Chapter 6
Harrison was strikingly happy that Grumpy Amy had agreed to a drink.
The jury was still out on what sort of company she would be, but he’d been feeling antsy all day.
He’d always believed himself to be pretty good on his own, as in, he could be by himself.
But he wasn’t comfortable here. He felt… bored?
Bored?
This was what he’d been wanting: the chance to unwind and think.
He was never bored. Quite the opposite, normally.
But none of the relaxation or clear thoughts he’d expected had come to him yet.
He felt restless, with too much energy, and yet no desire to really do anything.
His thoughts were scattered. The silence around him—with the notable exception of a Christmas carol being blasted at him on occasion—was making it harder to think.
This was not like him. Maybe his low-level anxiety was because he was too alone. When he was on the road, without family or friends, he was usually sitting in a bar somewhere or playing golf in a foursome. Surrounded by friendly strangers. Not quite alone like this, with no one around.
He didn’t like the feeling so much.
He’d gone to the store, heard all about the winter storm headed for Texas. “They’re saying we’ll have snow,” said the man behind the counter.
“Seems early for snow,” Harrison said.
“Maybe south of Dallas. Not up here. Texas is a big state, son.”
Yes, he was aware that Texas was a Very Big State. You never met a Texan who didn’t tell you just how big it was.
He bought more than he should have (boredom and hunger were known as the two most dangerous shopping companions) and had come back with enough liquor and food to host a weekend house party.
Then he’d tried to pass the time by wandering around the house, checking out the upstairs.
Every room had been done in a Christmas theme.
There was the white wonderland, the cozy cabin; the Santa’s workshop decor, complete with small toys decorating the tree.
Someone had put a lot of time and effort into the Christmas theme.
When he knew the mansion by heart, he’d decided there was no shame in having a cocktail before five.
He’d made his martini and was going to sit on the couch and admire the large central Christmas tree and try and think.
He was planning to cook for himself this evening, but it was too early for it.
Harrison liked to cook. This house had a very fancy range with a grill built into the stovetop.
Steaks and potatoes had seemed perfect for gray, wet weather.
As did sourdough rolls, key lime pie, some potato chips as an appetizer, and why even bother if you didn’t have dip?
He was going to feast like a king. He’d worry about keeping his weight down when he decided what he was doing with his life. When was he going to do that, again?
Now seemed good. He’d just sat on the couch to start thinking, seriously thinking, when his eye caught something on the deck. He stood up, moved to the glass doors.
That was Amy on her back on the deck. His first instinct was a surge of adrenaline and alarm.
He thought heart attack, or stroke. But then he noticed two fingers casually scratch Duchess.
So, she wasn’t dead. But why was she lying there?
It was chilly and damp and the wind was picking up.
He went outside to assure himself she was okay.
He meant to simply check on her and go, because Amy had been adamant they were to keep their distance from one another.
He’d kept his distance, and his effort, in his opinion, was admirable.
When the very large house began to shrink around him, he’d even left to keep his distance.
But now she was inside, following him, because in a moment of weakness, he had offered to make her a martini. He never dreamed she would take him up on it, but here she was.
“What kind of martini would you like?” he asked as they walked into the kitchen. He guessed she was a Gibson girl.
“What do you mean? Is there more than one?”
So not a Gibson girl. Not even a martini girl. “Do you prefer gin or vodka?”
“Umm…” She pulled her hair from the topknot, and it tumbled enticingly around her shoulders. The twinkle of red and green and white Christmas lights behind her cast a bit of a halo over her head. A Christmas angel. Okay, Neely, turn down the Hallmark movie vibe a notch. “I’m not sure.”
She sounded as if she’d never had a drink in her life. He hoped he wasn’t corrupting her with his offer. “And you can have it wet or dry, depending on how much vermouth you like,” he added.
“Vermouth, huh?” She drummed her fingers on the bar, studying the bottles.
“Or…maybe you like yours a little dirty.” When Amy glanced up, he smiled. “I like mine dirty.”
One of her brows lifted slightly. “I have no idea what any of that means, but I’m not opposed to dirty.” She smiled, too.
Score one for the soccer mom. He could feel his smile spread.
“Dirty it is, then.” He began to pick up the bottles, pouring ingredients into a glass tumbler.
He added some ice, put a silver cap on it, and shook it all up before pouring the drink into a martini glass and handing it to her.
“Cheers.” He picked up his glass and lifted it in salute.
“Cheers.” She touched her glass to his, then sipped. Her eyes widened slightly. He expected her to cough or make some remark about how strong it was, but instead, she nodded her head. “That’s really good.”
“You like?”
“I do. It’s different and it’s fancy.” She did a little shimmy with her body. “Thanks!”
“I take it you’re not much of a drinker.”
“Why?”
“Well, because, the whole gin or vodka thing?”
Amy snorted. “Oh, I drink, Harry.”
“Harrison.”
“Harrison,” she corrected. “But I usually drink wine. You know, with friends. And beer in the summer when it’s hot. Nothing like a cold beer some days, am I right? But wine with friends is my thing.”
“What’s that? Like a book club or something?”
She laughed. “Exactly. It’s like a book club, but without books and with wine. You know.”
He shook his head.
“You get together with friends for wine? In a bar? Don’t you do that?”
“Umm…no. You make it sound like a national movement.”
“It should be.” She sipped her martini again.
“If I get together with friends, it’s usually on a golf course, and it’s usually bourbon and cigars. Can we be a Martinis with Friends club? Or is that gauche?”
She laughed. “I would of course have to check the bylaws of Wine with Friends, but I think we could swing it.”
“So what are the rules of the Wine with Friends club? How do you sign up?”
Amy looked at him like he was joking. “Seriously? You don’t sign up, Harrison. You call your friends and tell them to meet you at the wine bar in Willow Valley and bring some cold hard cash, because you’ve got some hot goss to share.”
“Hot what?”
“Goss.” She blushed a little. “That’s what my oldest son calls gossip, and he would die if he heard me say that in conversation with another adult. Do you have kids?”
He shook his head.
“Really?” she said, sounding quite surprised. “Well, that explains it.”
He didn’t know what that supposedly explained and was a little afraid to ask. He was aware that men his age were currently probably trying to figure out how to pay a kid’s college tuition. He was the odd one in the no-kids department.
“If you don’t have friends, what do you do for fun?” she asked.
“I have friends,” he said, perhaps a smidge defensively, because, in fact, he did not have close friends. The closest was Jake Rizzo, who was also his caddy. Jake had a family, a life in Omaha. “But we don’t do anything as cool as hanging in a wine bar with attractive women.”
“Who said anything about the women being attractive?”
“My apologies. I assumed your friends are like you, which would make them attractive.”
Amy snorted. “Right,” she said with the drawl of a woman who wasn’t falling for a line.
“Hey, I don’t mean in a plastic way. I mean, like, in a teacher way. You know. Women.” And he didn’t know why he said that, either, other than she reminded him of Mrs. Portland, his eighth-grade math teacher and subject of many nocturnal dreams.
But that was also wrong, because Amy put her glass down and folded her arms across her chest. “In a teacher way? What the hell does that mean?”
“What? Is that an insult?”
“Of course not! Not really! I mean, teachers are awesome. Some of my best friends are teachers. Some of my wine friends are teachers. But I’m not one, and I’m wondering what about my face screams teacher to you?”
He laughed. “It’s not your face, it’s your eyes. You have kind eyes.”
She blinked. A charming smile slowly appeared on her lips, and he was beginning to think that maybe the only thing she looked was hot.
“I see what you did there,” she said, pointing a finger at him.
“You’re a player, aren’t you, Harrison? It’s okay.
I won’t hold it against you as long as you make martinis like this. ”
“You think I’m a player?” he asked, pointing at himself. “I’m not a player. I think I’ve proven that in spades in the last five minutes.”
“Yeah, right,” she said, smiling skeptically. “That’s what all the players say. So come on, what is a guy like you doing way out here in the middle of nowhere, really?”
“What do you mean, a guy like me, and what are you really asking?”
“I mean a guy,” she said, pointing her finger and making a circular motion at him. “An athletic, handsome guy without a wedding ring.”
Harrison felt a little heat creep into his nape. “I’m flattered.”
“An athletic, handsome, and very much alone guy without a wedding ring.”
“Ouch,” he said with a wince.
“Sorry,” she said nonchalantly, and took another sip of her drink. “If I had to guess, and apparently, I will have to, I’m guessing you’re a rich guy with no responsibilities. But that doesn’t explain why here.”
He was a rich guy with no responsibilities. “What’s wrong with here?”
“Like I said, here is nowhere. Athletic, handsome, alone in the middle of nowhere. Kind of a red flag.”
He could see how someone might come to that conclusion.
He glanced at the stove. “Okay, you’re close, but it’s not as weird as you’re making it out to be.
I’ll tell you if you want to know, although I wouldn’t get my hopes up for anything very interesting.
Or for any red flags. But first, let me ask, how do you feel about steak? ”
“I feel about steak like I feel about all food—I love it and hope it is delicious. Why do you ask?”
“I thought I’d throw a couple on this cool grill.”
Amy folded her arms. “We said no food sharing.”
“Technically, you said that. But I don’t mind sharing.”
“Then I guess that makes you the nice one in this story. But don’t get any ideas—I’m keeping a firm grip on my Lean Cuisines.”
“Trust me, your Lean Cuisines are in no danger of anything but congealing. So, yes to steak?”
She smiled, and he was once again struck with how pretty she was. “I think? Is it weird? Two strangers who are forced to share a holiday house now sharing meals?”
“This is all definitely very weird. But I say we roll with it. I like company when I have a good meal, even if she’s a stranger. Seems less pathetic than eating alone, which I think you will appreciate, since you seem to be concerned about me.”
“Good point,” she said. “But I’m not cleaning up.”
“Nope. It’s a full-service steak offer. I am offering to cook and to clean.”
“Now, that’s just a Christmas miracle.”
“So you’re in for a steak, weirdness and all?”
Her smile turned to a grin. “I’m so in. This is the best offer I’ve had in years. Decades, maybe. I think I might really grow to like weird. Thank you, Harrison Harry.”
And then, as if to punctuate their burgeoning friendship, the rafters began to shake with a blast of “The Twelve Days of Christmas.”