Page 22 of Hooked

Party logistics.

Right.

Kristi and I talked before Vinny showed up at the bar yesterday. She’ll arrange the liquor and Sven would bartend. I’ll pay him well enough to take Kristi out on a fabulous date. Kristi gave me the names of caterers, including a local bakery famous for its Christmas cookies which ship out worldwide.

Maybe we could get some photos of the cookies hosted on their website. Good publicity for them, and for the inn. Keep making those connections. Keep my uncle busy and happy.

I like baking myself, and plan on making some cookies, but just for the family Christmas gathering. Even with the scaled down version of the party, it’s too much to bake for both it and Christmas in such a short amount of time.

I actually have an order out with the local grocery store for Christmas dinner already. Feeding all five of my Doyle cousins and their partners is no small feat. But they always help in the kitchen. Their dad had brought them up right.

And he’s not well, so it’ll be good to have him here while we still can. He’d been like a second father to me, my own being too busy to care. Being welcomed into their clan had saved me from the kind of desolation I suspect Vinny experienced.

Which is why I need this to be as warm and festive as possible. To remind us of what matters.

Will Vinny join us?

He’s holding the paper up to read it. Or to avoid looking at me.

Fine then.

The kettle’s steaming and I turn off the heat before it starts to shriek. I hate that noise, and it means the water is too hot for most teas anyway. I pour the water into the mug, and leave it on the table to steep, sitting across from Vinny.

I flex my hands a few times. I’ve been using that ointment Kristi gave me to help my hands heal up, but a new bruise has blossomed where that asshole guy grabbed me.

“How’s the hand?”

Is the paper see-through?

Wrapping my hands around the warm mug, I stare down into the dark liquid.

“Okay. My left hand is pretty good, though, which is lucky.”

He puts the paper down.

“You’re a lefty?”

“Yes. Me and Drew both were.”

Oh. I guess he wouldn’t know who Drew is.

“Drew was,” I pause, not sure how to continue.

“Danny’s kid,” he says. He looks like he’s afraid I’m going to cry, and he’ll have to do something about it.

But no. I won’t cry. I know what happens when I make people uncomfortable with my tough feelings. Better to deal with those myself. I find being the glue that holds people together more productive anyway.

I need to get to work.

“He was,” I reply, pushing my go-to chipper tone. “We were really close.” I’m about to push away from the table, but then Vinny folds the paper up, his expression shifting to curiosity.

“I know he died. But Danny doesn’t really talk about it.”

“No,” I interrupt. “None of the Fitzgeralds do. I guess that’s something you can understand.”

He flinches. “Yeah. Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

Shaking my head, I take and exhale a deep breath. Vinny doesn’t deserve to be the receptable of my frustration. “I didn’t mean it like that. I understand why people don’t want to talk about his death. It’s really painful.” I meant that he’s someone who understands not talking about painful things, even if I don’t. Carefully, I focus my eyes on the ceiling, looking up so any tears dry before they can form.

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