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He scoffed at the Gremlins reference.

“Because it’s a manufactured holiday where the purpose is to get us to buy things?” He clanked some pots around. “Everything I’ve learned about the spirit of Christmas I’ve learned against my will.”

This made me laugh. I did it quietly, though. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

“So what do you do?” he asked.

“Retail manager,” I said, sliding onto a bar stool. “What do you do?”

“Lawyer.”

“Oh. What kind?”

“Divorce attorney.”

“Ahhhh. That explains things.” I peered over the stove. “Do you need help?”

“To boil water? No, I think I got it.”

I smirked. “Why do you think they’re in such a hurry to get married?” I asked, watching him pull out green onions and a cutting board.

“Because everyone here gets married on Christmas Eve,” he said, rolling up his sleeves. “It’s a thing. The bride and groom get to ride on Santa’s Sleigh in the parade. It’s a tradition. They should date for a year and get married next Christmas Eve. At least that’s what I told him.”

“Hmm. So how did it go when you found out? Did you just get the call and then race up here with a prenup?” I asked, batting my lashes at him.

He eyed me. “Did you just get the call and race up here with no plan beyond vibes and a dream?”

I peered around. “No, I brought a gun.”

He blanched.

“I thought she was being held hostage,” I said. “This is very out of character for her. She doesn’t even do dinner on the first date.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty out of character for him too,” he admitted.

“Maybe they really do like each other,” I said, making a face.

“I’m sure they do, but that doesn’t negate common sense. He should still minimize risk.”

I leveled my eyes on him. “And what about her risk? Men get into a bad marriage and they might lose money. Women get into a bad marriage and they lose their lives. How did his last wife die? Did he kill her? Because the obituary was very vague.”

“My cousin Melanie had cystic fibrosis,” he said. “They were high school sweethearts and he nursed her to the end. He would have given her his lungs if he could.”

“Oh,” I said, sitting back in my seat. “Well. Now I feel bad.”

He softened a little. “It’s fine. You’re not wrong. I see a lot of it in my line of work and you’re smart to ask the questions.”

I watched him slice green onions. Then he pulled out a can of Spam and sliced that too.

“Spam, huh?”

“It’s a Minnesota staple,” he said. “You don’t like it?”

“No, I do. Is this all for me?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said, putting some butter into a sizzling frying pan.

“It’s okay if it’s just the noodles.”