Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
Brady sighs dreamily, as if picturing all things eggnog too. When…gross.
“Not me,” I say. “Eggnog should be abolished.”
Brady tilts his head my way. “You don’t like eggnog?”
“Nope.”
He strokes his chin. “Huh. I had no idea.”
“And candy canes should only come in peppermint,” Wilder puts in dryly. “No exceptions.”
“No one wants a watermelon candy cane,” I agree. Brady squints at me as if I’m some kind of enigma, but how often does the subject of eggnog or the chance to extoll mint’s praises come up in conversation naturally? It’s not like I handed him a list of secrets, detestations, and other fun facts about me when we got together. That’s not my style.
The Thanksgiving table descends into a debate about the merits of candy canes, eggnog, and Christmas cookies. My sister Charlotte and her boyfriend, Leo, vote for gingerbread (also gross). Wilder’s sister declares Yule logs underrated (true, but they need a brand makeover because…that name). And Cousin Troy says in a dead voice that he likes to lick candy canes into a sharp point (and, note to self, avoid that teenager after dark).
Eventually, the younger children ask if they can play video games before dessert, and at Wilder’s, “Of course,” a herd of kids thunders off to the game room.
The rest of us push away from the table, and I glance at the remains of the holiday meal—a polished-off bowl of rosemary green beans, a dish of homemade cranberry sauce, a to-die-for side of sauteed brussels sprouts, and the carcass of a big bird who definitely didn’t escape any rooms.
Iris gets to her feet and smooths her hands down her chef’s jacket. “I better return to dish duty. Thank you for letting me be included in the toast. That was so generous of you, Mr. Blaine,” Iris says to Wilder, all cheery and bright, sounding like the spirit of Christmas herself.
“Call me Wilder,” he says. “And your food was fantastic. I’ll help with the dishes.”
“Oh, please. You should relax,” she tells him.
Since I have the spirit of a hard-working elf, I offer to pitch in. There’s an art to stacking a dishwasher, and as an art girl, I’ve mastered it. “I’ll join you, Iris. My dishwasher-stacking skills are unparalleled.”
Wilder strides around the table, a challenging look in his clever green eyes. “But you haven’t seen mine.”
The boss wants to have a dishwasher-stacking competition? Bring it on. “Let the winter games begin early.”
“Well, who am I to say no?” Iris says generously. “I appreciate the extra hands so much.” She heads to the kitchen with a bounce in her step, and I follow, balancing an armful of teetering plates.
Brady swoops in next with the turkey platter, dropping a quick kiss on my cheek once I set the dishes on the counter. “I need to go wrap a gift for Bibi, babe. An early Christmas present to say thanks for tonight.”
“That was thoughtful of you,” I say. “She has a wrapping room down on the garden level. Wilder mentioned it earlier. Last room on the right.”
“I know,” Brady says, then whispers, “See? And you were worried I’d embarrass you.”
“I was not,” I protest mildly. Fine, maybe I was a little. But I never said that to him.
“You were,” he goads, poking my ribs a bit too hard. “You think I’m too friendly. Too outgoing. But I did good. Right, babe?”
“Of course.” I don’t want Brady to think otherwise. He was pretty well-behaved.
He lets go of me, then flashes his salesman grin at Wilder. “And I’d love to talk to you sometime soon about your portfolio.”
Ugh. He did pitch him, after all.
Wilder shoots him a curious look, arching a brow, before he says, “Noted.”
And I note that. Noted, as in heard it, not going to agree, but not being a dick about it because I’m classy.
Brady nods, then scurries off.
Wilder and I set to work on dishes as the other guests clear the table. He rinses, and I stack. “Prepare to be dazzled,” I say, showing off my extraordinary plate placement. “Look at how they line up just so. Be amazed at the perfect space ratio between the dinner plates and the salad bowls.”
From his spot at the sink, with the cuffs on his tailored custom-made dress shirt rolled up, he surveys my handiwork. “I’d expect nothing less from my top designer.”
I preen a little. I landed the plum job a couple years ago, designing merch—like T-shirts and jewelry—for his big-game-winning football team, and I love it. “Exactly. I told you—unparalleled.”
His eyes say not so fast. “Except…the bowls are traditionally the most challenging.”
“Please. I am an architect of bowls.”
He turns off the faucet, joins me at the machine, and proceeds to adjust a bowl here and a bowl there, creating room for two more. “Damn,” I say with a whistle. “I guess there’s a reason you’re a successful business owner.”