Gretchen rolled her lips in to hold back the smile threatening to ruin her aloof act. When that didn’t work, she turned away and pretended to be looking for something.
Behind her, the door opened. “Stop stalling.”
“I’m not stalling. I’m looking for my purse.”
“You’re trying to hide that smile from me.”
She plucked her purse from the dining room chair and turned around, mustering the darkest scowl her features would allow.
“Sorry. You’re still adorable,” he said. “Let’s go.”
He waited in the hallway for her while she shut and locked her door. “Not that I’m ungrateful for this experience—”
“Yes, you are.”
“But can I ask if there’s going to be food provided at any point this evening?”
He leaned in, one hand propped on the doorframe behind her. “I’m going to force-feed you sugar plums and gingerbread cookies.”
“I need meat.”
“Oh, I can definitely give you that.”
She rolled her eyes and ducked under his arm. “You know what I mean.”
“Yes,” he said, trudging behind her. “I plan to feed you, and meat will be provided. I have a ham in the oven.”
She was halfway down the stairs but stopped and wrenched her head over her shoulder. “You have a ham in the oven?”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
She continued on the stairs. “I’m just confused about the fact that you know how to cook one. Or anything, for that matter.”
“I’m a grown-ass man. Of course I know how to cook. And ham is the superior Christmas meat, as far as I’m concerned.”
“But you could afford an entire fleet of personal chefs.”
“Indeed, I could. But imagine how disappointed you’d be in me if I admitted to using one.”
They reached his car, and she let him open the door for her this time. The coy smile decorating his lips suggested he was this close to pointing it out, but the quiet politeness as he helped her in said he wasn’t going to chance her wrath. Smart man.
After he shut the door, he jogged around to his side, and she used the moment to study him. He wore what she was quickly coming to think of as his uniform—a T-shirt under a long shirt atop a pair of well-loved jeans, and his red vest.
He grinned at her when he got in. “Do I meet with your approval?”
“No. Those clothes look terrible on you.”
His laughter bounced off the windshield and echoed throughout the car. “You should know, honey, that I’d rather be insulted by you than be fawned over by anyone else.”
Before starting the car, he tossed the rolled-up envelope in the back seat. She twisted around to look at where it landed on the floor. “What the hell?”
“We’ll look at it later.” He started the car. “So, I could torture you again with some holiday tunes or—”
“Whatever or is, let’s do that.” She clicked her seat belt in place.
“Or we could talk about the book.”
She might have growled. “Is there a third option?”
“Sure.” He pulled onto the road. “You could finally tell me why you walked out on me that morning.”
And there it was. The question she dreaded more than any other. And though she knew a conversation about it likely couldn’t be avoided forever, she was going to do her damnedest to try. “The book. Definitely the book.”
“So you did start reading.” He flipped his blinker at the stop sign, stopped for an oncoming car, and then hung a right. “What do you think so far?”
“I think I’m supposed to see myself in Chelsea, and I resent that.”
“Interesting.”
“Like that wasn’t your intention.”
He shrugged but kept his eyes on the road.
“Come on, seriously? You just happen to give me a book about a woman who hates Christmas, avoids her family, and has a career she deeply cares about?”
“That could describe any number of women, especially those who are characters in Christmas romance novels.”
“Well, I’m not her.”
“Noted. Anything else?”
It was a trap. If she admitted that the book had kept her awake long past her bedtime twice this week, she’d never hear the end of it. On the other hand, she was actually curious about a few things. “Fine,” she huffed, mostly to herself. Then she twisted in her seat to look at him. “Why does this Simon guy care so much about what she does with her own house?”