Page 73 of Five Days of Christmas Spice

We finish getting dressed and are out the door a moment later. The resort is quiet, kind of like nobody is here.

“There was a special breakfast in town today, a fundraiser for the art gallery. Several guests have gone to that. The place is going to be packed tonight for the party.”

A quiver of excitement rolls through me. I can’t wait for this play party.

Downstairs, Rosa smiles warmly at us. “Good morning, Mr. Brennon, Miss Burkholder.”

“Good morning, Rosa. Is everything well?”

“Yes, we are right on schedule. Can I help you with anything?”

“I was going to grab coffee from the kitchen.”

“Let me.” Rosa smiles.

I don’t know if I can get used to Noel having helpers do whatever he wants, but that’s the perk of having money. There’s nothing wrong with that. I work with the grossly overpaid every day. So why am I feeling…weird…about it now?

I frowned, trying to puzzle it out. Noel takes my green cloak from the hook and holds it open for me.

I put my arms through the velvety sleeves. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

He puts his coat on and plops a hat on my head. I’m sliding my feet into boots when Rosa appears.

“Here. Two coffees to go, and I packed a breakfast sandwich. It’s warmer out there today.”

“Thank you, Rosa. You’re amazing.” Noel smiles.

“Have a good time.” Rosa waves.

“Ready?”

“I think I am.” It’s the only honest answer I can give him.

He takes my gloved hand in his, leading me outside, where the snow is still on the ground, but it’s definitely a few degrees warmer.

Noel takes my arm and we follow the path. I’m waiting to let him speak because he seems lost in thought. I sip my coffee and nibble my breakfast sandwich. Noel guides me around the back of the building, through a winding path that would take me right to my Gran’s back door if I veered off.

“Last March, I started to take a cooking class.”

“Okay.” I bite back the laughter that wants to escape because Noel looks serious; his tone is grave, but it’s not what I expected.

He leans on the snow-dusted fence that leads to a small garden. “My wife did all the cooking. My grandma lived with us growing up and did all the cooking. But when Claire left, I had no idea what to do with my kitchen.”

“I eat takeout more often than I cook,” I admit.

“And that’s fine, but what I realized when I started taking these cooking classes is how much time I missed while my wife was in the kitchen cooking for me or our family and friends, and I was intent on ironing out the next big acquisition for a firm that didn’t care about me, despite how many hours I gave them.”

That’s the nature of big corporations. I know this, and you kind of have to accept it and be in it for the love or money. In my case, it’s a little of both, but the thrill I find in my work is what keeps me there.

“Did your wife mind?” It was a dumb question, but I feel like I have to fill the silence somehow, and not asking something about his wife feels like I’d ignore what he’s shared with me.

“That I didn’t cook? No. But she did mind the missed anniversary dinners and how often I’d get interrupted at home. I wasn’t always a good husband.”

He takes my arm and leads me around the garden, circling back to the resort.

“When you asked if we could talk now, I realized I had a choice. I could be the former me, the one who thought everything was a crisis, or I could be the new me, who knows very few things are actually a crisis. I chose to be the me who spends hours in the kitchen cooking.”

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