Page 8 of Hooked

The kettle starts to scream, and I move in front of her to take it from the heat. I snap off the burner and fill her mug.

Catalogs? Everything’s online now anyway. And samples of what? Hope it’s something the fish can eat when the bags start to decay. Either way, it’ll put a damper on that party she’d talked about last night.

“Too bad. I guess you’ll have to cancel your gala.”

The tea’s giving her trouble. She can’t bend her hands well enough to hold the mug now that it’s full. If she’d sit down, she’d have an easier time. Instead, she puts the mug on the counter and flexes her hands.

“No, not cancel. Just change. I’ll do something small and intimate. Maybe fifty guests. Something really authentic to the Vineyard.” She laughs. “My cousins and their partners make a sizable group on their own.”

Dear god. Authentic to whom? The rich morons are mostly gone for the winter. “We have very different ideas of what intimate is. Well, good luck. It won’t be easy pulling something even thatintimatetogether last-minute here.”

“Doesn’t need to be easy.”

Her cheerful determination is annoying. I need to go pick up some lumber from the hardware store. Get some alone time with my roof. Motivated by the thought of quiet, I finish my coffee and put the mug in the dishwasher.

“Okay then. See you.”

“Wait, are you going into town?”

Damn. This is a trap. I should just lie or say I don’t have room with the lumber.

“I am.”

My mouth runs ahead of my brain. Not like me.

“Do you mind if I go with you? I need to pick up some clothes that fit.”

“There’s not much in town,” I say. “Not during the winter especially. But I can take you to Vineyard Haven to find something.”

Did I really just make that offer? Only thing I hate more than ditzy, shallow women is shopping. Shoppingwitha ditzy, shallow woman is a level of hell I hadn’t imagined possible even in some of my darkest moments.

“That’d be great, thanks. Maybe there’ll be one of those Christmas shops there too.”

No idea and I could not care less. I need to fix my roof, not take Miss Christmas on a whirlwind tour of the island.

“Let me know when you’re ready to head out.” My voice is grim. Better to get this over with as soon as possible.

We’re in my truck in thirty minutes. If I hadn’t had to wait for her, I would’ve been on my way back from the hardware store already. It’s raw out. Cold and damp from the storm, with debris tossed every which way. Some holiday decorations have migrated from their original location. Homeless inflatable snowmen and broken “Santa Stop Here” signs litter yards and sidewalks. Tragic.

“Do you have any family holiday traditions?” Sia asks.

You have to have family to have family traditions.

“Nope.”

“You have anyone special to celebrate with?”

I note the sheepish tone in her voice and glance at her in the rearview mirror. She’s blushing. Interesting. It looks good on her. Better than her uncle’s clothes for sure. She’s a beautiful woman, without a doubt, but this line of questioning is going to get us nowhere. Knockout or not, I’m not interested in a materialistic socialite.

“Nope.”

“Oh.”

There’s one whole minute of blissful silence before Sia launches into a seemingly endless stream of chatter to fill the space: yule logs and champagne glasses, white birch, and pine. Tasteful glass ornaments. Boxes of family holiday treasures in the basement. My fingers grip the steering wheel and my knuckles are going white by the end of the drive.

I try to tune her out, but she grates on me. The orchestration of perfection. The projection of a fake image of a happy family.

“Does it matter to you that it’s not real?” I ask.

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