Page 71 of The Christmas Yes List

“Dragon Wagon?” Čedomir’s eyes flash as though I just suggested we throw a baby in a river. He looks at James for the first time in one of those top-down appraisals and flings his hands out. “You mean to have a nice meal with this good-looking man in Dragon Wagon?”

“Well—”

“Is this a date?” he interrupts, looking us boldly in the eyes.

If the situation wasn’t awkward before, it certainly is now.

I shrug. “I don’t . . . We’re both hungry—”

“Yes,” James says simultaneously.

Čedomir pays attention, clearly, to James’s words over my own.

“And you think that anything good can come beneath fluorescent lighting while sharing cheap frozen wontons from Dragon Wagon?” he accuses, shaking his head vigorously. “No no no. You wait right there.”

He points to the seats by the reception stand and swivels round before we have a chance to answer. Already he’s swiped up the hostess’s seating chart and raised a finger to a couple of staff members, and together they move over to a dark corner and begin scheming.

James leans down. Whispers in my ear. “We don’t really have a choice, do we?”

At the moment, I’m a little too surprised (and honored, maybe?) by Čedomir’s display of favoritism to do anything but answer James honestly. “I don’t think so.”

“And how does he know you?”

“He’s family. Sort of.”

James’s brows lift a little, which isn’t surprising given a first-generation immigrant from Montenegro with a strong accent and even stronger personality doesn’t exactly scream I’m part of the Maple Hills Hollis small-town family line.

“Then I guess we sit and wait,” he says.

I scan the room. Every table is occupied. Nobody looks remotely ready to pay the bill and leave. What sort of arrangement can Čedomir possibly make? It’s not like he’s going to stand over a table, jut his thumb at the door, and kick out a couple.

I mean . . . he could.

I feel James’s hand touch the back of my dress lightly at the waist, and I jump forward like a snake has just bitten me. “Right,” I say, recovering myself and moving to the seat. I smile. “I guess so.”

Obediently, we sit.

And that’s how, ten minutes later, we find ourselves seated at a slightly wobbly cast-iron bistro set that’s been brought indoors from the smoke-break corner of the restaurant’s alley. It’s adorned with a fresh tablecloth, votive, and fine glasses and situated about five feet away from the flaming oven.

“This is perfect!” Čedomir proclaims. “Very perfect for an intimate evening!” He is convincing himself as much as he’s trying to convince us through volume. The louder he speaks, the better it is.

We are seated in the kitchen, also under fluorescent lighting (a point I will not be making), and a chef is wielding large knives by an open fire near my face. Definitely up to code. A totally legal setup without any chance of hazardous consequences.

I stare hard down at my menu. I’m having a difficult time looking James in the eye through all this.

Stick to the plan, Chloe. Stick. To. The. Plan.

James seems to know that something is off with me, but he’s either too preoccupied with his own game plan or too obtuse to guess what mine is. I guess that’s what happens when you’re busy conning somebody else; you prioritize your own agenda so much that you forget to really examine the other person’s point of view.

“So.” James snaps his menu shut. He looks a little lost trying to start up the conversation. Huh. I guess I didn’t realize this when I was under his manipulating spell; he wasn’t the one who started up the conversations. He didn’t really take the lead there. I did.

Well.

I’m not about to start talking now.

“Was that your father I met at the door?”

I’d pointedly dashed out before they could be formally introduced.