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“I don’t care if she’s amazing. He needs a prenup and she’s somehow convinced him not to have one.”

She laughed dryly. “Uh, trust me, she doesn’t want or need your broke-ass friend’s money.”

“Ha. He’s hardly broke,” I said, talking into my glass.

She eyed me skeptically. “He’s a pine tree farmer with a hot chocolate shop on the verge of bankruptcy.”

I arched an eyebrow. “Is that what you think? He owns half the buildings on Candy Cane Way. He owns this one you’re sitting in. The hot chocolate shop and the pine tree farm are ancillary. They’re a rounding error on his taxes. Your friend is chasing half his income—and taking advantage of him in his vulnerable state. His wife just passed away. He’s in no position to make any big decisions right now.”

She looked indignant. “She is not a gold digger. She has plenty of her own gold.”

“Like what,” I deadpanned.

“She is a very successful architect at a very successful Minneapolis firm. She went to Cornell. And his wife died four years ago. I googled it.”

“So he should be over it?”

“No, but I’ll go out on a limb and say he’s probably healed enough to date. Unless he’s not and there’s something I need to tell my best friend.” She cocked her head.

I took in a deep breath. “No,” I admitted. “He’s fine to date.”

“I think what we need to be more concerned about is the love bombing he’s currently doing,” she said.

“Love bomb—”

“Yeah. The gingerbread French toast and the googly eyes—the hallmark of an emotional abuser.”

I laughed. “Nicholas…”

“Yeah. Nobody is that nice.”

“He actually is that nice,” I said.

“Riiiight.”

“He has a rescue dog with two legs,” I said. “His name is Dasher.”

I watched her choke on a laugh, despite herself. She pressed her lips together. “Okay, that is pretty amazing. And funny. But still.”

“The least she can do is sign a prenup,” I said. “If she doesn’t have any intention of taking anything from him, there shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Only there is a problem because it looks to me like he’s asking her to leave her whole life behind to come live here in Santa’s butt crack. So why would she sign anything limiting her compensation should he turn out to be the creep I just know in my heart he is.” She gave me a sarcastic smile.

We had a little silent standoff. I studied her while she smirked at me.

She was pretty. More than pretty. Big brown eyes, medium-length brown hair. Something classically beautiful about her. Like an actress in an old Hollywood movie. The rainbow Christmas lights strung on the wall behind her framed her like a halo, color pricking around the soft cascade of her hair.

I cleared my throat. “What’s your name?”

“Lauren.”

“I’m William. Look, Lauren, we both want the same thing.”

“Which is what?”

“For them to take a step back and take their time. Nobody needs to get married after three days,” I said.

“I agree.”