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Her dark eyes dip toward her hands. “Ididknow that. We used to fight about you.”
My hands go still on the next box. “You did? You and Stefano?”
“Oh yeah.” She shrugs. “He would always accuse me of flirting with you.”
“You didn’t,” I say. “You were just friendly.”
“True,” she says, lifting her chin. “But I cared for you in a way that I didn’t for any other customers. He knew that. It must have been very obvious.”
“It is not a crime to care for someone,” I say. Then I open the other box and find what I am looking for. “Ah! The cookies. There are two kinds. We had better sample them both.” I am already pulling down a couple of small plates, and putting the kettle on. “Tea?”
“I would love some tea,” she says. “But what is this?” She pulls a bag of rice out of the box.
“In Finland, Christmas Eve is the day we celebrate, and this rice is for the morning, when we make our rice porridge. We make it with milk, and topped with cinnamon and sugar, or berry compote. You are supposed to put a single almond into the pot.”
“Here it is!” she cries, extracting a single blanched almond, wrapped in plastic, from the box. “Is this for luck? Whomever gets the almond in their bowl has a lucky year?”
“Exactly. Last year I made the porridge and put the almond in and felt very unlucky. I was sitting here by myself for hours before it was time to go upstairs for the team party. It is easy to feel sorry for yourself when you are away from your family. I have gotten very good at it.”
She tilts her head and gives me a soft smile. “I know that you don’t want to hear this, but missing your family is lovely. It means they’re worth it.”
“I suppose this is true.”
She touches my hand briefly. “By the way, Christmas Eve is also the big party day for us. And it’s why I’m so annoyed at my uncle—it is our turn to host the big day for all the Romanos and Bianchis. And I wanted to cancel, but he says he can’t break with tradition.”
“So…” I do the math. “Stefano will be at your house all day?”
“That’s right. I’d prefer not to see his little weasel face on Christmas Eve. He might even bring his girlfriend.” She rolls her eyes.
The kettle is hot, so I pour water into two mugs. “I am going to make a suggestion, but you should feel no pressure. You are welcome to spend Christmas Eve with me. You can see that my mother has sent all this food. And my team has a party in this building. It is very casual—players and their families. Some card games. Catered food that I do not have to cook. And Rebecca has said she is making her famous margaritas.”
“Rebecca Rowley Kattenberger?” Chiara’s eyes grow wide. “And the whole team will be there?”
I shrug. “I do not know which players. Do you need to see a list?”
She laughs wickedly. “Of course not. Just got a little intimidated there for a second. Are you sure I should go? I don’t want to be a gatecrasher.”
“Gatecrasher. That is a fun expression.”
“Isn’t it? But not so fun to actually be one.”
“I promise you will crash no gates. But I would be honored to have you as my guest.”
She laughs. “You are too good to be true, Ivo.”
“Then say yes. If you need convincing, try the Finnish spoon cookies.” I fix a tray and carry it over to the sofa.
But inside, I am doing cartwheels.
Which is another excellent English expression.
“IloveFinnish spoon cookies,” she says after we’ve eaten several. “Is that raspberry jam?”
“Yes. There’s also apple.” I push the plate closer to her.
She takes a sip of tea and smiles at me. “Do you really mean it about spending Christmas Eve here?”
“I really meant it.” Our eyes meet, and I feel the same way I did my first week in Brooklyn—like I could look at those pretty brown eyes forever. “I have never been more sure of anything. It’s you who should think it over. You will have to put up with me and my rowdy friends.”
