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Brie laughs. “I’m feeling offended on behalf of our town’s favorite night. It’s a night we all come together as a community, despite whatever differences we have during the year. Not to mention, those crushing teenagers have a safe space to be, and kids can enjoy themselves. Forgive me, I’m passionate about the subject.” She eyes me. “What do you do for fun if things like Wassail Night are beneath you now?”
I shrug. I don’t want to get into my work with the outreach program and things I’m passionate about. She’d be surprised to know I understand her perspective. I’m glad the town has Wassail Night for the reasons she’s mentioned. I’m not ready to deep dive and get too personal though. “I hit the gym and play some ball.”
She smirks. “It shows.”
I want to appreciate how she’s noticed my form, but she doesn’t sound impressed. “I can’t tell if you’re giving me a compliment or an insult.”
She finishes laying down another layer of noodles. “Let’s just say, it’s a shame you grew up to be boring.”
I don’t expect her to say those words. I gape and fold my arms across my chest. “I amnotboring.”
“The old Rocky loved Wassail Night. Only boring people grow out of loving it.”
“Or everyone grows out of it, and you didn’t.” Out of retaliation, I dip a finger in her sauce bowl and stick it in my mouth. Sweet nectar of the Italian gods.
She swats me away. “Then prove it to me. Do five fun things during your time here.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then you have to attend Wassail Night.”
I remember my last Wassail Night all too well. Maybe she’s forgotten. It was the first time I kissed her. My eyes drop to her mouth, the shape forever etched in my mind, the bottom lip slightly bigger than the top. I drag my eyes away—surprised at how much effort it takes. Wassail Night is completely off the table. My one rule for myself for this trip was absolutely no nostalgia. I worked hard to put this place behind me, and I want to keep it that way.
“Five fun things?” I shake my head. I don’t want to agree, but my competitive side makes it hard to turn down a challenge. Plus, I don’t want hard feelings between us. If I do as she asks, maybe the lingering guilt I’ve carried will finally fade. “Do I get to be the judge on whether or not my idea of fun counts?”
She shrugs. “Sure.”
“Then I’m counting this as number one.” I sneak another swipe of the sauce. Or should I say red gold? I wonder what she put in here. It’s so savory. If she wasn’t in the room, I might try to drink it.
She steals the pan away from my view and slides it in the oven. She sets the timer and when she turns around, her eyes take a mischievous glint. “I have an idea. I know how to make this night really fun.”
I don’t think she means anything suggestive, but I have a sudden image of us kissing in the kitchen. Obviously, she doesn’t mean that kind of fun, but she’s the one who brought up Wassail Night. Some memories evoke emotions too hard to suppress. But now I’m nervous about what she does mean. I don’t want a night on the town or anything resembling a dateat all.
“Be right back.” She slides by me, and I catch her scent again. It’s not a strong perfume like you smell on the ladies in the city. It’s a natural scent—soap mixed with a whole lot of Brie. I’m stuck in place trying to hold it in, but the sweet smell fades. I blink slowly and turn. Where did she say she was going?
Brie returns a moment later from one of the back rooms with a couple of reusable bags in her hands. She holds them up to emphasize them. “It’s party time.”
I frown. What is she talking about? I walk over to her and take a few bags since they look heavy. I glance inside. Candy canes and children’s books? Yep, definitely not kissing-in-the-kitchen kind of fun. I wouldn’t have done that, of course. The fact that it crossed my mind was bad enough. “Are you planning on reading to me? Story time with Brie?”
She laughs. Dang, I’ve missed that sound. “No, we’re wrapping them for my students.” She hands the rest of the bags to me and darts back down the hall. She comes back with a few rolls of wrapping paper, scissors, and tape. “You can put those on the table. We can wrap until dinner is done.”
“Slave labor,” I grumble.
“Fun,” she clarifies.
She pulls out her phone and pushes a few buttons. A speaker in the corner starts blaring Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas.” My frown melts a little. Brie has a personality too bright to dim.
“I better get seconds of lasagna for this.”
She pushes the bag closer to me. “You can have thirds if you do a good job.”
I pull out aT’was theNight Before Christmasbook and get to work. Brie has to remind me how to wrap. I’m a gift bag kind of guy. I almost got the hang of it by the tenth present. The parents are going to think these are from a student and not the teacher.
Brie compliments me after each one though. I’m not one of her first graders, but I beam under her attention as if I am. We move to the floor as our mess grows. She was right. This is fun. The smell of lasagna, the holiday music, a task to keep my hands busy, and a pretty girl in front of me. I hesitate over my last thought, trying to take it back.
Well, anyway, it shouldn’t be too hard to do something fun like this four more times. And then goodbye Bearwood, no strings attached and guilt-free. No one even has to know I ever stayed next door to Brie Holland or even saw her.
The doorbell rings.
