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I expect him to peel me off him or to make some joking comment, but after a moment of hesitation, he surprises me by lifting a hand and resting his palm against my arm. It’s then that I know—he’s here not to test a recipe, not to decorate the tree, but because he knew I was feeling the absence of my family and wanted to be here for me.
I hold on for just a touch too long, frowning a little when I realize I’m not ready to break the contact. I must be more melancholy than I thought.
There’s a rustling of bags from the adjoining living room, and I slowly back up to go save the tree skirt I bought at Target from my dog’s destructive prowess.
Sure enough, Rigby’s pulled the white satin tree skirt from the bag and is just settling into tearing out the faux fur trim.
“Sorry, baby, not that one,” I say, leaning down to rub the dog’s ears as I rescue the tree skirt.
I rummage around until I come up with the reindeer dog toy I bought him for exactly this reason, squeaking it repeatedly to get him excited before tossing it down the hall into the foyer.
“Where’s his snowman costume?” I call to Mark.
“Burned it.”
“I hope you didn’t put it the washing machine—it’s hand wash only,” I say, picking up my peppermint martini and heading back into the kitchen.
“Yeah, Kelly. I hand washed a dog sweater. Sounds just like me.”
He rips open a package of chicken breasts and jerks his chin toward the wine. “Pour me a glass of that, would you?”
I lift the cocktail glass. “You don’t want a peppermint martini?”
“I do not.”
“You didn’t even try it.”
“I tried it last year. I’m still recovering.”
“I improved the recipe,” I lie. The “recipe” is simply peppermint schnapps, vanilla vodka, and the tiniest dash of cream, garnished with a candy cane. Pretty much my foodie best friend’s nightmare.
He sighs and nods me over with his chin.
Since his hands are messy with raw chicken goop, I lift the glass, and he takes a sip. And winces.
“Yeah, okay,” I relent. “I’ll open the wine.”
I pull out a corkscrew and wineglass as he helps himself to my cutting boards and cooking utensils, most of which are castoffs of his. I’m more of a microwave-dinner kind of gal.
“How are the parents?”
“Good. Happy,” I say.
“Missing their precious daughter?”
“Obviously,” I say, fluttering my eyelashes as I hand him the wineglass. “What are we making here?”
“Not quite sure,” he says, surveying his ingredients before turning to the sink to wash his hands. “I’m thinking of something with a little Cajun spice, a little richness, but some fresh flavors to keep it light.”
“If you say so,” I say, poking around at the parsley, carrots, and package of pasta, looking for something to snack on while he waits for inspiration.
Drying his hands, he sees me rummaging and reaches into the bag, coming out with a box of fancy crackers and the spreadable cheese he knows I have a serious weakness for.
I make grabby hands for them, and though I want nothing more than to dive in, being best friends with a restaurateur has taught me that presentation is at least half the job of cooking.
I get out one of my serving plates and arrange the whole thing to look mostly pretty, borrowing a sprig of Mark’s rosemary to give it a more festive, fancy feel. I take a sip of Mark’s wine. Deciding that goes better with the cheese and crackers than the peppermint martini, I take another sip.
“Don’t you have a tree to decorate?” he asks, pouring me a glass of my own.
