach to the competition (except for Dom, who gave two small claps and then was suddenly distracted by the wall).

I’m proud to announce: We win the cheese ball.

An hour later, my face is still pink with pleasure.

“Let me get that,” James says, juggling the large ball of cheese with its giant red bow in one arm to open the truck door.

“I still can’t believe we won,” I say dazedly as he climbs in. I take one glance at the back of the snowy truck bed and tight interior of the cab. “You, uh, mind holding the ball on your knees?”

“Well, we obviously can’t entrust something so precious to the back.”

I grin a little at the picture of the day. This snapshot of a man who was a total stranger eight hours ago, clad in black and white and gray from his neck to his ankles, who now looks a thousand times more relaxed than he did when I met him. All while being surrounded by grease and holding a cheese ball.

It’s been a transformative day.

I turn on the ignition. “You’re going to take it.”

James looks affronted. “Take the cheese ball? I couldn’t.”

“It’s your hostess gift, remember?”

“Nonsense.”

“Our victory was all you.”

“It was a team effort.”

I turn the corner. “I guess we could split it.”

At this, he appears even more affronted. Like the two women fighting over one baby must have looked when King Solomon suggested they simply, you know, split the baby. He spits out, “We can’t split the cheese ball.”

What’s that? More humor?

James is funny, as is becoming apparent beneath his rigid exterior, in a subtle, underplayed way. Uncovering this feels like a gift, really. Like I’ve earned his respect and now get to hear his subtle jokes.

“I guess we can take turns,” I say.

“Split custody?”

“I’ll take every other six hours.”

“You’ll have to be comfortable seeing me a lot then.”

There it goes again. That zing in the gut.

I ignore it.

“Well, your sister did buy my great-aunt’s old place, so we’re practically family now. I’ll manage,” I tease back with a smile.

Wait. Is this flirting, or did I just accidentally make things weirdly incest-adjacent?